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eclecticstarlightconnoisseur · 4 years ago

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Paying It Forward

Good Evening all,

Ok, I know I haven’t posted the next chapter of Edinburgh to Boston. I am sorry about that. But it has been a pretty bad, horrible, no good end of the year for me. Hubby got sick again and I had to rush him to hospital. He needed heavy duty antibiotics. He is now ok, but still very debilitated after his illness. Me? I have been taking care of him, going to work, and my characters have decided not to play nice with me. Hubs said I painted myself into a corner. Not exactly, I just haven’t figured out how to get them to do what I want them to do. And I am tired. Which is partially how this fic came about.

I decided that I would start to read MOBY for two reasons. One, it has been some time since I read it and I am hoping that Bees will be out this year and I wanted to refresh my memory of what happened previously. Two, I was hoping it would help my writer’s block. It did but in an unexpected way. After getting to a certain point in the story, I went to sleep and dreamt the story you are about to read. It played in my head over and over, like it had to some out. So I wrote it and here it is.

Now that I said MOBY: SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT! If you haven’t read MOBY and don’t want to find out what’s going to happen, PLEASE DON’T READ THIS. The story actually draws on ABOSAA, ECHO, MOBY, and a tiny bit from the TV program.

As always I am indebted to @scubalass for her most excellent work as my beta. Also she contributed to the story which made it so much better. I’ll tell you at the end. I am also grateful to @gotham-ruaidh who told me it was different and good. And that I should go with it. The other important thing you need to know is it is written like one of Claire’s voice-over monologues. I know that people hate the monologues, but that’s how it was and I kept to it.

So I give you Paying It Forward. I hope you like it.

The detritus of the woodland floor muffled the sounds of the Army advancing. Moldy leaves crackled and fragrant pine needles from fir trees helped to disguise their steps. But, it is not in the make-up of the military to travel quietly especially in the 18th century. Horses neighed and harness jingled. Goats bleated. Shot pouches and cartridge-boxes buckled to belts rattled and clinked Wagons creaked under their heavy loads. Carriages groaned pulling the weighty cannon along. And, of course, there was Rollo, half-wolf, half-dog. The mongrel barked madly harassing man and beast alike as he weaved among them. The voice of my nephew, Ian Murray, called to the animal, “ Thig an seo cù .” Yipping with glee at the sound of his master’s voice, he raced to Ian’s side. The sounds of infantry on the move certainly broke the peace of the coppice.

Our journey became hampered by the dense forest we traveled through. It was thick with trees, bushes, and bramble impeding the progress of the Continental Army as they marched toward Monmouth. Once there we were to muster with General George Washington and the other battalions.

Commanding this regiment is the newly ordained General James Fraser, my husband to whom I serve as company surgeon. I do admit it was quite a shock to first see him dressed in the full military regalia of a Continental Officer. I began to tremble becoming a quivering mess when I first took him in wearing an officer’s dark blue and buff.

��Why does it always have to be you? Haven’t you, haven’t we given enough? Isn't it time for you to put down your sword and pistol?” I shuddered as I recalled the failed attempt by Charles Stewart to regain the Scottish crown which resulted in our twenty-year separation. The skirmish at Alamance that resulted in Murtagh’s death and the hanging of our son-in-law Roger which almost cost his life. The battle of Saratoga where I amputated one of Jamie’s fingers. Now, we were being pulled into another conflict. Was it too much to want to return to our simple life on the Ridge I wondered? But Jamie, my Jamie, is a highlander born and bred. A decent man, with strong principles and morals. He is a man of honor and that is not a small thing to be. I watched him as he sat at the head of the column, sitting straight and tall in his saddle like the true highland warrior he is. The breadth of his powerful back and shoulders would leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was born to lead, to command, to this moment in history. And command he would, braving the responsibility of leading his battalion to fight against the oppression of the British king.

Jamie knew the meaning of suffering, cruelty, and loss at the hands of the English. The loss of his home, his country, his own personal freedom came at their hands. And the loss of his family. He had quite the history with the Redcoats. Arrested for obstruction, escaping, then being recaptured. He ran afoul of a sadistic dragoon captain who had him flogged most cruelly one hundred lashes upon one hundred lashes. He escaped again and lived as an outlaw on the run instead of facing the gallows for a murder he did not commit.

Then there was Culloden. Where he, or should I say we lost everything. I was pregnant with our second child; our first child, a daughter, was stillborn. On the eve of battle, Jamie forced me to return to my own time for the safety of myself and our child. Jamie believed it would be his destiny to die in battle. Instead, he lived. Again he went into hiding for seven years living in a cave in Lallybroch. The Redcoats continued to harass his family, stealing what they wanted from the estate. They arrested Ian, Jamie’s brother-in-law as the Redcoats believed he knew of Jamie’s whereabouts. And there was the Highland Clearances which destroyed homes, Scottish culture, language, and their way of life.

Jamie was not driven to this war because of a need for revenge because of his losses, but rather he felt he was honor-bound as a father to take up his sword to protect those he loved. Even if those he loved lived centuries after him.

“Ye said that this was meant tae be Brianna’s home, her country, aye? Then I must do what I can for our daughter and her bairns. ‘Tis my duty as sire and grandsire to see that they will live free, Sassenach.”

And he would do what he must for Brianna, Jem, wee Mandy, and Roger. No matter the cost to himself.

My mind completely focused on Jamie and our immediate future prevented me from noticing a tall man thin as a rail standing in the middle of the road blocking our progress. Immediately, Jamie’s second in command rode up next to his commander.

The man did not budge an inch. He was rather rough looking. Wearing a knitted cap on his head, his long greasy hair protruded out. A grizzled beard covered his face. His clothes were quite worn having been patched many times. He wore no shoes. In all, he looked quite primitive.

Suddenly, he moved with a decided determination; a man on a mission. The man strode up to Jamie assuming correctly that he was the man in charge.

A strong downward breeze announced his presence. Most likely the man had not bathed in months if not years. The odor was enough to make your eyes water.

The old man came forward eyeing Jamie like an entomologist studying a new species of bug. Relaxing he gave a tug on his cap and briefly bobbed his head.

“Ye in charge here?” the old coot demanded.

‘Aye, I am. General James Fraser at yer service sir. Might I enquire to whom I am speaking?”

“Mortimer Hepplewhite the owner of this here land yer trespassing on. And I want tae know when ye will be gone.”

“Mr. Hepplewhite, we shall be off yer land as soon as may be. We need to travel off the main road for now as there have been sightings of English troops nearby.”

“Well, all yer clanging and stomping about is disturbing the peace of me home.”

Jamie turned around to look at the property. It had not been cleared for planting nor were there any animals grazing. All that stood in the distance was a ramshackle cabin with a lopsided chimney discharging an inordinate amount of smoke.

“I dinna see any crops, or animals grazing, or people that we might be disturbing, sir.”

“Not disturbing he says! Why I’ll have ye know me Arabella is in a right fit. She doesn’t care much for strangers.”

The recluse, a long-limb man, raised a heretofore unnoticed ball of fur and thrust it under Jamie’s nose. He focused on it intently causing his eyes to almost cross. It hissed, spit, and yowled with great ferocity.

It seemed that Arabella was a cantankerous cat. And was as ill-kempt as its master with matted fur and bald in spots. One fang hung outside its mouth and on closer inspection seemed to be missing an eye.

Mortimer drew the beast close to his chest whispering sweet words of comfort while tenderly stroking its scraggly fur. The cat settled in his arms and even began to purr.

Jamie called to his Lieutenant and leaned over to whisper in his ear. He nodded and rode off to follow his orders.

I sat on my horse watching this spectacle play out. Without warning, I felt the sudden loss of my cat and worried about his well-being. Adso was part house cat and part feral cat. However, he was my cat. He loved to jump onto my lap to snuggle and drift off to sleep. Or lie on the windowsill basking in a sunbeam tail swishing like a metronome. He did wreak havoc in my surgery at times but he was mine, a gift from Jamie. Adso was just as much a part of the family as any of us. So why couldn’t Arabella be this lonely man’s family? Family is whoever you say they are.

The Lieutenant promptly returned carrying a bundle which he handed to Jamie.

Jamie slid down from his horse and approached the gentleman.

“On behalf of the Continental Army, I would like tae offer ye recompense for disturbing yer peace. Please accept this small token from myself and General Washington. And for the lovely Miss Arabella, I make a gift of this fish just caught this morning.”

Jamie removed his hat and bowed to the man.

Mortimer truly wasn’t sure of what to make of this but graciously accepted the parcel. He removed his cap revealing a head of matted hair and returned the bow. He replaced his cap, straightened his shoulders, held his head high as he strolled back to his home, a rich man. A man made richer not for what he received but for the respect given him.

Later that night as I lay in Jamie’s embrace I asked him what prompted his actions on the road.

“Do ye ken the conversation we had in the gardens in Philadelphia? The one about what happened between ye and his lordship?”

Did I remember, he wanted to know? How could I forget?

“Of course I remember, you said that you would mention it from time to time. Am I to take it that this will be one of those times?”

“Aye, ‘tis. But not what yer thinking about,” he said with a sidelong look. “I’m speaking of how John’s friendship healed us during times of great need. Mine at Ardsmuir, Hellwater, and Jamaica. Yer’s when ye thought I died.” The topic of my hasty marriage to John (for strictly political reasons) was still a sore point to him. He understood it, but didn’t and wouldn’t like it.

Jamie let out a sigh trying to collect himself before continuing, “Mortimer was naught but a poor lonely old man, Sassenach. And I did not do much for him. I gave him a wee bit of flour, lard, dried meat, apples, and some parritch.” Jamie stopped to think for a moment, “Oh, a razor, a lump of soap, and a fish for his mangy cat.”

“Are you saying that you did this because of the kindnesses John showed us?”

“Exactly so, mo ghràdh . I felt..it just felt like the right thing tae do.”

I raised my face to look at him, “There’s a term for that and it's called paying it forward .”

He looked quizzically at me trying to understand what I meant.

“What that means is when someone does something kind or helpful for you, you return that kindness to a different person instead of repaying the person who originally helped you. Did you know that the man who started this idea is alive now?”

“Och, aye? Who is he Sassenach?”

“Benjamin Franklin. I think you would like him. He was a founding Father, freemason, inventor, scientist, and a printer.”

His eyebrows lifted at the mention of Franklin being a printer and a freemason. “I should like to meet this man one day. “

Jamie grew quiet as he attempted to digest this information. “Paying it forward,” he rolled the words around in his mouth tasting them. “Aye, that’s it. Just so, I was paying it forward.”

“Jamie, I think what you did was far greater than repaying a kindness. I think you gave him something more than he ever expected. You gave him respect and a way to restore his dignity.”

He leaned over and kissed me, “Aye, Sassenach, respect is something every man or woman deserves.” Jamie stopped to think for a moment, “No man wants to go about stinking if he can help it.” I knew he was thinking of his time hiding in the cave and as a prisoner at Ardsmuir. “There were days I thought I would never get the stink off my body, dirt from under my nails, or be rid of the lice. ‘Twas a small thing but it may make a big difference to him. Maybe it will help to restore his self-regard.”

The following day we resumed our journey. Once again a man stood in the road again blocking our path. There was something vaguely familiar about him. It was Mortimer, now clean-shaven, clothes washed having removed several layers of filth, and much less fragrant. He carried a pack strapped to his back probably containing all his worldly possessions. Strangely he carried a beautiful and well-maintained musket in his hand.

He approached Jamie, removed his cap, and bowed deeply.

“Yer Excellency, I have decided tae travel with ye fer a while. If ye dinna mind.”

“Yer presence is welcome, Mr. Hepplewhite. Find yerself a place among the men. This evening please come by tae see my wife. She is the physician of our troop. She will see tae yer physicking needs should ye have any.”

“I thank ye, sir.” Mortimer replaced his cap, lowered his head, and took a position among the rank-and-file.

Jamie smiled, a pleased look playing across his face. His arm raised and he waved us forward.

As the men resumed their march, a wee black puff ball of fur stuck its head out of Mortimer’s bag evidently Arabella had a wash-up too.

********************

Thig an seo cù - Come here dog.

If anyone wants to know, Jamie’s white stallion’s name was Samson. And he sneezed violently when he sniffed Mortimer.

A little bit of history here. Benjamin Franklin lent Benjamin Webb a sum of money to start a business. He told Webb that when his business was successful and he had paid all his debts, he should likewise help someone else like Franklin helped him. In return, that gentleman would have to assist someone else like Webb helped him. Franklin hoped this would continue until some knave would stop its progress. The idea of paying it forward was born.

We can all thank @scubalass for telling me about Ben Franklin and Paying It Forward. She is truly an amazing person and a fount of information and wisdom. I think that this added so much to the story and found it quite interesting.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it.

It is also on AO3 where I am LadyJane518: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907349

#paying it forward #moby #jamie and claire #Mortimer Hepplewhite #revolutionary war #arabella the cat #ol fanfic #My writing #Here Goes Nothing #good to flex the writing muscles

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snowbellewells · 4 years ago

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Self Promo Sunday: “The Simplest Touch”

Today’s selection is an older one shot I wrote during 3b, back when Emma was still fighting hard against that attraction and connection she definitely felt with her pirate, still not sure she wanted to make the strange little town of Storybrooke (and all that came with it) her permanent home. There all of these beautiful little quiet moments between CS in that stretch of the show, and particularly in 3x18 - that almost-touch of Killian’s hand at Emma’s back! - which really prompted this. It’s pretty much canon compliant up to that point as well.

The reason I’ve truly chosen it for this Sunday’s Self-Promo though is that I shamelessly want to show all of you and sing the praises of the fic art to accompany it that was made for my this week by @searchingwardrobes. <3 Thank you so much for this lovely story cover art Melanie! I’m so flattered at the thought and how wonderfully it fits the story I had in mind.

Summary: In the moments between scenes in 3x18's "Bleeding Through" there is more brewing under the surface for Emma and her pirate than they yet know how to express...

Notes: This little one shot fits right into show canon during episode 3x18, and more than being divergent or AU, it’s missing moments in a way - or at least, it’s the thoughts and feelings behind some of the quieter, tiny moments we saw onscreen. I was attempting some stylistic things in this, and to switch from Emma to Killian’s point of view at various moments in that episode. I still think the result turned out pretty well. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

"The Simplest Touch"

by: @snowbellewells

He acts as though he is cursed.

Emma Swan doesn't understand what has changed in the pirate captain, but something is different. His eyes haven't twinkled mischievously at her these last few days, and she suddenly realizes how much she liked the playful attention, how it made her cheeks flush and her heart beat fast, even as she rolled her eyes and pushed him away. His innuendos are missing from their most recent interactions, and though Emma did nothing to encourage his outrageous attentions when he was lobbing them at her constantly, she feels strangely bereft now that they are gone. When he does toss her a line now, it feels empty without the lascivious heat and intent, and she comes close to begging Hook to tell her what is wrong, what has changed…why he no longer seems to want her.

Thinking back over the past week, Emma cannot come up with any new disagreements they have had, insults or slights directed at Hook. There is no way for her to question him the way she wants without revealing just how much she really cares, how much he does mean to her. Instead, she practices her magic, making sure she can protect him – and all of those she loves – prompts and playfully needles him while trying not to let his blackened mood and purposeful distance sting…and she hopefully watches and waits.

^^^00000000000000000000000000000000000^^^^

She touches his stump as if it is the most normal thing in the world.

It nearly steals his breath, heat rising unbidden within him at the sensation of her fingers lightly gripping the leather that covers his violently truncated wrist. So many years – literal ages – have passed since anyone made to hold what was once his left hand, and the sensation of warmth and comfort would risk bringing him to his knees if he were not already seated at Regina's table. Most avoid getting anywhere near his left arm, and especially the prosthetic hook and brace, but his Swan has surprised him once again and claimed even more of his affection.

Killian Jones, notorious pirate captain and erstwhile villain of the realms, is holding his breath at the mere pressure of a lost princess's fingers, but he cannot help the reaction. For one horrified second, he had wanted to shy away from her, pull his arm from her grasp for fear she would make contact with the amputated limb and show disgust, but he had held himself steady, and now he is praying that she doesn't let go. Emma prompts inexplicable reactions within him: thaws parts of him long frozen in hatred and anger and makes him want to feel. Her simplest touch can do things to him that the most powerful magician surely could not accomplish. This though, is new and even more intimate. Her gentle clasp around his brace, that he swears he can feel completely even through the heavy leather, shows no fear, no horror or repulsion, and speaks to him of nothing more than pure, blessed acceptance. His devotion to her swells even higher – when he could have sworn he would never be able to love her more than he already did.

Her fingers clasp just a bit tighter, holding on that tiniest bit more firmly, almost as though she wants to stroke his skin. Her eyes lift from where they have followed her fingers' movements to meet his gaze. She gives him a wavering half-smile, in spite of the chaos and dead witch summoning about to begin, nods to him slightly, and he simply knows. They are in this together now, and they will be from now on…

^^^^0000000000000000000000000000^^^^

He had nearly guided her down the stairs with a hand at the small of her back.

Emma sucks in a sharp breath at the tingling sensation he causes with his good hand wavering just shy of touching her until he snatches it away. Whatever has been troubling Hook is still present; he retreats just before making physical contact, and it has the effect of making Emma feel starved for his touch. She doesn't understand the reversal that seems to have taken place; her following him, being drawn to him, and Hook pulling away from her, but he seems to have decided he is some sort of poison – a threat – the way he so studiously avoids contact when always before he has been creeping into her personal space.

They are preparing to leave Regina's after the failed séance, to make another patrol seeking signs of the Wicked Witch. She wants to pull him after her, drag him off into the woods where they can find some true privacy, not be overheard, and she can demand that he explain what is troubling him. The near-touch was tantalizing enough in its assumed closeness and almost possessive nature. The pirate captain, for all his dangerous rebel tendencies, is an old-fashioned gentleman when all is said and done. The chivalry in his nature still sometimes steals the breath of a formerly unwanted, ignored, orphan Lost Girl. Moments like this one, where they are about to go out seeking danger again, show her anew that he is right here at her back, intending to guard it with all that he has.

She brushes her hair back impatiently from her face, stealing a quick glance over her shoulder at Hook before turning again to precede him down the steps. There are too many words she wants to say to him for the company they have and the task they are attempting, but she wants him to know that she is onto him, she sees what he is doing, and she wants to help. He wouldn't allow her to be alone in a world of lies, and so now she won't let him drown in whatever lie he is determinedly keeping.

Her skin burns with longing for the touch he almost gave unthinkingly, and then robbed them both of. She is not accustomed to letting someone else take care of her; it is a concession, a weakness that has always made her distinctly uncomfortable. Wanting to allow him so much of her now is both frightening and a long-awaited relief. They will fix whatever has been marred – she will not leave him alone until he tells her his secret – so that she has the chance to experience how good letting him in could be.

^^^^0000000000000000000000000^^^

Killian knows that he has been cursed.

If he had thought there was any loophole, any way to lessen the pain for what has been lost, he sees now that those were vain hopes.

He watches Emma darkly as he broods in his seat at one of the booths in Granny's Diner. She seems so light, so happy, since she has just made a mug of cocoa with cinnamon appear before her at the counter, and he wants to smile, to chuckle along with her, and celebrate her unparalleled brilliance when she magically makes it disappear and reappear in front of him. He does not wish to darken her mood or spoil her moment, but he cannot bring much joy to the surface either.

Cringing at himself, Killian wants to stab his hook into his own chest when he snaps at her for playfully stealing the weapon with her powers. The mischievous light in her eyes flickers fitfully, and she stops teasing him, lowering into the other bench at his claimed table. She starts to reach out, to take his hand, and he wants so badly to meet her halfway, to pull her close, to rain kisses all over her face and tell her everything. Knowing that he can do neither seems almost too cruel to bear, but he cannot give in. The risk is too great; he will not have anyone else he loves hurt because he fails them.

Something in Emma's expression makes him think she knows, or has guessed, more than he realized, and he lets himself dare to hope that she understands his fear. She cocks her head, raising an eyebrow at him curiously and blowing out a tense breath. Finally, she comes out and asks him beseechingly what is wrong. He leans forward, literally biting his tongue so as not to let it all pour from him in a rush.

Then Belle is there interrupting breathlessly, and Emma snaps back to attention, a true leader through and through. He cannot help watching her in awe, drawn to stay near her; despite the pain it causes, he cannot separate from her. He watches her make up her mind and stand from the table. Following her, he cannot help believing in this tough, street smart princess, and hoping that there may still be a cure for Killian Jones – a chance for redemption at the touch of Emma Swan.

#self promo sunday #cs one shot #ouat 3b missing moments ff #the simplest touch #cs canon compliant #gorgeous cs fic art #thank you a million @searchingwardrobes

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maruzzewrites · 5 years ago

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45 for my favorite Zipper Capo?

45. “You don’t even know how lucky you are. I protect you and provide for you. Don’t act so ungrateful.”

Content warnings: yandere content, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, disembodiment/amputation, mental/emotional abuse and manipulation, idk what else guys you tell me.

His fingers are slender as he handles your own with gentleness. You wince at the sight of the contact, but you don’t want to pretend to feel it on your skin, in your nerves. Not because you’re tired or in need of some sort of superiority over his treatment, but because your brain would give out if you acknowledged the reality of your situation.

The first time he decided to detach your limbs, it was when he decided you were his to take. You knew Bruno’s occupation and his affiliations, but people all around you were quick to reassure you he wasn’t one of those thugs, one of those lowlifes who drag people in the mud just to steal a few bucks. No, he was one of the good ones, a mobster who could and would help those in need. You believed them then, and now you have to stomach the regrets. That is, when you get to have a stomach attached to your body.

Bruno, as you came to understand a while after you first met him, was a lonely man. Despite his charisma and his network, he was incredibly alone; the years spent, since childhood, in the grim world of Italy’s criminal underbelly weren’t an attractive quality for friends and lovers alike. Everyone was ready to be helped, but no one was willing to risk their safety to stay at the side of someone who put their life on the line every day, especially if it wasn’t even to be virtuous. And you were the same, just the same; young, and simply in need, you were not above begging him to help your family and then walk away when he asked you to consider him as something more than a mere do-gooder.

He didn’t appreciate, of course. Your current predicament is a blatant hint about that fact; spiritless on the bed, against the headboard so that you wouldn’t collapse for the lack of support from your legs or arms. Your lower limbs lay down on the floor, near the man who was occupied with one of your hands on his lap, careful to spread the color of the nail polish evenly on each finger. Your nails – long, but rounded, just as he liked – are simple in design, with the white tip neatly contrasting with the pink of the rest.

It is an out of body experience, seeing your own arms resting peacefully on Bruno’s legs as he shoots you furtive, quick glances now and again to check if you are still focused on him. And you are, you couldn’t do anything besides fixing your eyes on the show in front of you, both mundane and macabre, but disgustingly expected at this point. Your stomach doesn’t even squirm at the thought or the realization that this abnormal situation became your routine.

With a finishing touch, Bruno returns the little brush back in its rightful container and looks over his work. His thumb, fondly, caresses your knuckles and traces their dips with domesticity, sneaking his fingertips under your hand, over your palm, to rise it from his lap and leave a delicate kiss on the back of it. His eyes raise to meet yours, with a sweet smile to complete the picture of a perfect man who wants nothing but the best for you. Coincidentally and conveniently, he believes that meant he gets to make choices for you if it means you were right besides him, no matter how much you are unable to do otherwise.

“Do you like it?” His voice comes smooth, deep, but never reassuring. He turns the arm around to show off the refined color painted on your nails. You squints, not to look at it better, but simply because the sight of the perverse scene in front of you; Bruno, the portrait of serenity and class, legs crossed with elegance, as he offers you the view of perfectly manicured nails shining under the warm light in the room. The arm lays limp in his hands, cutting abruptly a little after the elbow. It makes your stomach turn, empty and heavy in your body.

“No.” It’s a simple enough answer and you know it will have its consequences, but you can’t really care right now. You know Bruno won’t physically hurt you, for he’s too kind, but also too smart. Giving you ammo to feed your hate is a misstep in his attempts to weight down on your mind with guilt, and pressure, and doubt. His eyes flutter open behind his long lashes and the blue of his eyes has a cold flavor to it, like frigid waves of a stormy sea.

“I like it,” he states as he turns the limb around again, watching over his work with fondness and confusion. All fake, pretend, all so incredibly infuriating. The sensation of burning resentment grows in your chest, but it’s suddenly suffocated by the anxiety over the stern look he gives you once he shifts his focus on you. It’s not a hit or a blow, but it feels like resting warm skin on the surface of steel, exposed to the wind and the snow. Bruno’s words never cease to sound silky, but they gain resolution and authority, “There must be something you like about this.”

This, you are aware, refers to the circumstance. The living situation you are forced to carry on by force and convenience, as Passione isn’t a forgiving force if you decide to cross even the lowest of capos. You know Bruno is beloved by mobsters and civilians alike, so you refrain from running away because you’d meet too many difficulties if you attempt to leave him behind. That’s how he dragged you in this life the first time, too, with charming words spoken with a silver tongue and a net made of social pressure from those around you.

You can’t leave, but you can avoid biting your tongue. Bruno grimaces each and every time you don’t bow your head to his demands, always masked with questions and encouragements. But you are aware his patience would run out one day, and you are toeing the deadline of that moment. Luckily, today he still holds in all the cruelty that allowed him to climb ranks in a ruthless syndicate. For now, Bruno is still the serious, charming and wicked gentleman that sweetens his deals with veiled threats.

“You don’t even know how lucky you are,” he approaches you with poise in his steps, the click of his shoes too loud in the silence of the room as you refuse to meet his eyes. You feel him rest your arms on the bed, near you, and then his hands slide on your back as he lets you gently settle on the plush duvet. Your head is on the pillow now, and this allows him to make eye contact before you turn away. Not even a sneer or a groan gets past his lips, only chilly resignation, “I protect you and provide for you.”

And he did, he does, he will. That’s bitter on your tongue, that knowledge that he sends your family all the necessities and the protection someone would need in the worst neighborhoods of Naples. Crooks and delinquents can’t touch your loved ones until Bruno gets to bask in your presence. Your heart winces in your chest, then it hurts, as if constricted by something painfully tight. You feel blue, all of the sudden, and you don’t know why. Bruno’s hands meets your cheek to turn your head towards him with tenderness.

“Don’t act so ungrateful.” The words are harsh, but the tone is melancholic. His eyes tell a story of loneliness, of a solitary child who could never let anyone get too close if he wanted to preserve his own feelings. But you are here now, for him, for you, ready to mend past and present so that you can move on together. It’s sweet, but bitter and sour around your tongue, and his blue eyes wash over you to the point you feel your heartbeat slow against your ribs.

But that moment is shattered by Bruno himself, who reminds you your bane as he reattaches your limbs. When the bones, the flesh, the skin realigns, it feels like tearing and sewing at the same time. It burns, but it’s icy, and suddenly you feel the pressure of his finger tips on your arm. Your resentment flashes again and you can’t feel pity for the man anymore before he secures your wrists to the bed with slick experience.

Your emotions circle between anger, fear and pity; one day, he won’t even need to speak, before you succumb, and he will be the only place where you will be able to forget all of it.

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #bruno buccellati #bruno x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #y'alls here we go some bruno content #Anonymous

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everlarkficexchange · 5 years ago

Text

Unmasked ~ Finale

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery.

Please enjoy the thirty-first, and final, full chapter of this adventure. In the name of tying up storylines, it ran a little long. Please forgive me for that. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 31 ~~

With those words, any hope I had been holding onto that Madge felt she could trust me with her heart’s secrets dies. I had been waiting for a confession and instead she announces her engagement.

“Marry…Mr. Hawthorne?” I choke out and Madge’s smile slips from her face.

“I… I thought you had warmed to him some.”

“A little, but…marriage?” I shout and Madge sighs.

“Yes, marriage. Can you not be happy for me, as I was for you?”

“But… why?” I ask and attempt to order my thoughts. “You hardly know him. He is an ass!”

“No worse than many a man of this world and certainly not near as bad as the Earl.”

“That is not exactly a glowing recommendation.”

“Katniss, please. He is a gentleman of fine family and good fortune. Perhaps a bit rough in manner but nothing that cannot be polished. I thought you two had developed a sort of intellectual banter that might lead to friendship. And… and I cannot continue to be a burden to you.”

“But you are no burden!” I protest.

“Not yet, perhaps, but it is inevitable. The longer I stay here, the more likely it becomes that I will cause you problems.”

“You do not love him!” I sputter and she gives me a wry look.

“And you did not love Peeta when you married him. Look at how well that turned out. It all depends on what the parties expect going into the marriage, and there are many advantages to our union. There’s no reason why I can’t be happily married to Gale.”

“Gale? Now he’s Gale?” My heart clenches in my breast and I know I squeeze her hands too rough as she tries to remove them from my grasp.

“Well I am to marry him.”

“What about Johanna? You would discard her so easily?” I ask, and Madge jumps back from me.

“What has Johanna to do with this?” She hisses the words, her eyes narrowing. “Why would a stable hand have any bearing on my marriage prospects?”

“Because you love that stable hand!”

“Even if I did, it would be impossible to do anything about it.”

“We can find a way—“ Madge’s bitter laugh stops me and she finally manages to free her hands from my grasp.

“Oh Katniss, you have no idea what you’re talking about. Stick to farming and not judging my choices again. Some of us haven’t the luxury of a picturesque happy ever after, so forgive me for grasping at the closest I can get!”

She spins about and leaves me gaping in confusion and heartache.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“He is a canting knave! A scoundrel of the worst sort!” I rant as I pace the floor and Peeta makes futile attempts at calming me enough to sit. Now that I have unleashed a few of my grievances, they all come tumbling out. “How dare he! Presuming to know anything about me or my home or my family, instructing me on how things should be as though I were a wayward school girl and not a woman grown. Acting as though he already owns Everdeen. I have poured my blood, my sweat, my tears, my very soul into this earth! And here this jackanape strolls in, telling me that all my problems might be solved if I had married him, all while he is maneuvering my dearest friend into a marriage she does not want! How can she? And now… now he’ll have both Willow Park and Everdeen, the bastard!”

“And who are you to give him that name when it belongs to me?” Peeta asks and I scowl at him.

“You are my husband, my love. I am endeavoring to not insult you anymore by not calling you that name.”

“Mmmm, but on your lips, that word has become almost an endearment to me.” He manages to grasp hold of me then, and wraps me in his arms, entangles me so that I’ve no choice but to sink onto his lap. No choice and yet I do not want one. There is nowhere else I would rather be, as a sense of calm and clarity washes over me as we settle together in the intimate posture.

“Are you jealous, husband? At my calling Mr. Hawthorne that term?”

“Not yet,” he whispers and rubs the tips of our noses together. “Should you still be thinking of him, even if it is to curse him, later this evening when my mouth is between your thighs…then I might be jealous. Until then…”

He trails off and kisses me, and I am powerless and without motivation to stop it. I nearly laugh at the thought of how much I love kissing my husband. Should it be so? This happiness and harmony of mind and body and heart with another being? I am lost in it before I can so much as take a breath.

Until I remember that Madge will once again find herself in a marriage without such joy as this.

“You are distracting me from my worries,” I manage to say when he shifts to kiss along my cheeks.

“Is it effective?”

“Not yet,” I tease. “Perhaps you should skip straight to your mouth between my thighs.”

His smile is beautiful as he stops and brushes back my hair. I sigh and shift beneath his scrutiny, unable yet to allow myself to be completely distracted from my quarrel with Madge.

“You did not see her face. She looked as though she might be sick. She cannot be happy with this.”

“It cannot all be a disaster. I cannot imagine Madge entering a union without good reason. She’s not desperate. Perhaps it was your anger she feared, more than her nuptials. She knows how much reason you have to dislike him, to distrust him. She knows he is to inherit Everdeen, and how would it look, her marrying him so quickly and gaining her closest friend’s home in the bargain.”

“She would not. I cannot believe Madge capable of such greed. She already has Willow Park.”

“Neither can I believe it of her, but Katniss, there must be a reason for this. You know it. I think Madge may be more aware of what she is doing than you are giving her credit.”

“How?”

“I do not know. It is only an intuition right now. I’ve no proof. We will simply need to be patient.”

He is right. I can feel that he is. I’ve only let my fears and my anger run away with me, but Peeta, as always, provides the steadiness I need to aim my thoughts and feelings in the right direction. There is, in my memory, the tickling of a conversation. Madge’s desire to see Willow Park restored, as a home of her own perhaps. This I can understand, and Mr. Hawthorne is wealthy enough to see the deed done. Is it possible, then, that Madge simply conducted her own fortune hunting expedition? If so, she was much more expedient about it than I was. And how can I judge her for doing the same as me, for attempting to secure a future and a home for her and Maysilee? I cannot. I rest my head on Peeta’s shoulder, heavy with my own thoughts.

“You think I was too harsh with Madge.” I state it because I think I was too harsh with her, and so Peeta should think it as well.

“I think you should ask her what her reasons are. Without shouting at her.”

“I did not…” I start to protest and then stop, guilt threatening to choke the words right from my throat. “Alright, perhaps I did shout a little.”

He hums in agreement, his lips distracting me as he kisses my neck.

“I will speak with her again. Calmly this time.” There is still hope to sway her. She and Mr. Hawthorne did not announce their engagement today. Until it is officially announced, I am not certain I can believe she will go through with it. There is nothing that I can do about it tonight. “Oh very well…distract me if you must.”

Peeta laughs then helps me stand and together, we hurry to our bed.

After, as I lay across his naked form, wrapped in his arms with the heat of his chest warming my back, his hands caressing idly over my form, a divine sort of content making my limbs heavy and sleepy, he kisses my temple and speaks once more.

“He is right about one thing, you know.”

“Who?” I ask, watching Peeta’s fingers follow the swell of our growing child.

“Gale Hawthorne.” I stiffen in his embrace and yet Peeta continues. “Had you married him instead, Everdeen would be yours without question.”

“Would you rather I had? Married him instead of you?”

“Are you fishing for compliments, wife?” he asks and I turn to scowl at him.

“No, I think that you are.”

His smile is still bright but something wavers in his eyes before he swallows and whispers to me. “You know I would not wish that for the world. Katniss, my love. I never dreamt I could be so happy with anyone as I am with you.”

I feel myself melt towards him and he lifts one hand to turn my chin towards him.

“I love you. Beyond life and reason.” A kiss and a soft sigh. “But he is right.”

“No. He is wrong. Everdeen would be mine, but…It is as you said the other night. It is pleasant to think you and I would have found our way here anyways, no matter the circumstances, but the odds of that happening differently… Such a thing is not a certainty. No, I do not wish I had met him before you, nor certainly not that I married him. For then, I would have missed out on something far more precious to me than even Everdeen.”

Peeta’s eyes widen at that and I turn to kiss him more fully, that he might taste the certainty in my lips as well as hear it in my words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Madge remains resolute. Even as I make attempts to speak with her, she withdraws from me. An announcement is made and congratulations are offered. Plans are made.

The clergyman’s cottage remains mostly intact on Willow Park. A few repairs should bring the dwelling up to a standard suitable for a couple to live in comfortably while the repairs are being conducted on the manor itself. Mr. Hawthorne does not intend to stay in the area between now and their nuptials.

“I have pressing business to attend in other parts of Panem. It would be unseemly to travel with my fiancée unchaperoned.”

Mother extends the invitation to Madge to stay with us, but she declines. Within days of the announcement, Madge has hired a housekeeper and a groundsman, a married couple, to live on the premises with her and Maysilee. Shortly after Mr. Hawthorne and his party departs, Madge and Maysilee move out of Everdeen.

Perhaps one good thing to come out of their engagement is that with the family resuming residence at Willow Park, Madge will be able to hire a new cleric, offering a second option and saving the village from the necessity of attending Father Crane’s sermons. Hopefully Madge can find someone with a more open mind and less slimy arrogance.

Peeta departs for Capitol, although he is reluctant to do so. I insist that he go as planned, to sit his exams. When he leaves, he once again urges me to speak with Madge, to visit her in her new home. I know that I should. I should not let such a vital and long friendship die soundlessly. And yet I cannot bring myself to order the cart. Madge has made it clear that for whatever reason, I am not welcome. I cannot fathom how it is that I managed to fail her so abominably.

With him and Madge both gone, I bury myself in work. A field destroyed by what appears to have been a herd of rabbits provides a timely distraction. Miranda’s education often takes a decent amount of my time and we read voraciously through one book after another. She begins to read to me, in a slow halting voice that follows my finger beneath the words on the page. I walk long hours across the hills of Everdeen. I prepare for the arrival of our child. The plants continue to grow. The rains continue to fall and the sun shines in its turn. I often find myself contemplating the moon and wondering if Madge and Peeta are doing the same.

Johanna is no more talkative on the matter than me. The one time I attempt to speak with her about it, she insists she has no desire to stick her nose into the business of the Quality. I have a hard time believing that, but she will not be moved to speak.

One morning, I lift my hand to knock on Miranda’s door, to ask her if she would like to help me in the gardens. The sounds of quiet cries startle me. I gently push the door open and peer through the crack. There are books spread across the floor and a rag doll with cornsilk hair sitting in a chair at the table, a cup of tea and a biscuit in front of it. Miranda is splayed across the bed, crying into Odysseus’ fur.

I shut the door and finally allow a few tears of my own to fall. Then I order the cart prepared.

“Miranda…would you like to go and see Maysilee for tea?” I ask through the door when I return, the cart waiting for us. My words are met with a great crashing of noise. She flings open the door, her eyes puffy and red and hopeful.

“Today?”

“Right this instant,” I tell her.

I feel more wretched with every step the horses take towards Willow Park. With every excited, breathless word that leaves Miranda’s mouth, I find myself drowning in a veritable flood of verbiage, after so many months of her silence. It is more damning than Madge’s distance and more painful than Peeta’s gentle encouragement. The proof that I have neglected my daughter, the way my mother once did to me, as my father lay ill and unresponsive. Oh the things that silence and neglect drove me to do last year.

Work is progressing on the rebuilding of the manor, the area has been cleared, cellars dug and the foundations begin to take shape. Miranda points out the changes as I drive us to the cottage.

“Miranda! Aunt Katniss!” Maysilee shouts as she runs full tilt from the gardens surrounding the cottage. Dirt stains her pinafore and she clings to Mud the cat. When did she begin referring to me as an aunt? I’ve no idea and it splits my broken heart further open.

Our daughters embrace at the gate as I carefully climb down from the cart. It is a trick with no mounting stone and no one to assist me. I stumble and manage to grasp hold of something solid to keep from planting my face in the dirt. Madge exits the cottage just in time to witness my near disgrace.

“Katniss,” she says, holding a hand over her eyes to shield her face from the sun as she wears no bonnet.

“I hope we are not intruding. Miranda has been missing Maysilee.”

“Oh,” Madge says with a nod. “Will you…stay for tea then?”

The invitation is issued and tea is served in a sunny front room where we can watch our girls play through the window. The woman Madge hired bustles about, setting out the tray and then leaves us in silence. Only the ticking of the clock and the sounds of girls at play break the strain. I do not even know how to begin, for I do not even know how I failed her.

“Peeta is in Capitol as I understand? For his exams?”

“Yes,” I say, unable to hide the confusion on my face.

“Primrose writes to me, and visits on occasion.”

“Oh.” More guilt. My sister has been a better friend to Madge than I have.

“I think she is hoping for bits of news of Rory and hope from me that she cannot glean from his letters,” Madge says simply and I smile, the feeling forced. “How is it going then…for Peeta?”

“Very well,” I say. The words feel like ash on my tongue and I cannot reconcile the sudden sorrow I feel with the happiness of the news I impart.

No, I know the reason. We speak now as two strangers, rather than the best of friends. What happened to us? Gale Hawthorne happened to us. Anger and resentment unfurls in my breast at how deeply he impacts my life, even when not present.

“I am glad to hear it. Hopefully he will return to you soon. I know how you must miss him.”

“Madge,” I say and she turns her head to look out the window.

“And your parents? How do they fare?”

“Well enough. Madge… are we to avoid speaking of it?”

“I do not know what more I can say on the matter. I am marrying Gale Hawthorne in less than a month. I hope my dear friend will be there to congratulate me.”

“How am I to congratulate you when I am not convinced of your happiness?”

She snaps her eyes shut and breathes out through her teeth. “Katniss…there is more to happiness than love. We cannot all afford to have your romantic sentimentalities.”

“But–”

“Please trust me on this. I cannot…I cannot be open yet. There is more than my secrets at stake here.”

I stare at her, and while her answer tells me nothing, I do feel something. Some measure of relief in knowing that Peeta somehow understood it before I did. That Madge does indeed have some reason for her hasty engagement to Mr. Hawthorne, for marrying him at all.

She sighs and reaches for me, withdrawing her hand before she touches me and instead fiddling with her hair.

“You took me in after years of silence, with no questions asked, and you’ve no idea how much that means to me. I am asking you now to let me go with no questions and trusting that I know what I am doing.”

Her request hurts, but how could I possibly refuse. I manage only a nod of agreement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peeta returns home, tired but successful. The professors of the medical college are pleased with his progress and excited to continue his training. They claim that his inclusion in such an early class of students will be a boon to the science of medicine as he brings a unique perspective.

“I am proud of you,” I murmur that night as we lay in our bed, my cumbersome form a nuisance and a barrier keeping me from kissing him the way that I want to, keeping Peeta from loving me the way that I want him to.

Although I can tell he is aroused, he rebuffs my advances. “We do not want to risk sending you into early labor,” he insists as he restrains my wandering hands.

“The sooner this child is born, the better,” I complain and he laughs, kisses each of my cheeks and then my nose.

“There’s a recovery period after, my love. Somewhere between one and two months, depending on the difficulty of the birth.”

“Two months!” I shout and he laughs. “You will love me for a week straight after the two months, husband.”

“I wouldn’t dare, wife,” he says and kisses me soundly on the mouth before extinguishing the light. “You would exhaust me.”

“You would enjoy it,” I quip and he chuckles softly against my neck.

But despite the levity that I sometimes feel, there is a constant shadow. My friend. My sister in my heart. Day by day, despite the fact that we seem to have reached some sort of truce where we visit and bring our daughters together as often as possible, I feel her growing away from me. We do not speak of her wedding at all. Our conversations barely qualify as more than chatter.

The manor at Willow Park slowly rises out of the ashes. The construction brings new work to the district and wandering souls begin to make their way here seeking employment in such a fertile region. Johanna announces one day that the stables at Willow Park have been built and that she has been hired on as their stablemaster.

“Is that wise?” I ask Peeta as we stand in the doors of Everdeen and watch Johanna ride away on her nag, only a small sack of belongings to her name. She is under no contract with us and so is free to leave, but that is not my concern. I fear the potential for strife in a house where her lady love is married to another.

“I think I begin to understand,” Peeta says and then does not have time to elaborate with Miranda careening across the yard, chasing a flock of clucking chickens.

“I was thinking…” I begin and wait for his touch on my back, an encouraging rub in a space that has ached for over a day now. “I was thinking of giving Diablo to Madge. As a wedding gift. Father is in agreement. What do you think?”

“I think it perfect,” Peeta says. He watches Miranda for a moment then kisses me and leaves me to attend to his patients for the day.

“You’ll never catch them like that!” I shout after Miranda and then follow to show her. I cannot move as quickly as usual, my steps laborious and my wide frame only an advantage in blocking the occasional escape.

One squawks loudly and flutters her wings. Miranda jumps back in fear, colliding with me, and we both fall to the ground.

“Oh!” I cry out as a sharp pain screams up my spine.

“Mrs. Mellark!” Sae shouts and hurries out to help me up.

“I am fine, only my pride bruised. Bested by a hen,” I mutter.

“All the same, your mother or Mr. Mellark should have a look at you.”

Mother declares me to be fine, but at dinner that evening, a sharp pain lances across my belly. I am able to hide it, although when it happens again as I sit in the drawing room after, I think perhaps I should mention it to Peeta. I decide that if it happens again, I will tell him. We are now only a few days out from my expected time. The babe could arrive any day now.

Tomorrow is Madge’s wedding. The invitation sits on the table in the hall, the answer already sent. I wonder now if we should have declined, but I couldn’t bear to do it, not after I was unable to attend her first wedding, and not with our friendship still on such unsteady grounds. She asked me to trust her and so I shall have to find it in me to do so.

When no more pains plague me that evening, I relax and tell no one. It must not be time yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh!” I gasp out as I awaken from a disturbing dream. A dreadful fog blotting out the moon and the stars until all was black. There was more. Something about Madge, but I lose it in the pain. I drift between dreams and pain, writhing in the bed until I wake Peeta.

“What is it, Katniss? A nightmare?”

“No!” I gasp and grit my teeth, grasping tight to his arm. “The baby.”

He is moving in an instant, up and checking on me, assuring me that nothing is wrong, only that I have gone into childbirth. In the space between several pains, he dresses, pausing only to see me through each pain as dawn creeps over the horizon. He sends for Mary, and for Mother. The house awakens and Peeta helps me walk across our room then back as Mother and Prim prepare supplies.

The room grows stifling and I beg for fresh air. The window is thrown open for me. I refuse food, unable to fathom eating through this pain.

“You will need sustenance,” Peeta urges, but all I take is tea.

The sun marches across the sky as Peeta murmurs to me. Prim leaves then returns at one point, dressed in a lovely blue dress with a green bonnet on her head. The wedding.

“Give my love to Madge,” I beg her. “Tell her I would have been there, and take my gift for her.”

“I will,” Prim says and kisses me on the cheek before she and Father depart. There is no need for them to stay when this could take all day. Someone from Everdeen should be present at the wedding, and so it falls to them.

Time plods forward. The sun begins to sink, and still no sign of the babe. The pain dulls to the background and then roars back to life, so harsh that I cannot even speak. I can barely catch my breath.

“It is time, Katniss,” my mother reassures me as she and Peeta position me on the bed, my legs spread wide. “You must bear down with each pain.”

I nod and scream with the first one. As soon as it passes, I meet Peeta’s worried eyes, down between my bent upwards knees. Were I in less pain, perhaps I would care that he now sees me like this, but I have more pressing worries.

“Don’t,” I say and he shakes his head. “Don’t do that, husband. I am not so fragile as that.”

We agreed that when my time came, Doctor Aurelius would be notified but only called if the situation grew dire. I may feel as though I am dying, but there is still life pulsing vibrant through my veins. I do not feel myself fading at all. Peeta must see it too. Were he more detached from this particular birth, were this merely a professional call, he might be able to see it more objectively.

Peeta takes a deep breath and nods, his hand skimming reassuringly over my leg.

A commotion of horse hooves and shouting reaches me through the open window and another pain strikes. I do not even attempt to hold in the scream as I feel as though I am being torn asunder.

As the scream dies, the door to our room flies open and a storm of white silk swirls into the room, flinging aside a lace veil and perching on the bed beside me. The scent of summer roses fills my nose.

“Madge.”

“Katniss,” she says, tears in her eyes.

“I am sorry I missed your wedding.” She lets out a soft sob and then wipes a damp cloth across my brow. “You should be dancing with your groom. He will be so cross with me for this.”

“He will hardly notice my absence. More importantly, I promised I would be here,” she says instead and takes my hand in hers as I am once more consumed with pain. “With you.”

Three voices now murmur encouragement and lend me strength. Madge and my mother somehow hold my hands and legs so I cannot escape. I fixate on Peeta’s eyes. His face as the room goes dark and Mary lights candles. I collapse as the pain ebbs, and breathe like a fish out of water.

“Almost, my love,” Peeta whispers, his touch gentle on my knee. I laugh, the sound crazed as I lift my head to scowl at him.

“Soon you will have your child to hold,” Madge murmurs.

“Why would anyone do this twice?” I ask.

“You will soon see,” my mother says.

“You make it sound so simple. Would you care to take my place?” I ask Peeta.

“Would that I could,” he answers, and I can see in his eyes that he means it. He would take this pain away and into himself if he could. “As a wise woman once told me, it is far easier to cause death than to bring forth life.”

“Those were not my exact words, husband,” I remind him and he smiles.

“Close enough, wife.”

And then I am no longer able to speak, the pain is too great. And yet… a strange thing happens then, as I stare into his blue, tired eyes. The pain grips me and it is terrible terrible terrible…and then it is not. The voices fade and the pain is not so unbearable. There is almost… a relief in it.

“There you are!” My mother soothes. “We have the head. Now for the shoulders, Katniss. You are almost done.”

A few more minutes and Madge is kissing my temple, her tears mingling with my sweat, her words unintelligible but the tone of love clear. I am fading fast into exhaustion, and Peeta is focused on something I cannot see between my legs.

“Peeta,” I whine and he looks up at me as the squall of a baby fills the room. His smile is impossibly happy and I nearly burst with it.

“A daughter, Katniss. We have a daughter.”

Peeta slides one hand around my still exposed thigh, his palm warm and soothing on my skin. And then his lips against the tender skin of my inner thigh. A look of awe and love in his eyes. Soft tears seep from the corners and onto my skin. It is unbearably intimate and undoubtedly shocking, unseemly.

I do not care. His kisses like that as he cradles our child in his arm mean everything to me.

There are tears and washing. Soothing. Peeta and Mother take our daughter to be cleaned and tended, swaddled in warm blankets. I am carried to a tub brought up especially for this and scrubbed with gentle hands, redressed in a fresh gown. Food is brought. Joyous announcements shouted through the halls and then she is finally placed in my arms. I lean back into Peeta’s chest as I hold our daughter while she feeds and he holds us both. He cannot seem to stop touching her brow and her cheeks. I inhale her sweet baby scent and then his warm, manly scent.

Madge still sits on the bed with us, her wedding gown spread across the edge of the fresh counterpane, I think a few spots on her dress are stained. The hem looks almost ripped. Her posy of roses sits on the bedside table, already beginning to wilt.

“Madge,” I begin and she shakes her head.

“There is no need.” But there is a need. I know that now. I’ve a need to listen and she’s a need to be heard. She should have been able to tell me, and my own stubbornness and focus on Everdeen made it impossible. The words may wait, but I will say them.

“May I?” she asks when my daughter has finished suckling, and holds her arms out to me. I gently place my daughter in her arms and she rises from the bed, cooing softly.

“Will you be her godmother?” I ask and the tightening of Peeta’s arms about me tells me that he supports my request.

��Of course I will.” Madge smiles at me and nods. My heart lightens with the expression on her face as I know, all hope is not lost. Madge is still my true friend and while I still yearn for answers, I find that I can be patient. She then peers down at the wrinkled pink face of my baby girl.

“As soon as Prim told me, I had Diablo saddled and rode over here. Thank you for him.”

“He was already yours,” I say and she bites her lip as though holding back tears.

“I did not have a chance to dance at my wedding. Since you and Peeta did not dance at your wedding, I am taking it as a good omen. But I cannot resist such a lovely cherub.”

She sweeps into a delicate step, humming a tune as she dances with my daughter in her arms. And then I am crying uncontrollably.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peeta insists that I sleep. I manage it, somehow, after demanding that he kiss me properly, despite the many people still lingering in the room. There is a rotation of loved ones to assist me in ways I’d never thought to need them. To hold my girl when my arms grow weak. Standing on my own is a trial. I’ve no desire to wear anything other than my shift and the bedsheets yet. Bathing and changing is a difficulty, as is relieving myself.

Our daughter is still new when family descends to meet her. My father is ridiculously soft with her, my mother showers her face with kisses once the duties of midwife are complete. Prim is delighted and already making plans for spoiling both of her nieces.

“I expect a nephew next,” she tells me with a sly smile. “I doubt that you will make me wait overlong.”

“Come and meet your sister,” I whisper to Miranda, and watch her melt out of the shadows and clamber up onto the bed. Her fingers shake as she peels back the blanket and stares down at her face.

“Hello…sister,” she whispers and I lean over to kiss her fiery curls.

“Will you tell her stories?” Peeta asks, placing a hand on Miranda’s back and smiling down at us three.

“May I?” Miranda asks and I nod.

“I think she would like that.”

“So would I,” Miranda breathes. “But…what is her name?”

My eyes meet Peeta’s over Miranda’s head and he smiles. “We were hoping you might help us with that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are days when I think motherhood to be the worst sort of bargain. When I am tired and sore or when the entire world frightens me. Disease, injury, deception, heartbreak, and so much more. How am I to protect my daughters, my Beatrice and my Miranda from all of this. There are days when the joy of holding her in my arms drowns out all else, when watching her and Miranda together or separately convinces me that I was never happy before I had them. My children.

The weather warms and the vivid flowers of spring and early summer fade to make room for the pale blue skies, the fading greens, and the heat that sings with insects only found in the midst of summer. I am eager for my recovery to be done with and count the days. Then… then I cherish the night. Nights with the windows wide open and Peeta hushing my sultry moans. We are unable to love in the physical sense as often as we did before. The presence of our babe sleeping in our room, the demands of raising two children, often curtail passion. Yet every time we come together, there is a joy in it that brings tears to my eyes.

I tease him that I long for another child, and yet he insists that we wait. He has some medical notion that repeated childbirth is too harsh on a body, and in the name of protecting me from such an ordeal, he prescribes the teas of my mother to suppress fertility. He uses the French methods of preventing pregnancy as well, despite my complaints that I despise having a barrier between his skin and mine. At times…when I am the most desperate for him, Peeta refuses to join fully with me at all and employs other methods of giving me pleasure. I cannot complain too much, as those are most effective at satisfying me and delightfully intimate as well.

Miranda, my dove. Her speech becomes a constant hum in our house. A thousand and one questions every day, a thousand and one stories. We discover that she has a knack for fancy sewing and while this means her drawing begins to wane, her stitchery blooms. She weaves them both, stories and embroidered scenes from colorful bits of thread into something strange and fantastical and wonderful. Mother sees her work framed and hung about the house. Father begins to request scenes or specific stories. He listens to her for hours and it brightens my heart to see her so loved and welcomed by my family.

As for our neighbors… Madge and Maysilee visit often until I am recovered and am able to return the visits. The work on Willow Park continues. Half a dozen brood mares arrive and Johanna is in her element with so much equine flesh to tend to. Gale strikes a bargain with Peeta to use Cicero as one of his studs. It turns out that Cicero is something of a rake, and I tease Peeta mercilessly about the number of bastards his mount sires within a matter of months. He usually shuts me up by kissing me mercilessly.

I have few complaints about this arrangement.

Indeed, the only one I have is that Mr. Hawthorne appears to be a somewhat neglectful husband. He is rarely in the district, despite the realisation of his dream of owning a horse farm. His other ventures often take him about Panem or even abroad with Mr. Fremont, leaving Madge and Johanna to deal with the day to day operations of Willow Park. Although, Madge assures me that she and Mr. Hawthorne are always in touch via letters.

I keep waiting to see some sign of melancholy in my friend, some sort of distraught unhappiness, and yet it never arrives. In fact, if anything, her marriage appears to have only enhanced her beauty and happiness. I have the strangest sensation that her removal to Willow Park along with Johanna, and Mr. Hawthorne’s frequent absence is the source of such happiness. What mischief does she get up to when her husband is away, and what sort of husband seems so indifferent to his wife’s many charms?

“Why did you not tell me?” I finally ask her over tea one afternoon. When both her hired help are out running messages and errands in town. “Did you think I would…react badly?”

“I could not be certain,” Madge admits. “You’ve no idea how lonely it can be, feeling this way. When we were girls, I never quite understood my own feelings nor the reason why I felt so at odds with them. Then I left and married the earl and…”

She trails off and something occurs to me. “Your affaire, after his death…it was with a woman,” I whisper the words, even though we are alone save for Beatrice on my knee and Madge laughs, but she is crying. I set aside my tea and shift to hold her as well.

“You will think me horrid but I am so tired of carrying this. Yes! It was with Katharine, my… oh she was married to the earl’s son and we are the same age. She was my friend and the only one who was ever truly kind to me in that wretched house. But her husband came home early from his club and found us together one night and…”

Her tears keep her from continuing, but I can make a good guess at the rest.

“Cry no more tears over him, my dear. He was cruel, but he was likely also jealous that you were a far better lover to his wife than he.” Madge laughs hysterically at this and lifts her head to smile at me.

“And you are not at all disgusted with me?”

“Mmm, no. Still a little curious about some things, but not disgusted. What happened to Katharine?”

“I am afraid to even find out,” Madge admits.

I take her hands in mine then and wait for her sniffles to abate. “I love you, my friend, and I only ever want your complete happiness.”

“I am as close to it as I think I will be able to come, Katniss.” I nod at this. Then, I shall have to make my own peace with it, and I set about doing so.

Mr. Fremont is perhaps the most surprising addition to our lives. He writes to the Mellark family at Everdeen quite often, sharing riddles with Miranda that she delights in solving, presents for Beatrice, bits of news for Peeta and I. I am at a loss for how his is the hand that seeks friendship and yet it is so. He, of course, sends similar letters and gifts to Maysilee.

So little of it makes sense to me yet that perhaps it is my curiosity which leads me to a most unexpected place late in the summer… hunting in the woods of Everdeen with Mr. Hawthorne. Madge suggested it, as we apparently share a common interest in the sport. I suppose she is hoping we will somehow bond over it. Thankfully for me, Madge is unaware that hunting is best done in silence.

While this means that I’ve no opportunity to further my acquaintance with her husband, it also means that I am granted opportunity to observe him while not subjected to his tirades.

It is pleasant enough at first. Peeta was quite adamant I go when I attempted to cajole a refusal out of him instead. He insisted that the fresh air and exercise would do me good, to say nothing of the return to something that I have always felt comfort in doing. I pause a moment and tilt my head back to absorb the rays of the sun. He was right, my husband. Despite the questionable nature of the company, I needed this. Even if I catch nothing, I needed this journey into the woods, this breath of who I am and perhaps will always be.

“Fascinating,” Mr. Hawthorne murmurs and I sigh. The silence was of course too good to continue. I am simply grateful at this point that Mr. Hawthorne eschews the aristocratic hunting methods and does not favor hunting with hounds. I glance over at where he examines a snare. Not one of mine. I’ve never had much luck with snares. Perhaps one of my tenants, seeking a rabbit or squirrel for a meal.

“A snare,” I explain and he nods.

“Yes I know. A rather ingenious one. I wonder if…” he retrieves a stick and makes to spring the trap.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” I say and he glances back at me. “You would deprive a man of meat to fulfill your curiosity? Or do you know how to reset it?”

He thinks for a moment and stands. “You are quite right, Mrs. Mellark. I don’t suppose you happen to know the creator of this snare?”

“I’ve a few guesses. Some discreet inquiries might bring me the answer, although I warn you, they may not be willing to speak with an aristocratic stranger.”

“I have no title. I am not–”

“Not wealthy?” I ask and he glances down at his waistcoat.

“Perhaps I should adopt your habits of dress.” I snort at this but tug on my rough coat that I wear today. It is longer than one I would normally wear with breeches, as something about traipsing through the woods with a man who is not my husband whilst wearing breeches set off alarming thoughts in my head.

“You are not what you seem…are you, Mrs. Mellark?”

“I am exactly what I seem, if you are paying attention. You, however, are something of a puzzle. And our speaking will scare away the game,” I say as a scent reaches me. I attempt to place it, some long ago warning from my father taunting me just beyond the reaches of my memories.

Mr. Hawthorne huffs and then flings aside his stick.

“Don’t!” I shout as it crashes through the underbrush, arousing a terrible squealing noise. A boar thrashes the bushes and crashes out towards us. Mr. Hawthorne turns and shoves me against a tree. I cry out with pain at the impact as the wild pig careens past, snuffling and huffing, snorting in indignation as he turns again and prepares to charge.

I grab the nearest branch and haul myself into the tree. “Climb!”

Mr. Hawthorne makes to follow me, but the pig is too fast. I settle on a branch and swing my gun about and take aim. The blast surprises even me, but the pig falls. The hairy body slides across the foliage and thumps against the tree. Right below Mr. Hawthorne’s dangling boots. With a final snort, the beast dies.

I release a great puff of air and Mr. Hawthorne drops to the ground next to it, stares at it then up at me in my perch.

“You’ve wild boar in these woods.”

“Do you always state the obvious?” I ask and he shakes his head, almost laughing as he tilts his head to examine my kill.

“An impressive shot, Mrs. Mellark. Right in the eye.”

“Luck,” I say and place a hand over my heart, attempting to quell the thundering of it in my chest. I’ve no reason to fear. I was perfectly safe.

“You saved my life.” He crouches to further examine the dead beast, to trace the gnarled tusks.

“Please, there is no need for dramatics.”

“I believe there is. You could have easily let the beast kill me and claimed it as an accident. No one would have doubted you.”

“Those who know my skill would have.”

“Please, Mrs. Mellark. You are barely recovered from childbirth. None would have blamed you for diminished skill in the face of a charging wild boar.” I snort and he grins up at me. “The fact is…you saved my life.”

“My friend is not even a full year out of mourning. I would not wish to constrain her again in such a state so soon.” He did also protect me from the initial charge, although that fact rather irritates me so I refrain from mentioning it.

“Not even if it meant she would be wealthy beyond reason and you would gain Everdeen for your children all the sooner?” he murmurs and my eyes snap to his in shock. “Ah. I see my wife has not seen fit to tell you all the details of our arrangement. Perhaps she wished me to tell you myself. Trust me when I say that we are in complete agreement on many things, and she is as satisfied with all aspects of our marriage as I am. Half of it was her idea.”

“You make no sense.”

“And you are in a tree. Come down and claim your kill. Your house and your tenants will feast well this week.” He stands, extending a hand up to me. And there is that smile, the one that transforms his face to one that is kind and almost flirtatious. Loyal to those he cares about yet with a fierceness still in his eyes. The sort of face ladies would swoon over and friends such as Darius rush to protect…

My mouth drops open as I stare at him, his hand hanging in the air between us as a suspicion begins to form in my head. And I decide that perhaps trusting Mr. Gale Hawthorne would not be so bad.

I snap my mouth shut and carefully place my hand in his. His grip as he helps me from the tree is solid and firm, yet I feel no thrill the way that I do when Peeta touches me so. I tilt my head now to examine him, the way Mr. Hawthorne did to examine the snare, then the dead pig.

“Shall we?” he asks, motioning to the dead animal with a smile. I nod and we set to work. Preparing the carcass to move and then creating a litter of sorts to carry it.

When we return to Everdeen, there is much fanfare and clapping. My father praises us for our catch. It is a joyous scene. Crowded and too busy for me to have a chance to ask Mr. Hawthorne what he meant in the woods, about gaining Everdeen for myself. Or about my growing suspicions.

“Should I be jealous now?” Peeta whispers to me after dinner. He has caught me staring at Mr. Hawthorne again.

“No,” I answer and smile at him. I begin to wonder if perhaps Peeta has no reason at all to be jealous in regards to Mr. Hawthorne, but I do instead. “I was merely attempting to sort through a puzzle.

“It will come to you,” he whispers and kisses my hand. I am still sorting through the threads of conversations as we sit in the drawing room after dinner that night. Darius is flushed and perhaps a little drunk, having toasted to Gale and Mrs. Mellark, the founders of the feast, a few times more than is necessary. It was indeed a delicious meal, but his cheer seems to evaporate when Gale demands a rematch at chess. He and Peeta move towards the table. Mr. Fremont collapses in a chair beside me, swaying a bit and seeming to almost brood.

“You’ve still had no time to learn?” I ask him and he nods, rather morose for being left out of a game. I set my book on my lap, uninterested in reading if I might learn something from him or confirm my growing suspicions. Besides, I selected my book at random, more as a screen to provide me with privacy in a crowded room, or to observe unnoticed those around me.

Then something strange happens. Perhaps I would not even notice, it happens so quickly, except that my senses and mind have been so focused on my quarry all day that it stands out in sharp relief.

A piece knocked from the board, Peeta’s king, as they reset the pieces from a game left unfinished by other players. Peeta bends to retrieve it. My eyes follow the motion, half admiring his shape, and yet somehow I catch it from the corner of my eye… Mr. Hawthorne leaning to the side, eyes closely following Peeta’s motions. At first, I excuse it as Mr. Hawthorne ensuring that Peeta does not somehow cheat, but how could he with such a move? It is chess, not cards.

As my husband takes his seat, glances are exchanged. The heat of a blush and the grinding of teeth beside me. An embarrassed look away. Madge happily running her hands over the piano keys and chatting with Prim, unaware of her husband’s wandering eyes, of the almost jealous and contrite exchange happening between her husband and the man beside me…

Or perhaps, she is completely aware of them. Something falls into place in my head as Mr. Hawthorne clears his throat in a rather undignified manner. Then he focuses on the game. Sensing a new sort of hunt, I turn to Mr. Fremont with a smile.

“I must confess that I’ve made attempts to learn chess, but I’ve still no patience for it. The swift hunt is much better for me.”

“You were quite swift today, or so Gale tells me.”

“Fortunate,” I say, waving it off. “With instincts honed by a desire to protect that which matters to me. As I think many of us in this room are.”

Darius makes a strange noise as Mr. Hawthorne laughs across the room and I lift my book to hide my own blush. How extraordinary. Well…if he wishes my husband’s attentions, he will have to come armed with more than a handsome face and a ready laugh. I smile slyly at Mr. Fremont and he lifts one eyebrow at me.

“You wish to protect Gale? I was not under the impression his life would be important to you.”

“Not at the moment. How could I possibly wish to protect someone with designs on all that is…mine.” He barely responds to the pause, but it is there. Not that I can blame Mr. Hawthorne, if I am correct about his preferences. I feel the thrill of the pending kill, a much less violent and far more satisfying one than what happened in the woods today. “Although, I feel as though we’ve built a sort of tentative trust today. No, it is Madge whose welfare I am concerned with.”

“She has everything that she could want in her life, and in her marriage.”

“Does she?” I ask and lean closer. Almost too close as I whisper. “Do you, Mr. Fremont?”

He swallows and searches my face. A-ha! I think. Peeta would be quite proud of me, managing to glean such information and reassurances without shouting or dramatics. I lean back in my seat and lift my book to read and no intentions of doing so.

“Sometimes patience is indeed the key to the hunt, and other times, one must act. Swiftly, without mercy. The trick, I think, is to know which is the more appropriate action, and to have the right sort of allies,” I say.

“Mrs. Mellark…” Mr. Fremont says as he leans towards me, the flush on his cheeks shifting from an angry red to an almost boyish pink.

“Katniss,” I correct. “If we are to be friends and neighbours and allies with common interests, then you must call me Katniss.”

“Common interests?” he ponders and I let my eyes slide over to the chess board.

“Harmless flirtations are one thing, so long as one returns to their home untarnished at night, but… I would do anything to protect two of the people who mean the most in the world to me. My husband, and my dearest friend. There is no patience where keeping them safe is concerned. I sense that you are a kindred spirit in this regard, Mr. Fremont.”

“Darius,” he says and I let my book lower slightly. He smiles at me, but his eyes are still on Mr. Hawthorne. “A name for a name, Katniss. I believe it to be a fair trade. And a good foundation for an alliance.”

I cannot help but smile as I nod in agreement. His grin is quite infectious. There are things that Mr. Hawthorne and I may never agree on, and some that we do. As long as he continues to care for Madge, and not harm anyone else that I love, then I believe I might be able to forgive his arrogance, tho perhaps not his shameless ogling of my husband.

“Now tell me…are you interested in The Ancient Craft of the Sarcophagus out of a morbid sort of curiosity, or should I be concerned for any members of our party?” Darius’ eyes drop to the cover of my book and I glance at the title printed at the top of each page, nearly laughing at the humor of it.

“A true lady, as my Aunt Effie would say, can keep the darkest of secrets into her grave and on into the afterlife, Darius.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It is strange, sometimes, how the truth can mean a lightening of hearts. Life continues in a happy manner as the harvest approaches. There is always work to keep us busy, amusements to keep us fulfilled. Peeta and I resume our daily rides, and I laugh with joy as Sagittaria carries me away on swift feet. I am unable to resist temptation the day of that first ride, and when we stop for a picnic in a wide meadow, I find myself arched beneath my husband, his hands buried in my hair and the blanket beneath me, the sun on his back, my hands scraping down his spine. The smaller flowers of late autumn and the tall grasses sway about us, concealing us from the world, and the clouds above us provide a tableau of beauty to reflect the beauty in my heart.

My daughters continue to grow and to thrive. My friendship with Madge is repaired and a source of comfort and happiness now. I miss her presence at Everdeen. Her and Maysilee brought a sort of brightness to the halls, but Miranda and Beatrice bring their own sort of brightness, and we never go too long without seeing one another.

Unfortunately, the happy circumstances of Willow Park and Jo’s employment with the new horse farm has left Everdeen stables in a quandary. Giles needs to retire and Charles is learning quickly but still too young to assume such responsibilities.

“Before Jo left us, I thought to hire her to the post,” my father explained when he put out word that Everdeen was seeking a stablemaster. “But now that she is gone, I will have to hire someone else.”

“Father…” I stated warily and he’d shaken his head. “How long have you known?”

“Not long. I’ve no anger over the matter, Katniss. I wish you had trusted me, and I am embarrassed to admit that I did not figure it out on my own. Your mother had to tell me. The only thing that matters to me now is that we find someone young and skilled enough to replace both her and Giles.”

Which leads me to the events of today. I fuss over Beatrice as she crawls about the nursery, until I’ve no choice but to go downstairs and meet my father. We are to interview a potential candidate for stablemaster today.

An odd sort of humming exists in my skull, and I find I am rather disappointed at the prospect of a new stablemaster. It was around this time last year when Peeta and I first consummated our marriage, when I discovered the boundless joys and pleasures to be found in his arms, and also when I discovered the depth of my love for him. The presence of a new stable master will curtail a repeat of our tryst in the hay and I am rather upset about that, so that I am near to scowling as the man stands from his seat in the kitchens to greet me and my father.

“Mr. Henderson, I presume?” my father asks and the man gives a slight bow of respect.

“Aye, Mr. Everdeen.” His voice is somehow soft and lilting. Soothing. His accent is unfamiliar to me, but he has the sort of calming voice that horses respond to.

“Shall we walk and talk?” The man nods and glances at me. “This is my daughter. She and her husband will one day run the farm in trust for their children, and she oversees much of the operations already. You will address her as Mrs. Mellark.”

The man drops his hat. My scowl deepens at this as he bends to retrieve it. “Of course, sir.”

Other than that slight at the beginning, the interview goes well. He seems kind enough, and the horses take to him immediately. Even Sagittaria preens for him.

“And this is Peeta’s horse…my husband’s,” I say as we come to the final stall. I quickly explain Cicero’s deafness and that Peeta will have to teach him the hand communications. Mr. Henderson nods and mentions that he’s heard of such techniques, but never seen them in action.

After that, it seems fairly straightforward. Mr. Handerson comes to us from an estate in Northwest Panem, bringing excellent references.

“If you do not mind my asking, why did you leave your prior employment?”

“Nothing to do with the job or the family, you see. My wife passed away last year.” He glances at me and I manage to look sympathetic, I believe. Either way, he continues to look into my eyes as he speaks. “She had a wasting disease, took her too young, but not ‘afore she had a second chance at life. Still…it were hard staying there without her. She were my second chance too. My second wife and well, it didn’t seem right to push my luck for a third chance with the same family, although they were good to us. Memories just got the better of me.”

“My condolences for your loss,” my father says and at this, some sort of spell seems to be broken. They manage an awkward transition to discussing the terms of employment and we make our way behind the stable to show him his new living quarters. He seems pleased enough, and once the deal is done, he sets to work.

Miranda races into the stables as Mr. Henderson sees Sagittaria saddled for our daily ride. Charles tends to Cicero and laughs as Miranda careens to a halt, grasping onto my skirts.

“Mother! I am going with you today!”

“Then it will be all the more fun.” I smile down at her then up at Peeta as he enters the stable. He’s favoring his leg again and I make an exasperated motion towards his laboured movements.

“I will rest when we return, my love, but I will not miss this time with my family,” he says and kisses me softly on the forehead before turning to Cicero.

I feel eyes on us the entire time, and as I watch Miranda handed up to sit with Peeta, I discover the culprit. Mr. Henderson seems to have a deep interest in my love or my daughter, or both… I take Sagittaria’s reins and make a note to investigate further after our ride.

It is a lovely day, and we picnic by the lake, visit with a few tenants, and then return home. I dismount quickly, take Miranda into my arms to allow Peeta to dismount. I feel the need to see to Beatrice, but a cough behind me as Miranda scampers off catches my attentions.

I turn to find Mr. Henderson twisting his hat in his hands, a nervous look about his brown eyes. “Your pardon, Mr. and Mrs. Mellark. If you’ve a moment, I am afraid I’ve a confession to make.”

“We are no clerics, Mr. Henderson,” I manage to say politely, although I am beginning to think hiring him was a mistake.

“What I’ve to say is not for the Lord, Mrs. Mellark, but for him,” Mr. Henderson motions towards Peeta and I can see the surprise in my husband’s face.

“Should we perhaps talk elsewhere?”

“No, no,” Mr. Handerson says. “If you find what I’ve to tell you distasteful and it costs me this post, I’d rather be done with it now.” I am about to suggest we fetch my father first if his confession has bearing on his employment, but Mr. Henderson dives into his explanation.

“I wasn’t sure at first, see. I answered the listing by a Mr. Kent Everdeen. I’d no idea you would be here, too. Then I still weren’t sure when Mr. Everdeen introduced Mrs. Mellark. Mrs. Mellark…well with four acknowledged sons there had to be at least a few Mrs. Mellarks about, maybe it wasn’t you…but no. Then she calls her husband Peeta, your pardon for my familiarity sir, and then I knew.”

“Knew what?” Peeta asks, and there is a strain in his voice that frightens me.

“Who you are. Yer mother. Gertrude. Well, she went by Gertrude when we were married, but I suppose you wouldn’t know that. You’d know her as Nancy Thackeray, right?” The man only grows more nervous and agitated as his confession spills out. Peeta’s body only grows more rigid beside me. “She was sick, see? Found her on the back doorstep in Capitol nigh on eight years ago, naught but skin and bones, knocking on death’s door, hair dyed black and the dye fading already. I weren’t there. It was my sister who found her. She was the cook and another sister the housekeeper. Well they couldn’t bear to leave her dying so they took her in, nursed her back. The Odairs…well they’re kindly folk you know? Would never turn away a body in need if they could help it. Do you know the Odairs?”

“Not personally,” Peeta says. “Only by reputation. They’re a seafaring family.”

“They are. They were in Capitol at the time, beastly cold winter, but they went to see family and then had to stay when their son took ill. Well with the doctor already calling to see to young Sebastian, he didn’t mind seeing to Gertrude as well. Eventually she got well enough to work and…she worked. Ladie’s maid to Mistress Annie’s sister, Miss Patricia, who lived with the family at the time. Then when Miss Patricia were married, Gertrude worked as companion to Captain Odair’s grandmother. And I were stable master. When the family came home to their estate in Northwest Panem after that winter…well it were a second chance for us both, you see?”

“You were married,” I offer the encouragement, because I am not certain Peeta has not fallen into shock right now.

“Aye. And we were happy. I… I loved her dearly, I did. We were a comfort to one another. I’d lost my first wife and a son. Eventually, she told me all about you, and her first husband William. How she always wanted to see how you were doing but was scared.”

“Scared? Of what?” Peeta asks, perhaps more harshly than necessary, but to hear all of this now… He turns away from me and I place a hand on his back.

“Please understand, Mr. Henderson. We’ve been looking for Nancy for a year, Peeta has been looking even longer. Any news you have is welcome, but also a shock.” The man nods and swallows, looking directly at Peeta’s back as he speaks again, softly this time.

“She was afraid you would not recognise her. Or worse, that you would hate her for what she done. But she did it so you wouldn’t starve. She always told me you were brave and strong enough to be the best of men, even with the worst of fathers. And you were always in her heart. She drew your face most of all.” At this, Peeta turns slowly and Mr. Henderson produces a small book from his jacket. “Been carrying this since she died. Didn’t know what to do with it. Think now maybe providence wanted me to keep it for you. She said you used to draw with her.”

“Yes,” Peeta chokes out the word and takes the book. He does not open it but lifts watery eyes to Mr. Hendrson. “And Miranda? Was Miranda in her heart?”

“Miranda?” Mr. Henderson asks in true confusion and then understanding dawns. “You mean the babe? The one she left at the orphanage? That were right before my sisters found her. She never gave the babe a name. Had no…connection with the child. By then she were so lost and desperate…I cannot blame her for it. How do you know of the child?”

“We adopted her,” I explain. “We found her while we were looking for Nancy…for Gertrude. Now she is our daughter.”

“So you brought her home to be yours to love,” Mr. Henderson says and a bright smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head but there are tears in her eyes. “I’ll be. She were right then.” He tilts his head back to look heavenward and I bow my head, to allow him this moment.

I feel terrible, but a strange joy fills me at this. Every last doubt flutters off on the crisp autumn breeze. Miranda is well and truly our daughter. No disputes over the matter.

“She woulda been proud of you. A doctor, a husband, and a father beside.”

“She would have hated my face,” Peeta says and then rakes a hand through his hair. Mr. Henderson seems confused by this. “Never mind. Thank you, Mr. Henderson, for having the courage to tell me. Where is she now?” Peeta whispers, and I take his hand in mine, already knowing the answer and understanding now the import Mr. Henderson was trying to give me in his interview.

“She passed last autumn, about this time of year. I saw her buried in the church yard, next to my first wife and a child we lost. Made sure she had a nice marker, if you want to visit her some day.”

“Thank you,” Peeta murmurs one last time and then threads my arm through his. Before he can lead me away, I say one more thing to Mr. Henderson.

“See Mrs. Chilton if you’ve questions about meal times. Sae can answer any concerns about other household matters,” I tell him. His eyes widen and he nods.

“Then I’m not…”

“We are in need of a capable stable master,” I tell him and Peeta squeezes my fingers. “Welcome to Everdeen, Mr. Henderson.”

We move to leave and he steps after us, halting our retreat.

“She wouldn’t hate your face, Mr. Mellark. Mayhap your name, but…what’s in a name? She had about a dozen in her life, but that don’t change her heart, nor who she was.”

For some reason, Peeta smiles now, and manages one soft nod before we walk out of the stable and into the fading autumn light.

When we reach the house, there is a minor uproar. Several of Prim’s gowns have arrived from town, only enough to start her for the season. The rest will be waiting for her at Uncle Haymitch and Aunt Effie’s. Peeta and I will stay here to see to Everdeen while my parents take a much needed break, if overseeing the launching of a girl into society can be seen as a break.

Prim whispers to me that she not only has weeks worth of engagements already lined up, but she’s already received her first invite to a ball. The curiosity about the younger Miss Everdeen, as the eldest had such an exciting albeit brief season in town, has already made Primrose something of a novelty. Aunt Effie will be in her element, no doubt.

I usher Peeta into the library and order him off his feet, and even to remove his leg for some rest. When the chaos of the evening finally settles, I find him in our room, sitting before a cheering fire and dressed in his robe, his cane near at hand and his head bent as he peruses a small book.

“He said it was painless. In her sleep. She’d been sick for some time and it was slowly killing her anyways.” I sit beside him and twist my fingers through his curls, glance down at the sketches he now stares at. I recognise some of the faces, having seen portraits of Peeta and his brothers as a boy, having seen Peeta’s own sketches of William Thackeray. Mr. Henderson’s face is now familiar. There are several others who are strangers to me as well, some with names at the bottom.

“Curious,” I say. “Isn’t the name of this town the one Rory mentioned when he was speaking of the mines Gale has settled on him as a future wedding gift?”

“I believe so,” Peeta says. He turns to me then, his face void of emotion. “I have written to Haymitch and both our solicitors with the new information, asked them to confirm Mr. Hendrson’s story.”

“You do not trust him?”

“No, I do, only…I suppose I am holding out foolish hope, although for what I do not know.”

“Perhaps you only seek definitive closure.”

“Perhaps,” he says quietly. “Or perhaps it is fear. He said she passed this time last year and we…you and I…”

“Beatrice was conceived this time last year,” I say and he nods.

“Difficult to not wonder if there is some sort of connection. She never even knew you, or her grandchildren–” I silence his words with a kiss and when I lift my head, he does not speak again.

“She knew you, and if love can be felt in the afterlife, then she knows all the rest,” I say. Then I smile and press his body back to lay on the sofa. “Now husband…will you at last give me what I want?”

“Don’t I always?” I yelp as he flips us over and we tumble to the floor, tangled together and lips melded together. I sigh as his lips leave mine and he smiles at me. “But in the name of continued marital bliss and certainty, tell me exactly what you want, my pearl.”

“You, Peeta. I want you,” I say and he grins before kissing along my neck. I gasp out the rest before taking advantage and rolling us so that I straddle him. “And I want another child. Are you going to be stubborn again or are you going to let me have my way?”

“Please, my love. By all means, have your wicked way with me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Fin~

All that remains now is an epilogue, a taste of the future, and the final reveal.

You’ve found the words (perhaps) and now have a jumbled mess. My name is one letter, or is it? Take the first of each and unwind their path to find out who M is.

Thank you dear readers, and one final thanks to @everlarkficexchange for allowing me to write from behind a mask. Unmasked in its entirety, to include the epilogue, will post to Archive of Our Own within twenty-four hours and then there will be no hiding behind a mask for me. I wish you all happy writing and reading for this next exchange. Regards, ~M~

#submission #M #prompt 88 #springtime edition 2019

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glorious-blackout · 5 years ago

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Summary of Junior Doctor Life - Part Eight(ish):

One of our emergency cases over the weekend involved a man who had a dildo the size of my forearm lodged in his colon, ultimately requiring surgery to remove it. Apparently this is the second time this has happened (with the same dildo no less - it was returned to him the first time around on the logic of "Well... it is his property"). Needless to say, he didn’t get it back this time.

Following this, conversation among the juniors turned to the mature topic of ‘Things Patients Have Shoved up their Bum’. Between us we’ve seen lip-balm, a hammer, a toilet brush, a mobile phone and a potato.

Platelets are cells - or rather tiny fragments of cells- which form the initial, fragile plug on a wound before the clotting cascade can kick into gear (and yes, that’s about as much as I remember from uni). Low platelet counts are associated with drastically increased bleeding risk, which brings me to the time a gentleman presented with persistent nosebleeds, a speckled rash on his lower limbs, easy bruising and painless bleeding into his stoma bag. He was on medication which targets the clotting cascade, but his clotting screen was perfectly fine when we checked it. His platelet count, however, came back as ZERO. I may have uttered ‘Shit’ rather forcibly under my breath.

Most patients’ relatives are lovely, but occasionally you do encounter some odd people. Like the daughter who insisted that - in the thirty seconds it took my colleague to fetch gloves - her mum had had a cardiac arrest requiring mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Now, CPR has a very low success rate even when you have a whole team of medical professionals present, and even young, healthy survivors often need care in ICU afterwards. Given that our patient was awake and chatting away when my colleague returned to her room, it seems more likely that she simply nodded off only to get a rather rude awakening.

Topping my list of horrific illnesses is Necrotising Fasciitis; a life-threatening soft-tissue infection which spreads incredibly rapidly and requires complete surgical removal of the infected/dead tissue alongside a ton of antibiotics. Complications can include septic emboli - fragments of infected tissue which travel in the blood vessels and cause further harm in areas such as the lungs or brain. One patient had emboli stuck in the vessels of both legs, to the point where every single toe was black and gangrenous and he was facing amputation. Not the prettiest sight to be faced with first thing on a Monday morning - I can only imagine how horrible it must be for him.

A particularly gruesome form of Necrotising Fasciitis is called Fournier Gangrene. You can google it at your own risk.

I’ve alluded to junior doctors’ weird obsession with veins before (particularly on posts concerning musicians’ hands...), and apparently we’re all in the habit of seeking out veins that look good. Mostly on ourselves; I have a couple of great ones in my forearm, which is comforting seeing as people with terrible veins tend to get treated like pin-cushions in hospital.

One of our random conversations on this subject ended with two of my male colleagues enthusiastically feeling up each other’s arms and having to be told quite forcibly to get a room.

Most difficult cannula I’ve ever had to do was on a poor 90-year-old lady with dementia who had to be held down by nurses the entire time due to the genuine risk of her clawing my eyes out. She was surprisingly strong for her age and called me a bastard the entire time, but miraculously I managed it (though I did spend the rest of my shift dreading the possibility that her cannula would stop working).

Before Christmas, we spent two weeks filling in a Rota Monitoring diary to ensure we were all leaving on time and getting appropriate breaks. Turns out we failed spectacularly, to the point where our pay banding has increased per month and we’re all due a lump sum of back-pay. Of course, in typical NHS fashion, I’m not expecting to see a penny of said back-pay for several months, but it’s given us all something to look forward to.

Got a taste of what it’s like to be a visiting relative when my dad was admitted to hospital for three days (he’s fine! Just needed some tests and antibiotics). Rather predictably, I ended up getting asked more questions about his illness by assorted family members than his actual consultant did. The fact that most questions concerned dermatology didn’t make me feel any better, considering it ranks rather highly on the list of specialties I remember very little about.

On the bright side, my all-purpose swipe-card meant I could bring my dad magazines, shaving cream, snacks etc. outwith visiting hours, which I think he rather enjoyed.

We’ve now ranked our preferences for our second-year (FY2) jobs which start in August. Keeping my fingers crossed for placements in either GP, A+E or Paediatrics while silently dreading the likelihood of spending four months on a Geriatrics ward...

#junior doctor shenanigans #rambling #medicine #i'm now over halfway through FY1 and I'm still not entirely sure I know what I'm doing #but I'm getting there :P

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deadlytales · 5 years ago

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There are secrets hidden in the colors you can't see.

(from this Reddit post, by J.L.)

Do you know what color a cockroach is? If you said brown, then you’re wrong. Its Vis. And Cimex. And it has slight hints of Foedus as well.

That’s not gibberish. Those are colors that you can’t see. But I can.

I am the first documented human being with pentrachromatic vision.

That means that I have five different types of cone cells in my eyes. Almost every human being is a trichromat. That means there are three types cone cells in their eyes. These cells can each distinguish around 100 individual shades, but they mix together with one another - which means that the average trichromat can see about a million different colors. As a pentrachromat, I can see around ten billion.

No other mammal can do that. Only pigeons and a few butterflies. If this doesn’t sound like a big deal, then let me ask you a question - What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? A sunset? A rainbow?

Mine was a Hostess Twinkie. I was in a 7-11 and I saw a bunch of them sitting in a box on one of the shelves. Whatever chemicals they put in those things all have their own colors. Together, they create this beautiful swirling mosaic. Kind of makes the Twinkie less appetizing, but certainly better to look at. These colors are indescribable. I mean that in the literal sense – I can’t describe them to you. Color is an inherently private event. For the same reason you can’t tell that the shade of blue you see on a lid of I Can’t Believe it’s not Butter is the same as the shade of blue that your boss sees, I can’t tell you what most of the colors I see look like.

There are some things that I didn’t even know had color until I became a pentrachromat. Movement has color – every time something moves it creates a faint trail of a color that I can only describe as energetic. I’ve taken to calling this color Vis. Most fruits are multi-colored, but trichromatic eyes only pick up on the primary color present in them. If peaches looked to you how they do to me then you probably wouldn’t eat them anymore. I wasn’t born a pentrachromat. I was born with boring old trichromatic vision just like you. Then I got in a car accident. You know what color the sparks are when two pieces of metal collide? I call it Enk. That’s the sound my wife’s car made when it hit the Subaru next to us. It’s actually a comforting color – it evokes the same kind of feeling that you get when you smell wood smoke. Blood isn’t just red anymore. It’s also Cruor. Blood was the last thing I saw before I lost my vision. Victoria was driving. She was drunk, but not as drunk as I was. We were fighting. It was my fault.

“Was she worth it John? Was she worth ending all that we’ve had together?”

She wasn’t. Hiring a prostitute was never something that I thought I would do. Losing my marriage was never something that I thought I would do. But I had grown bored with our marriage. I wanted something new.

I didn’t know that wanting something new would mean she would let go of the wheel. As the car swerved onto the shoulder, I tried to pull the steering wheel back. I pulled too hard. We slammed into a car that had just pulled into the far right lane. A 17-year old girl was behind the wheel. The collision snapped her spine in half. She died in a pool of her own blood.

Our car spun out and crashed into the median. Victoria was thrown from the car. My seatbelt pinned me to the seat. The windshield exploded into a million pieces.

Broken glass has a whole slew of colors present in it. Too many to name.

Glass rained down on me. It sliced through my skin like it was clay. Two big shards lodged themselves in my eyes. The last thing I saw was blood. The last thing I heard was Victoria screaming. “God! It hurts! Please god it hurts!”

I’m not sure when I woke up. Without my vision I was helplessly adrift in a sea of darkness. After a while, I heard a voice asking me if I could hear it. It was a woman’s voice. A nurse.

“Yes. Where am I?”

She told me I was in the hospital and that I had been in an accident. I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell she was frowning when she told me that I was going to be blind for the rest of my life.

As it turns out, you don’t need eyes to cry your eyes out. That’s all I did for the first few days. No doctor could help me. After a week of living in my own personal darkness, someone up above took pity on me. They called a specialist. He was working on an experimental procedure.

“How much?”

“No money. I’ll do the procedure for free.” He had a slimy, southern accent.

“What’s the catch?”

Mr. Southern Gentleman was from a testing facility in Giliman County, Colorado that was working on bio-mechanical enhancements. They needed somebody whose eyeballs had been destroyed but somehow still had functioning optic nerves. Someone who still had full brain function and could describe what they saw. Someone desperate enough that they wouldn’t mind being a human guinea pig. That was me.

The surgery took four hours. They had warned me beforehand that my experimental eyes would be more powerful than my original eyes. They didn’t warn me that my pentrachromatic eyes would see things that mankind wasn’t meant to see.

After the procedure, the first thing that struck me was my finger nails. They were colorful in a way I had never seen before. I asked the nurse if she had painted them. She hadn’t. Her fingernails were also colorful. As it turns out, fingernails aren’t colorless. They’re a color I call Foedus. It’s probably for the best you can’t see it. It’s not a pretty color. The nurse’s breath was a color I called Nubila. Most people’s breath is still colorless to me but if a person smokes cigarettes regularly enough then it becomes Nubila.

Growing used to being able to see again meant growing used to all the new colors. Everything looks different than it did before. People’s faces are so complexly colored that it’s easier to identify someone by the random patches of color on them then by the actual shape of their face. It’s comical that there is so much fighting about skin color in the world because when you can see 10 billion colors the slight chromatic differences between black and white don’t make a difference.

Sometimes I think that my new vision is a positive thing. But then I’m reminded of when I first laid my new eyes on my wife. I’m reminded of the things no man should have to see.

The first time I saw her was two months after the accident. Victoria had been more heavily injured than me. When she was thrown from the car it shattered the bones in both her arms and legs. The bone fragments tore up her musculature pretty bad. It took 12 hours of surgery to save her life. They had to amputate everything. Her skin was so burned by the asphalt that it took four skin grafts to restore her face. They never got it quite right.

I thought I was prepared for Victoria to be a quadriplegic. Doctors explained her condition ahead of time and warned me that it would be gruesome. They warned me that her limbs would be nothing more than stubs. But they couldn’t see what I could see. They couldn’t have warned me that there would still be something where her limbs had once been.

Four ghostly blobs extended from her bandaged arms and legs. They had the shape of her missing appendages, but they were contorted and bent at weird angles. When she moved the stubs the blobs followed as if they were the original limbs, albeit broken. They were a color that I’ve come to call Anima.

I dread seeing the color Anima. It appears in very… consistent circumstances. Most amputees have Anima limbs sprouting from their stubs. The air around graveyards and crematoriums is tinted Anima. Occasionally, the meat you get at the grocery store has an Anima aura emanating from it, but only if it’s really fresh. For a while, I thought that Anima was the color of death. Last week I learned what it really is.

Victoria passed away last Monday. It’s been almost a year since the accident. I guess it was her time. My wonderful Victoria fought as long as she could, but eventually her body gave up. She died in our bed while I was in the shower. I was heartbroken when I found her. Only when she was gone did I realize how much I took her presence for granted. I called 911 and laid down next to her while I waited for the ambulance to arrive.

Her last days had been hard for the both of us. Even with heavy medication, Victoria experienced constant phantom pain in her missing limbs. On the nights she was able to sleep through the pain, she usually had vivid dreams about the accident. I tried to push the thought of it out of my mind, but I was reminded of the crash every time I laid eyes on her ghostly limbs. When her time came, I secretly hoped her passing would be a relief for the both of us.

It was a beautiful funeral. I picked out the flowers. She would have liked them, even if she couldn’t have seen all the colors in them that I could. When I got home I saw that there was a stain on the bed where her body had been. It looked familiar.

It was Anima. The color of her ghostly limbs.

I changed the sheets. After a few hours another stain developed. I changed them again. The stain came back. No matter how many times I washed the sheets the stain kept coming back.

I started sleeping on the couch to get away from it. Looking at the Anima colored fabric just reminded me of her death. Two days ago, I was in our bedroom changing clothes and I noticed that the stain had disappeared. In the space inches above where it had been there was now an Anima-colored cloud floating in the air. It was moving. Over the course of the next few hours, the cloud took on a humanoid shape. The shape of my Victoria.

Last night, the Anima cloud got out of bed. Its movement is painstakingly slow, but somehow very humanlike. This morning it was standing in the kitchen when I made breakfast. I tried to ask my neighbor if he could see the shape too, but he just looked at me like I was crazy.

Only my special eyes can see the Anima figure. It doesn’t have a face or anything but I can still tell its staring at me. It follows me everywhere. It sits in the passenger seat when I drive my car, stands next to me at the bank, watches me while I shower. Its right behind me even as we speak. A dark, indescribably-colored visage of my dead wife. Staring at me. Watching me with eyes that aren’t there.

I’ve tried to outrun it but it always catches up with me. It won’t leave me alone. Anima won’t stop following me. Anima isn’t the color of death. The thing following me can’t be dead because it always knows where I am. It moves just like Victoria used to move. It’s her. I know that it’s her.

I see Anima clouds like her everywhere now, following people. They’re in the shape of our loved ones. The ones who can’t bear to tear themselves away from us. Most people have one. If you’ve lost a loved one, then you probably do. Only my eyes can see them.

Victoria – if it really is you in that cloud, then I’m sorry for everything I did wrong. I’m sorry for all the words I never got a chance to say. Please don’t follow me anymore. I just want to be alone. I know you can read this.

STOP STARING AT ME VICTORIA.

I don’t think Anima is the color of death. That things that follow us are alive, at least in their own way. They’re the souls of the departed. Souls that are trapped. Souls that can’t stop following us. Man was never meant to see Anima. We were never meant to know what happens to us when we die.

I see the colors you cannot and they hide a horrible secret. There is no heaven or hell. When we die, we don’t move on. We stay and watch, silently, until the end of time.

Please leave me alone Victoria. Please stop staring at me.

#creepy #paranormal entities #the unknown #death and murder #Reddit stories #creepypasta #creepypastas

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destinyimage · 2 years ago

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Azusa Street Miracle: Amputee Regrows Leg

“I recall witnessing two of the greatest miracles where Seymour was greatly used by God,” said Brother Lankford, Azusa Street congregant and resident of Pisgah Home.

Seymour had approached a man with a wooden leg and asked why he had come to the mission. His leg had been crushed at his job at the railroad yards. They had amputated it mid-thigh. The man explained that he wanted prayer for his leg because it was starting to get gangrene where the wood attaches to the flesh. He said they would have to cut more leg off or he would need to be healed.

Seymour told him that he was upset because “You have the wooden leg on. It would be a challenge for God to grow a leg out when the wooden leg is attached.” After removing the artificial limb, the man stood before Seymour balancing on his good leg. Seymour laid hands on the gentleman and prayed, “Let Thy name be glorified. In the name of Jesus, I command this leg to grow out. The gangrene is gone; you are healed.” To everyone’s amazement, they saw movement in the empty pant leg; suddenly, the leg grew out. The crowd went wild with rejoicing and praise as the man ran around the room. Brother Seymour could not even preach that night; everyone was shouting and dancing until two in the morning. About 1,000 people were saved because of this one miracle.

Sister Lankford, wife of Brother Lankford, remembered one event that happened about a year after the man’s leg grew out. A man came in with one arm missing; it had been severed ten years earlier in 1897, in a work-related accident. You could see down into the hole where it was rotting and turning black; bone was visible. Seymour asked the man, “Can you work with just one arm?” The man replied that he was given minimal paying jobs and could barely make enough money to even eat. Seymour shook his head and asked the man if he was married and had children, to which the man replied yes to both questions. “This man needs to be able to make a living. This man needs to work and he needs to be able to pay his tithe. Will you tithe if I pray for you and God gives you your arm back?” Seymour asked teasingly. The man said yes. Seymour burst out laughing. “I’m just having fun.” He then laid his hands on the man’s shoulder and commanded the missing arm to grow out.

Witnesses could see the bone growing and the flesh turning pink. Within a few seconds, the arm grew out, even down to the fingernails. Completely. The healed man stood in utter amazement. A few weeks later, the healed gentleman came back and explained how his former job was restored to him. He brought 200 coworkers with him; not all at once, but at different times. All were saved and healed when the saints laid hands upon them.”

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smallgirlbigpersonality · 7 years ago

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Take it Easy | Chapter 1

Source: supremeleaderkylorens

1/15 (Chapter Two)

Pairing: Clyde Logan x Reader

Word Count: 2,000+

Disclaimer: All copyrighted characters are property of Bleeker Street, Fingerprint Releasing, & Steven Soderbergh.

Warning: Rated PG-13 (Eventual NC-17)

“Well… I don’t know Clyde, have you ever thought about just droppin’ it?” Mellie suggested as she rolled another curler into the Purple Lady’s hair. She’d been more than happy to give her brother a ride to town today but man~ she hadn’t been prepared for the 20-minute car ride to morph into a three hour lecture. The Logan’s had rotten luck and it wasn’t exactly a secret. Her older brother just seemed to need a reason to explain their ever shrinking family tree family tree.

“You know poor old Maggie Logan, bless her soul, won the lottery and then the next day she just drop~”

“Now Beatrice, you know I love ya but he don’t need any encouragement,” Mellie scolded, casting her brother a weary glance.

The batty old hens at the salon loved nothing more than gossip. They caught wind of every good, bad, lucky, scandalous, and downright unfortunate event that ever happened in their small Podunk county. Clyde hung on their every word too; no doubt taking notes so he could bring his findings to Jimmy their older brother when he finally wandered into town.

In fact, by the time Clyde left for his shift that night, he had managed to add three more unlucky Logan’s to his list. He manned the bar straight faced and more determined than ever. If he kept his game face on, tonight might be the night he convinced Jimmy that whatever this “thing” was… It was real!

Although, when Jimmy Logan did finally make an appearance he wasn’t exactly in a talking mood. He marched up to the bar looking madder than a wet hen. His brother could practically see the steam rolling off his shoulders. Clyde knew Jim well enough to know he needed a drink or two before words of any kind could be exchanged.

He made his way across the bar to where the taps were and poured a homegrown West Virginian Porter. That and their old friend Jose Cuervo should’ve been enough to get the evening headed in a better direction. He poured two shots and pushed one towards his brother. The other Clyde picked up the other, idly sloshing it around while he waited to see Jimmy’s next move.

“I don’t wanna talk until both of these are gone,” Jimmy muttered before grabbing his shot and downing the honey colored liquid. The younger Logan hadn’t even finished his shot before his brother was done with the beer.

“Well, what happened?” Clyde asked, brushing some of the long black hair away from his face.

“I got fired today.” Oh.

“It might’ve had something to do with this darned curse. I was at the salon with Mellie this mornin’ and we hear about old Aunt Maggie. Beatrice said she won the lott~”

“Don’t you start with that Logan curse stuff again,” Jimmy snapped, cutting him off. “It’s all folktales anyway!”

Clyde frowned. To him this was very real and very simple.

“Then how do you explain you gettin’ fired? Blowing out your knee before the championship game? Or me losing my hand on the way to the dang airport?”

Jimmy grunted, dragging his hands over his face. “Look, I don’t want to deal with this tonight. Bobbie Jo is moving Sadie out of state too.”

“I like to think we ain’t that bad of people and for good people we sure do see a lot of bad karma,” he argued.

“Oh, so it’s karma now? Alright fine, you win! When I get back from my satellite office we’re going to talk about this!” Jim muttered, hobbling off towards the bathroom.

Cylde seized the opportunity to checkout the bar. He craned his neck to take a quick look around the place. Same old dusy pool tables, empty booths against the back wall, neon beer signs on the right, and a jukebox resting next to the karaoke system on the far wall. Everything was in its place.

As for the clientele… It was a slow Friday night. He had a few locals hanging around the pool tables; they just ordered a fresh round of beers so he didn’t have to worry about them. You and your friend; however, managed to sneak in during his debate with Jimmy. Lord knows you two had to be some of the prettiest thing this side of the Mason-Dixon line so he wasn’t sure how you’d snuck by. Your friend with the long blonde hair and baby blue eyes seemed like the city type. Those were usually just passing by on their way to Charlotte. You almost looked at home though…

You had long (y/c/h) hair with a bit of a curl to it and some of the prettiest eyes Clyde’d ever seen. The dark purple flannel, black tank top and jeans weren’t that out of the norm- what gave you away as an out-of-towner were the boots. Nobody that lived in these parts would wear shoes quite that nice; even if they had money. He imagined you were a nice girl with a sweet laugh, and just enough sass to keep things interesting. Reading people was one of the few skills he prided himself in. That and being able to guess what kind of drinks people liked. More often than not, he wasn’t that far off the money.

When your friend leaned in to whisper something in your ear, he confirmed his suspicions about your laugh. Gosh, you had the cutest smile too. It wasn’t until you’d hopped off your bar stool and started making your way towards him that Clyde realized he’d been staring.

Oh boy, did that blush rise in his cheeks.

“I would’ve remembered if you’d ever been to the bar before. Are you and your friend just passing through?” he asked, trying to maintain some dignity. That little smirk you gave him though, sure wasn’t helping with his blush.

“Oh, my friend’s in town with her… Well I guess you would call him boyfriend,” you wondered out loud, “Anyway, he owns one of the race teams and they’re prepping for the big race. I’m just along for the ride.”

“What team does he ow~” for the second time tonight the bartend found himself getting cut off. His attention snapped to a new group of gentlemen who’d stumbled in the front door. Tonight’s new guest count jumped from two to five. These men gave him a bad feeling though; that uneasiness crept up through his bones like no other. These men weren’t good people…

“Oi! Hey (y/nickname), did you order us a round yet? Where’s Alyssa? God, I miss that tight little ass of hers,” Clyde’s eyes widened at the comment; so not a gentleman.

“Not yet. I was just about to though,” you murmured, turning back to face the bartender. “...Look, I’m sorry in advance…”

He rolled his shoulders and tried to brace himself for the massive ego that was about to hit him head on.

“You’re a bit slow for being the smart friend aren’t ya (y/n)? Anyways ol’ bloke just open a tab on this card. Anything these ladies want can go on this,” the man offered as he slid a black piece of plastic across the counter.

“Right, well what will you have then?” Clyde asked, resting his prosthetic limb against the counter.

“I’ll have three stoli martinis dry, all with two olives… Oh, oh this is going to be good. Are you sure you can manage all that?” Looks like the bar’s latest guest finally noticed his missing appendage.

“I think I can manage. What can I get for the ladies?” he asked briefly turning his attention back to you.

“If you’ve got ginger beer, two jacks and gingers would be amazing. Then two of your strongest shots would be greatly appreciated, please!” When Clyde nodded you gave him a silent thanks and watched as he got to work on your drinks first. Although, it didn’t matter much. Alyssa found herself occupied with her boyfriend’s two cronies.

“Hey! Do you mind if I film a post?” the obnoxious man asked as he whipped out his phone, “It’s not often that ya get to see a one armed bartender.”

Living in such a small town Clyde was used to people poking fun at his arm. More than half the time though, it was done out of ignorance as opposed to ill intention. Very few people had the guts to mess with Jimmy Logan’s brother. Even if he wasn’t a Logan… He was a war hero of sorts. Between the Logan thing and the veteran thing most people backed off leaving him to his quiet self. For those who didn’t, he did his best to educate them on transradial amputations…

Blocking them out came with years of therapy and he still wasn’t that good at it. He couldn’t blame people for not being comfortable around him because he still didn’t feel at home in his own skin.

Clyde started to liken your friend’s date to a shorter, fatter, talentless version of Graham Norton. He kept going on about something called Instagram and how he could make the man famous. Out of all the things Clyde Logan was an idiot sure wasn’t one of them. He knew the man was trying to get a laugh… Now the bartender was trying to figure out if it was worth causing a ruckus over.

Almost as if he was on cue, Jimmy stepped in to defend him though. His brother didn’t have the chance to open his mouth before words and fists started flying. Jim had been itching for an excuse to get in a fight tonight and this man just served himself up on a silver platter.

Clyde hear two distinct noises; one sounded like a body hitting the floor and the other sounded like one hitting the bar. He didn’t need to turn around to tell you his brother had been the one to bite the dust. Jim wasn’t the type of man that thought things through. He’d dive head first into a one on three fight and hope for the best. As his brother, it was always up to Clyde to help even out the odds. Turning on his heels he darted to the opposite corner of the bar.

In his experience, fighting smarter always ended up better than going for the most direct offense. Which was exactly inspired the bartender’s next move. Making sure his prosthetic was safe, he grabbed a rag, a bottle of vodka, and headed towards the parking lot.

“Hey Earl, you got a light?” Clyde asked calm as ever. Earl was a townie about 10 years his senior and a quiet man much like the middle Logan. He’d worked with Jimmy up in Charlotte, but beyond that there wasn’t much to know about the man.

“Yeah, here ya go.”

The young bartender then picked up a brick and threw it towards the widow of an expensive looking SUV. The car was plastered with an ugly red wrap. It looked like it was for some off brand energy drink… Just the kind of car the ass currently beating the pulp out of his brother might drive. He then shoved the rag into the vodka bottle and lit his little Molotov cocktail. Within seconds the car had burst into flames. Clyde leaned back against the porch railing, taking a second to admire his handiwork.

What he missed though, was you watching from the window. Alyssa was appalled but you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face. Anybody who even attempted to put Max in his place was someone you wanted to know. That man had an ego the size of a planet.

“Handsome and ballsy,” you smiled after taking a sip of your drink. You couldn't help but wonder if your little trip was about to get about a thousand times more interesting.

#clyde logan #logan lucky #fanfic #fanfiction #adam driver #clyde logan x reader

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jesbakescookies · 7 years ago

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Sweet Hereafter: Chapter One

This is a Merle/OC story I started in 2015. It has somewhat canon characters and story lines but some things will change as it progresses. I try to stick to Merle's canon but he will soften some.

I don't own the Walking Dead, its character or storylines. This story contains some exact quotes. This story is for fun, not profit. :)

I picture Emily Blunt in Loopers for my OC, Sam.

This is a mature rated story. It contains: LOTS of cursing, gore, violence, references to rape, assault and abuse, SMUT and probably other offensive things. yadayadayada

18+ years only

Please and Thank you.

The Sweet Hereafter by: The White Buffalo was used for the story title. It seemed to fit the story and Merle's Dixon.

"Sweet Hereafter"

Oh, when I left my mamas home Left her for dead when I left her all alone The whores they won't let me be at night They can't replace the warmth I need tonight Because I'm cold, cold as hell

The lord, He don't wait for me at night He knows what I've done is wrong and it ain't right The devil await me with open arms And he sways me with his wiles and with his charms I'm holding on when there's nothing left to hold onto

Hold on to the sweet hereafter

The fountain from where I drank from as a child When I was young I was bored and I was wild Since then I have grown into a man And I know that I can always stand But I'm wrong, I'm still a child

Hold on to the sweet hereafter

Merle stood in the hallway listening to the Governor yell and hit the woman brought in from the nearby camp. Martinez picked her up while she was scavenging a bait location, Governor's nasty little trick of capturing outsiders to gain information of their camps. He wanted to know where the camp was? How many men? How many guns? What supplies they had?

The most common way he acquired this information was by force. Merle couldn't claim innocence of the act. He had beaten information out of prisoners but he didn't work over women, he'd threated but never hit. That was left to others and if Merle was honest, he never really thought much about it.

When Merle came to town things were ideal. The Governor helped him get clean and saved his life by fighting an infection in his amputated limb. He would be dead if he hadn't been found and he owed the sadistic bastard his life.

Now?

Now, Merle felt like a sinister pawn in a sadistic chess game, a deadly tool in the back pocket of a madman. The Governor was playing God. He was wiping out entire camps for supplies. He had several rooms he used for play. The kind of play that made grown men cry for their mamas and women wish they were dead. Merle wasn't innocent by any means. He pulled the trigger on countless men. He had stolen and murdered on the Governor's orders to do so. Many nights when he found himself drinking the looted liquor from the recent raided camp, he'd sit picturing the faces of those he hurt, those he killed. He knew he'd eventually pay for his crimes. Pay for being a hired gun.

Another yelp echoed in the metal structure bringing Merle back to the present. The girl inside the room was being stupid. She wasn't talking. No matter what the sick bastard did, she kept her mouth shut.

'Fuckin' dumb broad.' Merle thought while picking at his nails with his prosthetic knife attachment nervously. Something was keeping him grounded in his spot despite the pain of hearing it.

The sound of her crying out again twisted his gut. It was a strangled sob that tore the old redneck bastard up. He grew up watching his Pa beat on his mom. Abusing women and children was a line Merle never crossed and thought men who did were cowards.

The crack of leather against skin, followed by an animalistic howl, caused a chill to run up his spine. His back burned just hearing the familiar sound, a sound that woke him up from nightmares on most nights. Two more quick cracks and Merle snapped out of the flashbacks of childhood. Throwing the door open, he saw the woman on the ground in a ball at the Governor's feet, his leather belt hanging from his fisted hand, blood dripping to the floor. It was a scene straight out of the Dixon family album. Her back was split open. Three angry welts, oozing blood, marred her once pale soft skin. Her body was trembling and quiet gasps were making their way out from under her cowered frame.

"Why are you interrupting my interrogation Merle?" The sadistic bastard asked calmly, his eyes as black as Appalachian coal.

"Problem with the match tonight. Martinez said he needs ya," he replied evenly hoping his rage wasn't showing. The excuse was real but it wasn't actually an emergency. He just needed to interrupt the bastard from injuring the woman anymore. Merle knew the Governor would check it out even though it wasn't important at the time. Philip was a controlling asshole and he needed to be involved in every happening around town.

"Well then. I guess we'll take a break darlin’. Merle if you'd get her restrained, I'll be back to continue our… conversation. Sweetheart, you're gonna love the next part." He assured in his oily southern gentleman facade. The sound of his voice gave the redneck the creeps.

Merle grunted in response and moved to the broken shape on the floor still curled within herself, her once blonde hair caked with dried blood. Her pale back angry and inflamed. She was nude except for panties, which truthfully shocked Merle. The Governor had a proclivity to rape.

'Guess that was his next play.' He thought angrily.

Merle lifted her up and sat her in the chair at the table. They were alone now but he still spoke quietly.

"Gonna be okay, girl." He spoke gruffly.

Merle was one tough bastard. He had seen a lot of disturbing things before and after the turn, but those pale shoulders with large hand print bruises wrapped around each boney clavicle, turned his gut something awful. He pictured his mama on the kitchen floor, her housedress torn, broken glass and spilled dinner, his Pa's fingerprints wrapping her neck. Shaking his head clear of the haunting images, he got to work. They didn't have much time and he didn't have a real plan to speak of.

Merle took his flannel off leaving him in a wife beater and camo pants. Sliding the fabric over her small frame and buttoning it up, he leaned down to see the damage to her face. Her left eye was black and deep purple. The white of her eye was blood red, the blood vessels all broken. Her bottom lip was spilt in the center and dripping blood down her chin. It needed stitches. Her neck was ringed with bruises. The sadist had strangled her at some point.

"We're leavin'. Ya hear me," he growled fiercely but quietly, his voice hoarse. "Ya do 'exactly what I say, girl."

She nodded and gripped his forearm squeezing it tightly. He could see the fear in her eyes but also gratitude. Merle nodded, then stood, helping her to her feet. She was unsteady for a moment but quickly moved with him. He figured her adrenaline was pumping and numbing the pain. Merle knew the guard was at the door, so he held her wrists behind her and whispered. "Gotta be rough with ya, girl. Just play the part. Follow me."

He opened the door and roughly shoved her forward, while gripping her wrists to keep her from falling. She tripped over her feet and yelped out. The guard laughed at her and nodded his head to Merle.

"Where ya takin' her?" The man asked, while leering at her bare legs and exposed cleavage.

"Gov wants her in his private room." He stated with a fake leer, "Got a keeper."

Merle laughed gruffly while secretly wanting to punch the fuck out of the guy in front of him.

"Awesome. Maybe he'll share this time, huh?" The man laughed again and waved them by.

Merle took her wrists and walked fast, but not unusually so, down the pathway behind the corrugated metal buildings. Once at the end, he had them duck behind a short retaining wall. Running along the side, he got cover besides another building. They only needed to run to the exterior wall that had a loose panel. He was going to sneak them out and book it as fast as he could to somewhere safe. Merle was ruining his ability to return to town but for some reason it felt worth it. There was no real reason behind his choice to run with her, other than his inability to listen to the leather belt crack.

They finally made it outside the walls and he moved them through the trees avoiding the wall sentries eyes. They had no supplies and all he had on him was his prosthetic knife attachment, a hunting knife and a handgun with two clips. The girl was barefoot and barely clothed. It was cold enough that the air chilled Merle's, now sweat covered torso. There was no time to waste though so they ran. The girl was silent, God bless her and held her own while running. Merle kept looking over at her as she ran. Her legs were strong; she was in shape and was agile. Hopping over logs and climbing through thick underbrush seemed second nature to her. However he could see her favoring her right foot and an occasional hand gripping her ribs. She grunted as she landed and there was a groan when meeting an incline.

They moved for hours in the dark by the full moon. It was overcast so the light would fade in and out making the traversal of landscape difficult.

"Almost there. Creek up 'head 'n a spare bag o' mine." He explained as they slowed to move down a short but steep ditch. She nodded but didn't speak, her panting breath was all he could hear. Luckily, neither of them encountered a walker, which was somewhat surprising but much appreciated.

Merle located the creek and they found that it was low and easy to cross. When they stopped the woman splashed water on her face.

"Don' drink it." He warned her hoping she wasn't stupid enough to drink possibly contaminated water.

"I know." She said. "Just sweat in my eyes and blood clogging my nose."

He trudged up to the rock outcropping and dug out the pack he hid in a small opening behind the boulders. It was his bug-out bag, emergency supplies for a speedy exit. He was thankful he'd thought of doing it when he first arrived in camp.

"Ok let's go. We need to move. I know ya tired but we gotta." He told her while handing her water. "Slow," he grunted when she gulped quickly. Coughing a little she handed it back.

They walked fast but didn't run again. Moving through the trees Merle headed in a direction with no real end in sight. He didn't have a goal other than finding shelter and hiding out until he could get a car. Then they'd drive as far away from the hellhole called Woodbury and hopefully escape the Governor's grasp.

After another half hour of hiking they came upon a tiny strip mall of a few businesses. The end one was a discount grocery store of some kind but the others were tiny businesses. Finding one on the opposite end of the store, Merle went in and cleared it of threats. The woman came in and sat down. Her legs were trembling and he could see her hands shaking.

"Ok I'm gonna search the next couple shops. Stay here." He told her moving to the door briskly.

"Wait." She exclaimed in a hushed voice rushing towards him.

"What?" He asked gruffly. He needed to get them supplies and didn't need woman drama.

"Just…. You're coming back right?" She asked, her eyes wide.

"Yeah, girl. Be right back." He replied in his gravelly voice. Merle wasn't a softy. He was a mean old bastard who didn't care about anyone but himself and well his little brother wherever the hell he was. Merle didn't help others or do kind deeds unless they got him money, drugs or laid. Not one to obey the law or feel guilt, he wasn't a good man. He knew that but for some reason beyond him, he was helping a tiny blonde woman and he wasn't even looking to get laid. He shook his head at the absurdity of it.

Searching the next few shops Merle killed several rotting corpses. One shop was a dry cleaners where he found clothing for the woman.

'Fuck what's 'er name?' He thought. 'Fuck it. Who cares? Find 'er a place to stay and ditch 'er. Ain't needin' no ball and chain on the run. Just gonna weigh ya down.'

The discount grocery store had some canned food and a case of water. He hauled everything he found back to the tiny office she was in. The tiny blonde was sitting in the same spot, perched on the edge of the chair, her hands wringing in her lap. When he came in she stood up and grabbed the water off his shoulder he held with his prosthetic limb.

"Got some clothes. Don' know woman sizes, make 'em work." He told her shoving the plastic covered clothing at her.

"Thanks," she replied, her voice hoarse. Clearing her throat she whispered, "Why are you helping me?"

"Fuck if I know." He grumbled. "Ain't never helped no one before. Guess I drank some bad hooch or sumthin'"

She nodded. "Thanks just the same."

Not responding to her gratitude Merle detailed, "Stayin' 'er tonight. Tomorrah I can take ya back to your camp but gotta tell ya... He already knew where it was, they hit it tonight." She looked at him like he was speaking tongues. Her head turned slightly, her eyes unfocused.

Merle wondered if she had family there. If she did they were as good as dead and there was nothing she could do about it.

"My uncle was there." She offered flatly.

"He prolly ain't alive. They took it to the studs. Burned it down." He confessed, looking away from her watery eyes, the sight of it making his skin itch.

"Goin' there outta the question?" She asked her cheeks flushed, her lip gripped between her teeth.

Merle felt uncomfortable looking at her. He wasn't big on feelings. The only one useful to him was anger. It fueled most of his decisions.

"Ain't gonna help none. Nothin' to go back to… Sorry girl." Merle told her feeling anxious under her stare. Cutting his eyes away and then back to her, he saw her scrubbed her face and nod. "Ok. Ok." She mumbled.

"Gotta clean those cuts up. I don' got any bandages. Just water 'n a clean shirt." He told her gesturing for her to take the shirt off.

She looked up at him with wary eyes.

"Ain't gonna hurt ya, girl. Just got my ass on the Gov's shit list for stoppin' it from happenin'." He barked harshly.

Nodding, she sat down on a tiny love seat and turned her back to him, removing his bloody shirt. Merle hissed through his teeth. The wounds were angry and weeping, the skin inflamed and in need of antibiotics. "These are real doozies." He muttered while opening a bottle of water.

"Ya got any other cuts 'sides these 'n your lip?" Merle had no idea what else the sick fuck did to her. They left so quickly he hadn't noticed.

"I... He.." She stammered, her voice cracking.

"Spit it out girl" he growled while he wet a clean t-shirt to use on her back. She yelped at the cloth touching her wounds. "Hush," he grunted, despite tempering his touch to keep from hurting her.

"He bit me." She answered so quickly he almost didn't understand her. Merle stopped, his hand hovering over her back. Clenching his teeth together he felt rage roll through him. It was an old feeling to Merle, he felt it almost daily but it was the reason that caused his rage that was odd. Protective. He felt protective of this stranger.

'What the fuck are ya thinkin ya pussy?' He growled to himself.

"Lemme see." He demanded, his voice low and gravelly.

"It’s on m-my chest." She stammered. Merle took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to extinguish his anger.

After a long moment he rasped, "After the lip."

He cleaned her back and then had her turn toward him. She covered her chest with his shirt while he cleaned her lip. Hissing at the pain of the rough cloth, she squeezed her eyes shut. Tears leaked down her cheeks while he worked. Merle did his best to ignore them, but couldn't stop from wiping them away with the unused part of cloth.

"Hush, gonna be fine," he stated his blue eyes burning into hers. "Lemme see."

Taking a shaky breath she lowered the shirt to show him the bite mark. It was near the center of her chest. The skin was broken and bleeding but there was no tearing, just a deep bite mark that would most likely scar. Merle wiped it with a clean part of the cloth and then grunted at her letting her know he was done.

"Get dressed." He grunted shortly, standing and walking away. His gut was twisting at the sight of her injuries. The idea of going back and gutting the sick fuck crossed his mind.

She started pulling off the plastic to the dry cleaning. Inside was a pair of black pants and sweater. Both fit her ok but the legs and arms where too long for her short frame.

"You're short as fuck, ain't ya?" He chuckled as she rolled the hems up three times.

"Shuddup" she grumbled but smirked. "Nothin wrong with being short."

"Never said there was. What's your name girl?" He asked handing her a can of fruit he scavenged.

"Sam Warren ." She replied, pulling a peach out of the tiny can.

Merle introduced himself and asked through a mouthful of fruit cocktail, "Merle Dixon. Sam short for somethin?"

"Samantha but was always called Sam." She answered, plopping another syrupy fruit in her mouth.

"So why did your group have just you out scavenging?" he asked gruffly. "No men with any balls to do the work?"

"I may not look capable but I can hold my own. Work better by myself so I usually do… did, the supply runs." Sam explained wiping her hands on her pants.

Grunting in response Merle walked to the window to keep watch. "Lay down, get some sleep."

Watching out the window Merle stood guard for the remainder of the night. Occasionally he'd look at Sam and saw her tossing and turning on the tiny sofa, her short frame filling up the small cushions.

Shaking his head, Merle scoffed at the strange situation. He just threw away a cushy life, in a secure town where he had three squares, a bed to sleep in and a few girls he liked to fuck.

Now?

Now he was out in the wild with a short little girl, who probably didn't know her ass from her elbow, even if she did claim to be able to take care of herself.

'Ain't no girl Merle. Ya saw those tits. No girl's got curves like that,' he thought but mentally kicked himself in the balls. He was a sick bastard, but that was over the line even for him. She was hurt and almost raped. Sam didn't need some dirty old man looking at her tits. Instantly Merle felt another emotion he'd never really felt before. Guilt.

"Pffft." He scoffed quietly, "Fuckin' pussy."

In the morning he woke her and made her drink and eat. 'Never had or wanted a pet before.' He grumbled to himself.

He hadn't found shoes for her, so they would have to find a vehicle soon. Her feet were torn up from running in the forest. He hadn't even looked at them the night before.

"Fuck, your feet look like shit." He growled, angry that he hadn't noticed or even thought about it.

'Dumbfuck,' he berated himself.

"Well I ran miles through the forest without shoes on." She snarked, her eyebrow raised.

"Well no need for the sass, Sugar. Jus' sayin…." He was telling her but paused when he heard a car driving over broken glass.

"Get down," he growled unceremoniously pushing her head to the ground. Crawling over to the window, he looked out. An old suburban was parked outside the looted grocery store. He could hear two people talking, a man and a woman. Merle knew it wasn't the Governor's people because he didn't send women out on hunting trips. Thinking it might be his opportunity to get a vehicle and book-it, Merle opened the door slightly. He had no qualms about stealing from people. He wasn't a good guy after all. Even with the little rescue mission he was on, he wouldn't pretend that he had morals. Merle grabbed Sam's arm, dragging her to the door and put his finger to his lips.

"Gonna take this car. Quiet." He explained without letting her answer. Being pretty sure she'd object to the theft, he wasn't going to allow her to voice an opinion on the matter.

Pulling open the door he moved along the storefront with Sam in tow, dragging her by her wrist. They were halfway there when the man and women stepped out through the broken storefront. All four froze instantly, each looking surprised and wide-eyed.

"Merle? " Glenn asked a look of confusion and shock.

Read the rest of Sweet Hereafter here:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11278084/1/Sweet-Hereafter

#The Walking Dead #fanfiction #twd fanfiction #twd #Merle Dixon #merle x OC #daryl dixon #sweet hereafter #jesbakescookies #twd family #Michael Rooker

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nrip · 5 years ago

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HIPAA Compliance and Marketing in the Social Media Age -

With so many people online, the question isn't whether O&P practices should use social media to share their stories with patients and potential patients, but rather how to do it effectively and responsibly.

Whether or not O&P practices want conversation about their business online, it is probably already happening, the experts say. Companies like Yelp and Google will post reviews of a practice without the business doing anything on its own to facilitate them. Patients may also be using their own social media accounts to tell others about the practice. If someone isn't watching what is being posted online, there could be wrong or detrimental information on the web that could negatively impact the organization.

However, doing a good job of sharing healthcare-related stories online can be challenging where a misstep can cause a costly breach of Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996 (HIPAA) regulations.

"I am definitely a firm believer in social media," says Chad Schiffman, director of compliance for Healthcare Compliance Pros, headquartered in Salt Lake City. "Just be careful. Proceed with caution."

The Benefits of Social Media

When done well, social media can be a great, and inexpensive, way to market a practice and build community.

"It can be pretty traumatic when people have to have a limb amputated. By highlighting your business and showing people what you offer and what you are about, it can attract patients," says Jennifer Fayter, sales director for Coyote Prosthetics and Orthotics, headquartered in Boise, Idaho. "Even if they are not in your area, they can get a sense of the different types of prostheses out there. It's free marketing. You get to reach a lot of followers at no cost."

Since Coyote has begun focusing on social media—usually posting about three to four times per day—Fayter has seen name recognition of the practice grow and also has felt more connected to the local O&P community.

"It's been really beneficial and highlights a lot of our patients in the Idaho area," she says. "They make comments like, ‘Oh, I just climbed stairs for the first time,' or one gentleman just got his first leg and commented how great it is."

These kinds of comments and online reviews are a great way to attract future patients, Schiffman says.

"Ninety percent of consumers read online reviews before visiting a business," Schiffman says. "About 75 percent of those consumers say that if those businesses have positive reviews and stories, that they can be trusted as much as a personal recommendation."

Fayter is a firm believer in a strong social media presence but says she is also very careful about what she posts to avoid breaching HIPAA rules. She always has signed consent forms before posting a patient story and is careful not to share too much information about patients even with consent.

The Consequences a HIPAA Breach

While the experts say a robust social media presence is important for O&P practices, they also warn that the practices should always be careful to avoid a breach.

According to the Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services, a HIPAA breach is an impermissible use or disclosure under the Privacy Rule that compromises the security or privacy of protected health information. The Privacy Rule sets national standards about when protected health information can be used and disclosed. According to Healthcare Compliance Pros, fines can range from $100 to $1.5 million or can include criminal penalties that could result in up to ten years in prison.

These are some common examples of social media HIPAA violations according to Healthcare Compliance Pros:

Posting verbal gossip about a patient to unauthorized individuals, even if the patient's name is not disclosed

Sharing photographs or any form of protected health information without written consent from the patient

Believing that posts are private or have been deleted when they are still visible to the public

Sharing seemingly innocent comments or pictures, such as a workplace lunch that happens to have visible patient files underneath

There are a few ways an O&P practice can stay in compliance on their social media channels. One way is to never post any identifiable patient information on their channels. Photos do not include patient faces or any other features that could identify them. Any quotes are generic and not attributed to a specific person. If patients are never identified, then their protected health information is not released.

If you do want to share patient stories and stay in compliance with HIPAA, have the patient sign a consent form and ensure they understand what information is going to be used and where it may be used. This way is more difficult, the experts say, but also makes for a much better social media presence.

"People like seeing people like themselves having successes," says Linda Williams, a partner for The Brand Counselors, a marketing firm headquartered in Long Island, New York, that manages the social media accounts of Progressive Orthotics and Prosthetics, headquartered in Albertson, New York. "It's helpful from a strategic standpoint of showing patients up and active and doing all sorts of things."

Real stories of real people help readers make a stronger connection with a practice, ultimately making them more likely to become patients, says Schiffman.

"If you give readers specific examples, they can better identify with that story. It gives them a personal connection," he says.

So, if it's a good idea to use patient stories on social media channels, what's the best way to proceed? The experts offer many ideas for O&P practices, including:

Always have patients sign a consent form before any of their health information, including their photos, are released.

Communicate with patients about how their information will be used. When possible, let them review any information that will be shared even if they have already signed a consent allowing the release.

Limit the amount of patient information that is shared, for example, full names of patients do not need to be used. Also, general information about their health and injuries is usually sufficient; specific details, such as their K-level, is not necessary.

Train staff members how to use the company's social media accounts, and make sure that anyone with access to the channels knows how to stay HIPAA compliant.

Be consistent and positive. Post continually, and always check online reviews and social media channels to spot any negative or inaccurate information so the practice can immediately respond. Address any negative information publicly so others can see it is taken seriously and then have the rest of the conversation in private.

Build community. The best thing about social media is the social aspect. Telling the practice's stories can encourage and inspire others. A strong social media community will lead to more patients who want to share their stories and successes.

Consent and Communication for Patient Stories

While a consent form signed by patients is an absolute necessity before any information about them is disclosed by the practice, specifics of that consent are also important.

"Have a signature so you have proof, and have it dated," Schiffman says. "There doesn't need to be an expiration date on it, but it should say that a patient has the right to withdraw consent at any time."

In his career, Schiffman can only think of two cases where patients wanted to withdraw their consent and it was only for posts from that point forward. If patients want old posts taken down, Schiffman says the business should comply, but also tell the patient it is not responsible for posts that might have been shared by others and are out of the control of the practice.

"It's like an email," he says. "You aren't responsible for it in transit. You don't have responsibility for it if it is shared by others."

The form should also allow the patients to give different levels of permission, he says. For example, some patients are fine sharing their stories but don't want any images of themselves. Others are fine with images, videos, and their stories.

"Have them identify what kind of PHI [protected health information] they are willing to share," he says. "Find out if there is anything they want to limit, and personal identifiers they might not want shared."

It is acceptable for the practice to make recommendations about what patients should share on the company's social media accounts—for example, recommending that only first names are used on social media posts shared by the practice, or recommending that the company leave out specific health details in its posts.

Schiffman also recommends that O&P practices post disclaimers on their social media accounts warning people not to post their protected health information and stating that anything they do post, including their names, will be publicly viewable to others, so they should use caution.

"I think the patient needs to understand that he should not share more than he is comfortable with being online," Schiffman says.

Many of the other potential problems of sharing patient stories online can be solved with good communication, the experts say. If patients know what is going to be shared and approve of it, they are much less likely to complain or ask that it be taken down.

"Anything shared has to be approved," says Linda Williams. "I say, ‘No one will see this until you approve it, and we will kill the story if you feel uncomfortable.' We are really super sensitive about that."

Fayter says she also tries to use as much discretion as possible when posting about patients, even after they have given her a consent form.

"I don't necessarily use their full name and I don't tag people personally," she says. "I also don't get into any medical specifications, such as their amputation level."

Staff Training

Employees should be trained about social media HIPAA breaches just as they are trained about other types of breaches, the experts say.

If all employees aren't thoroughly trained, it can be problematic Schiffman says. He once had a case where an employee tagged a selfie of herself at work and that post ended up on the company's social media account. The employee did not realize that she accidentally had patient health information in the background of the picture, in violation of HIPAA. When the patient saw that on social media, the practice had to take it down and the employee was disciplined.

"It took a lot of work for what was just supposed to be a simple tagged photo," Schiffman says.

Part of that training should include information about what the practice does and does not want to post on social media. The policy should also warn employees about their personal accounts, he says.

In general, the experts say, it's a good idea to have a single person assigned to posting to the social media channels, rather than having several people in charge of it. First of all, this helps ensure that the person posting has been trained about being compliant with HIPAA. Second, it's also just a good practice to keep a consistent voice on the social media channels.

"There's a consistency you want on the posts—the writing style, the look and feel, and the direction," says Trevor Williams, a partner for The Brand Counselors. "Having one point person, you have one person who is accountable. It would be tough to have multiple people doing it."

Fayter says at Coyote that everyone discusses social media and will send her pictures and ideas, but she is the one responsible for what gets posted and what doesn't.

"I think you should have one person consistently post to make sure you have a consistent message and it always sounds the same," she says. "You do have to watch how you word things and you want to sound professional and consistent and along the company guidelines."

Consistent and Positive Messaging

Of all of the social media recommendations from the experts, there are two that they all agree on: be consistent and be positive.

Consistency is key because it keeps the practice in the eyes of the people it wants to reach.

"You can't just post every other week," Fayter says. "Everything comes up in a feed and most people will scroll up maybe three or four times. Unless they go to your page, they aren't going to see your posts if you aren't consistent."

Trevor Williams says he is also consistent with the types of posts he releases and when he posts them, so the readers know what to expect. For example, every Friday he has a "Fab Friday" post that highlights something new that has been fabricated. For example, during baseball season, the post may show a socket that has been decorated with Mets or Yankees logos. This helps him keep on track about what to post, highlights the practice's work, and gets the audience looking forward to something new each week.

Staying positive is also crucial when posting online, even if patients themselves are not positive. In the case of a negative online review, the experts say it's important to respond to what is said so that others know the practice cares about it.

While responding to negative reviews is important, Schiffman says, for HIPAA compliance, the responder should be careful not to confirm that the comment poster is a patient. For example, instead of writing, "We are sorry you had a bad experience at our practice," the responder should post something like, "Thank you for your comments. We take comments like these very seriously," and then offer to take the conversation offline or through personal direct messages.

"This way, you are saying that there was an experience, but I am not telling you that the person was a patient," Schiffman says. "This also allows the person to feel validated."

Staying positive doesn't mean just sticking to the stories of the O&P practice. Patients like a good story or motivational quote wherever it comes from.

Trevor Williams says he will post quotes or feel-good stories from other media because that is what his readers want. Their readers especially love to see stories of kids who are living and thriving with their devices.

Through Progressive's social media, Linda Williams says she loves to be able to post the successes of its patients, but what's really fun is when she sees the patients connecting through them and then cheering on one another.

"For me, it's about that," she says. "It's about the building our community."

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