#TEACUP SAUCERS. it’s like when you go through a box of your old things. and you see the random odds and ends you’ve collected

[treecakes]

there’s just something so nostalgic and comforting abt the pressed flowers so i’ve always enjoyed that the tribute gallery art tied them in with the characters.

[writingsbychlo]

it’s been a long, long time | bucky barnes

word count; 5,808

summary; you’re preparing to spend christmas alone, not expecting your soldier to make it home to you in time.

notes; this is a forties bucky fic, and it’s out of the normal mcu world, so he never falls off of the train, etc. he was just a prisoner of war. inspired by this song, take a listen, you’ll recognise it.

warnings; injury, reference to human experimentation, reference to death.

Staring blankly at the letter on the table, you ran your finger over the corner of the paper. The last letter signed from your lover, dated over fourteen months ago, a sigh on your lips, and the burning in your eyes came springing back to remind you of the tears threatening to fall once again. 

The box beside you sat open, several other pieces of paper spread out around you, the fire in the corner crackling weakly and you thought maybe you should get up and put another log on it, but you just didn’t have the energy. Your cheeks were stinging, skin raw and eyes puffy and red, your throat raw from sobbing, choking back your cries, although you were all burned out by now. 

It had been three years since you had shipped your lover off to the war, a kiss on his lips and a smile on his face as he was taken off to lead the 107th into battle. You’d written him every week, sending your letters to wherever he was, his own coming back to you in bountiful return, and you’d collected every single one in a box that you kept under your bed, close to your heart, to remember him forever. 

The clothes he’d left with you had lost their smell years ago, and as of a few months ago, the boxes form his apartment had been sent to you. You’d spent a week straight with his sisters and his mother, sorting through everything, comforting one another when that news had finally come.

You’d known something had been wrong the moment it had been over two weeks since you’d heard from the man you loved, that something must have happened, the trenches expanding, taking him closer to the front line. After a month, you’d taken a trip across town to visit Peggy, a woman who had been a stranger to you and was now one of your closest friends, only to find Steve hadn't sent her any letter yet either.

Two months later, you had received a letter, one from Steve, who had been battered and bruised and completely exhausted, and without a best friend, who’d been taken during a firefight, a prisoner of war, officially announced missing in action. Even so, you’d been strong, you’d kept your hopes up, writing to him, as he was in the medical bay, listening to him get better, and saving up all of the drawings he’d done for you while unable to perform his duty. The letters had become less frequent, of course, once he was back in action, leaving you once again to realise just how cold and empty everything felt now. 

You had run out of your favourite red lipstick a while ago, never bothering to replace it when you didn’t have paper to press kisses to as you wrote your lover back, and the cupboard door had fallen off a while ago, but you still couldn’t bring yourself to open up the boxes of Bucky’s things to find his toolbox and repair it.

A year to the day, an envelope with an army insignia on and a handwriting you didn’t recognise, announcing that ‘missing in action’ was now presumed ‘killed in action’, but you’d known it before even undoing the seal. That letter was in the box too, a tragic tale from beginning to end, following the first letter you’d received, shaky and jerky, written on the train, only hours after you had said goodbye and sent from still within America, before he’d ever been shipped away to his death in order to defend his country, to the final letter, confirming that the soul who’d perfectly matched your own would never be coming home to you. 

With a heavy sigh, you forced yourself up from the wooden chair, back aching a little, and the darkness outside told you just how long you’d been sitting there, and you became overly aware of the room you could barely see now. A chill swept over you, an orange glow from the dying flames keeping it alight, and a sad laugh took over you as you realised just how pitiful you’d become. If Bucky could see you now, you knew exactly what he’d say. What the look on his face would be like, or how he’d shake his head at you, before rolling up his sleeves and being determined to fulfil his role as ‘man of the house’. 

You were supposed to take on all roles now, you were supposed to look after your own household and future, and so instead, you rolled up the sleeves of the shirt that was loosely buttoned up the front that didn’t belong to you, and started by making your way over to the stove. Filling it up at the tap, you placed the metal down on the hob, lighting a match and flicking on the gas, watching as it sparked up. It left a glow throughout the otherwise dark kitchen, drawing out the pale moonlight that had been bathing the walls and tiles. 

There was so much to do, so much that you wanted to get done, and yet you had no idea where to start, feeling like you were drowning in your thoughts, your mind becoming your worst enemy. You flicked on a lamp, warm and golden light pooling over the room and casting out the shadows, making you feel slightly less alone as the dark was cast out. Windows went black, the outside no longer visible to you, except for the pale linings of now along the edges of the glass, snow still falling as winter closed in. 

It was cold, the chill in the December air making it so, and you knew you would be getting ready for bed within a few hours, and so in that light, you busied yourself with the fire next. Piling on logs, tinder, old scratching of newspaper until the glowing ashes had revived into roaring flames, the cage over the fire doing little to protect you, pops and cracks sounding from the logs. 

It was less lonely now, a warm fire and some lighting making you feel like you at least had some kind of will in the world to take care of yourself, to stop everything from slipping away as you felt like you’d died right alongside him, but rather to live your life, and keep going on in the way you knew he’d want you to. The kettle was whistling, and you followed the sound, turning down the flame as the water bubbled, and finding a rag to cover your fingers with as you unscrewed the cap. 

You had to search for the teabags, for the slightly fruity ones that always helped you to calm yourself a little, digging through the kitchen drawers, and pausing as you shifted through the boxes. Behind your teabags, an old box of cigarettes, ones you hadn't seen in a while but were painfully nostalgic, the edges of your lips flicking up in a smile. Your tea was forgotten, fingers brushing over the packet, before pulling it forwards. The tangible smell of the crushed leaves met your nose, and you pulled them out. 

It was an indulgence you were considering. The smell had never bothered you so much, and it was rare that Bucky had ever lit up a cigarette, only when he was stressed or overly nervous, but you were considering it now. The acrid taste would remain in the back of your throat for days to come if you did, no matter how much time you spent trying to rid yourself of it, even if it felt like the perfect moment to have one, giving you a few simple hours of respite from your self-torment. There was a lump forming already, and you tried to swallow it down, flicking open the lid and bringing one to your lips. 

Dropping a tea bag into the pot, stirring it slightly until the water changed colour, a herbal scent filling the air, and you searched for a single teacup and saucer as the roll hung from your mouth. Moving the pot from the flame, you leaned down, bringing it to the hob, and holding it carefully between two fingers, trying to light it, before jumping harshly at the knock that sounded through the house. 

It echoed, fingers on wood leaving a sharp noise that bounced from every wall, and you glanced straight up to the clock on the wall. A brow raised, the hour far passed what would be considered appropriate, especially this close to Christmas, at the house of a woman living alone. Dropping the roll from your lips, you stuffed it haphazardly into the packet and sealed it away in its drawer, before hurrying through the small home to the door. 

Looking through the gap in the wood, you couldn't see much, a tall figure, hands tucked in the pockets, back to you as they looked down, kicking at the snow, but you couldn’t make much of the hunched-over figure. You were sure it was a scam, or someone coming around to offer you blessings last minute, and so you left the lock on sealed across the door, cracking it open and shivering a little at the icy wind that swept in as you did. 

The figure turned, and you looked up at them, eyes sweeping over their figure before realisation clicked in your mind. Longer hair and creases and wrinkles on the skin that had once been smooth. A patchy beard, new scars and sunken eyes, a frown where you knew a smile, but those eyes were the same, the same pale blue that always looked at you with love and admiration, and you could feel your heart leaping into your throat. 

“Hey, doll.”

You slammed the door, feeling the pounding on the inside of your ribs make your chest feel as though you were aching, breaking part from the inside out as your forehead rested to the panels of the door, hearing his chuckle from the other side, before you were shakily sliding your hand up to find the lock, dragging the chain across and opening it up, before revealing the man to yourself once again. 

He was facing you fully now, a grin on his lips that wasn’t nearly as bright and enthusiastic as it used to be, but still dazzling and beautiful, and you were silent as yous stepped aside, letting him over the doorstep. As he entered the light and stopped being as hidden from you as he had been, you could see the true extent of his injuries, a gasp leaving you before you could stop it. 

Scars and worry-lines weren’t the only new developments. There was purple dotted along his skin, blue and yellowing at the edges as the bruises healed, and there was still fresh cuts on his skin now that you could see him. The stubble on his jaw was hiding a batch of cuts and marks, marring his skin, and you felt tears leaking from your eyes as you took him in. He closed the door, locking it up tight again, before his shoulders were slumping, and he was letting you take him in, his entirety, everything that had come back to you. 

He wasn’t the same person he was, there was more bulk to him, the army routines, constant exposure, exercising for entertainment and lugging equipment around had certainly made him bigger, but as he stood before you, looking somewhat broken, he looked smaller than ever. You wanted or hold him, cradle him in your arms and never let him go, but you felt like if you did, he’d turn to dust in your hold, or you’d wake up and realise that it was all just in your imagination, a conjuring you had created on a cold and lonely night to ease the aching in your heart. 

You had no idea what the extent of his injured under his clothes might be, unable to see anything of him. He wasn’t in the military uniform you’d sent him off in, the proud green with badges and ribbons, his name stitched across the front was gone. A pair of ripped and well-worn great trousers, a t-shirt with a logo on in a language you didn’t recognise and a jacket over the top, all of it looking as though it had been scavenged, blood on it that still seemed fresh, and it was all too overwhelming once again.

With a shaky hand, you reached out to him, cupping his face, fingertips smoothing over his skin cautiously as you tried to assess where you could even put your hands, where would hurt him, before pulling away when you realised he was still covered in dirt and dried blood, greasy hair and mud crusted to the ends, and he was so far from the man you recognised that you wondered whether he was even the same person inside anymore.

Pushing back his hair, you chuckled weakly as the flakes crumbled away, tucking the longer strands behind his ears and deciding he definitely needed a haircut, and taking a step closer to him as your eyes found his. Longing, sad, relieved; so many emotions were swirling within them, enough to make your stomach feel like it was twisting up into knots from nausea just at the sight of him. As you learned in, he produced his right hand, from his pocket, cupping your face lightly as the other remained tucked away, thumb smoothing over your skin. 

Tipping your face into his hand, you held it to your face, eyes squeezing closed and you couldn’t’ hold back your cries anymore, a loud sob leaving you as you realised the touch on your cheek was real, not something you’d dreamt up for yourself to keep you company in the cold and the dark as you missed your soldier dearly.

“Please don’t cry, babydoll. What do I always tell ya’, huh?” You grinned, knowing the words he was bringing up, choking on the laugh you wanted to release, but tears flowed from your eyes. “Oh, baby, no. You’re too pretty ‘a dame to cry.”

His accent had faded, that familiar Brooklyn boy you loved had become a man of war, the same cocky teen you’d met years ago on the school courtyard was a new person now, and your emotions were taking over, crying in his hold, before his finger was wiping under your eyes, moving down to your chin to tip your face up towards him. 

“Please, sweetheart, say somethin’. You’re killin’ me here.”

“That’s not funny, Bucky!” You glared at him, pulling away enough that his hand fell from your face, and he nodded, swallowing thickly as the amused expression on his features slipped away. “I thought you were dead! I got a letter, you haven’t written me in over a year, I went into mourning, I stayed with your mother and your sisters, we comforted each other! Where were you?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed, your anger draining from you at the way his voice cracked and trembled a little with fear, and you couldn’t help the tears that were flowing over once again. “Germany, maybe? No, it was colder than that, perhaps, Russia. Almost my entire unit was taken, I had no idea how long it had been, I lost count after a few weeks, they did experiments an-” He couldn’t get his words out, he could barely speak, and you shook your head, trying to wipe his own cheeks dry, breath shared between you as his forehead pressed to yours. “I’m sorry.”

“God, James, don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

He could only nod, and your throat felt raw with every breath you took, your mind spinning with a dizzy kind of vertigo that left everything else to melt away as he became your first focal point. Your legs felt weak, but you weren’t willing to step away, to let yourself drop to the floor no matter how much you wanted to let yourself give way, as the crushing weight of the day destroyed you.

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say.” He laughed lightly at your words, tucking hair away behind your ear, before tipping his head up enough to brush chapped and cut lips over your forehead. “Why didn’t you send me a letter?”

“I did, but I couldn’t wait any longer, I think I beat it here.” You took his hand, lifting it down form your face, before pulling him through to your kitchen, a room he was more than familiar with, and for the first time in a long time, you were accompanying your teacup with another. You no longer wanted the drink, and you doubted that Bucky did either, but you needed something to fill your time, just to occupy yourself. “I love you, doll.”

You turned, to the nose that was bumping against your temple, no more teasers to cry, sadness and confusion ebbing away as you allowed warmth and bliss to heat you up from the inside out, a feeling you hadn't felt since you’d let him go, the part of your heart that had been missing for so long was finally returned. “I love you too.” 

You shifted, moving to catch his lips with your own, but he pulled back a little shaking his head slightly, and you frowned, peering up at him with wide eyes. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to tell you something. Then you can tell me if you still love me.” Your brows rose, stepping back from him a little, and his head dropped. It was as his hand came across his body to untuck the one still hidden in his pocket, the sleeve falling limp as it was revealed. The right hand came up, pushing the material from his shoulders, shucking down his body and letting it drop to the floor. Bile rose in your throat, a hand clapping over your mouth, before a full-body wrack was shaking you from head to toe.

“What happened to you?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious.” He whispered, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the sight. His left arm was gone, the shirt sleeve knotted at the top where what was left of his arm ended, and you forced your hands up to the buttons on his chest, feeling like your arms were tied down with weights as you undid the buttons. When the final one came undone, white undervest revealed, you moved to push the fabric away, his hand sealing around your wrist, head shaking. “I didn’t come back in one piece, it’s not pretty under there, doll.”

“What happened?”

“Tests, nothing good. They injected me with something, a lot, my arm got infected but apparently, I was showing a good reaction to whatever they were pumping me full of.” He shrugged, letting you go with a nervous sigh as you continued to push away the shirt, helping him peel it down his arm, trying not to let your shock show as the remainder of his arm was revealed. When it left his fingertips on his right side, it fell away to join the jacket. “Guess they’d rather I lose an arm than they lose an asset.”

There were bandages wrapped gourd the patch, only a little of his arm left, not even reaching half-way down where his bicep would be, but the bandages were clean and fresh, no blood soaking through, and it was a blessing that you couldn’t have been more grateful for. “I love you, James Barnes. I love you so much.”

“Even though I’m not whole anymore?”

“I love every part of you, inside and out, no matter how much or little of you there is.” Finally, he smiled, the first honest and true smile you’d had from him in years, and he dipped down, lips pressing to your own tenderly. It was a moment you’d never forget; late into the night, days before Christmas like a miracle, having the man you loved back in your arms as he kissed you sweetly, just like he used to when he’d see you before he left, and everything in your life clicked back into place at long last. “Please don’t lose any more of yourself, though, before this war ends.”

“Well, I hope not, because I won't be going anywhere for a long time.”

“When do you go back?” He shook his head, stealing another short kiss from your lips, making you smile into his touch. 

“I don’t, doll. The army has no use for someone who can’t shoot a gun.” You felt stupid for even asking, jaw dropping as you tried to speak, and he seemed to sense the drop in tone, his arm smoothing around your waist to pull you in closer to him, a hug that was long overdue. “Besides, if I went back, who would help you get a Christmas tree? It’s less than a week ‘til Christmas, where’s your holiday spirit?”

“Wasn’t feeling very festive when I thought that the man I loved was dead.”

“I’m home now, though.” He mumbled the words against your lips, barely letting you nod your head before he was diving in for another kiss. You had so much time to catch up on, but these kisses were deeper and far more intimate than any before them had ever been, because you’d never had this kind of pressure on your relationship before. You’d never almost lost him, feared for his life or felt like you’d been so alone, never had you been abandoned in your loneliness, and he’d come to sweep you back up out of the darkness. 

It was evident in every drag of his lips with yours, it was clear in the love that he poured into the connection, each time his tongue flicked out to play with your one, in every panted breath, squeeze of his fingers into your flesh as he held onto you, pulling you just a little bit closer, and letting your arms circle his neck, pushing ourself up to meet his height. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re really home?” You questioned, still a little unsure that this wasn’t a dream, and he didn’t even hesitate before replying;

“Yeas, baby, I’m really home.”

You could only hum, soaking up every moment that you got to spend in his arms. “You should look the part, then.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He was a little scandalised, pulling back with a dropped jaw, brows shot up and hidden in his hairline from the length of the strands, your head shaking fondly as you brought up your fingers to play with his hair. 

“You need a haircut, and a bath, and a shave. You look like a mountain man, not my Bucky.”

“I need to get into my own clothes, and my own bed, with my girl. How about that?” He slipped his hand down, finding one of yours and linking your fingers together. 

“Only after you let me clean you up and sort your wounds. I’m not risking you getting ill, I only just got you back.”

“I’ll take that deal, babydoll.” He grinned, a final kiss, before the stove was being turned off, tea abandoned as it went cold, and he was tugging you from the room. “I’ll go and get a bath running, meet you upstairs?”

You could only nod, pressing your lips to a cheeky lined with scratchy stubble, before moving around the downstairs of the small home to prepare yourself for bed. Even as you plunged yourself into darkness and put out the fire once again, it felt warm and comforting, simply the presence of someone you lost returning to you being more than enough to light your life back up with bliss and joy. You could hear him moving apart upstairs, the creak of the floorboards as he wandered around, and the sound of the water heater starting up, loud and humming as it went, a groan under the pressure of the workings as it needed a little fixing, but that was something that could be left for another day. 

After checking all the doors and the windows were locked, you began to make your way upstairs, cold wooden planks under your feet making you shudder a little as you went, following the sounds of the clattering around in the bathroom. On the wooden counter under your mirror, he had located his blade, that which has been tucked away in the back of the cabinet, placed down on the counter and he was leaning over the tub. 

He was still fully dressed, or, as dressed as he’d been when he’d left the kitchen, and you leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he adjusted the temperature of the water. 

“You gonna’ stand over there all night, doll?”

“I didn’t want to startle you.” 

His shoulders shook a little as he laughed, turning to face you, and holding a hand out towards you. “Don’t think you could if you tried, sweetheart, I’ve been.. different, lately. Everything seems enhanced. It’s odd, I guess it’s just the war making me more alert.”

You shrugged, brushing it off and wrapping your arms around his waist, his chin balancing atop your head as he hugged you closer to himself, hand settling in the small of your back. 

When the water had finished running, he helped you out of your clothes, doing the best he could with one hand, wincing at himself a little when your top got stuck around your shoulders, apologising in a whisper despite the soft laughter leaving you. When you settled into the water, it was a shock to press your back against his chest, warm and soft and welcoming as an arm fasted around your waist, fingers spreading out over your stomach, where you were more used to simply feeling the cold metal of the tub pressing into you. 

You couldn't remember the last time that you’d felt this way, the last time that you hadn't been filled with worry and fear, or the overwhelming sense that you would never see him again. You were filled with love and passion, a renewed sense of life that made you want to pick everything back up and carry on, like these last couple of years hadn't been the worst of your life. 

A sponge was moving over your skin, lathered up a little with a bar of soap and running over your body, before you were leaning forwards, twisting in his arms, to be able to get to his chest. Now that he was undressed, you were able to see the extent of the wounds, the blood around him turning a murky brown and red as you cleaned him, revealing which patches were simply grimy dirt and which were battered and bruised fading marks that were only just beginning to heal, and would certainly do much better with your nurturing and tender supervision. 

When you were clean, fingers weaving through his hair as you washed the greasy strands until they were clean and shiny once again, you settled over his lap. 

“Are you sure, baby?”

“About what?” Your brows furrowed, his lower lips worried between his teeth, before he was bringing a hand up to rub at the spot his arm had once been. There was a lot of scarring, still somewhat fresh, a terrible job done of it being sewn up, and you knew that even when the inflammation and swelling around it went down, it would probably never heal fully, and you wanted to support him for every step. “I told you, I love you, and I would never want to be without you.”

“I know, but it’s going to be different. I won’t be the same man, I’ll struggle with a lot of things. I don’t want you to feel obligated to me, or stuck with me.”

“I am stuck with you, you’ve owned my heart since we were teenagers, James, I’m never going to want anyone else. I can take the bad, because it comes with a whole lot of good, too.” He leaned in, bumping the tip of his nose with your own while letting out a shaky breath, relief flooding through his system.

“That sounded an awful lot like ‘for better or for worse’.” He grinned, and you pecked the dimple that appeared over his cheek, knowing where it would be, the crease of such a bright smile burned into your mind by memory, feeling him smile even wider. “The only thing that got me through the war, all those months locked up in a cell, was picturing making good on that promise I made to you the night before I left, that I’d come home and put a ring on that finger and sweep you off your feet.”

“My answer is the same as that night.” You mumbled, hands holding onto his jaw, bringing his lips in towards yours and he puckered them, receiving the soft kiss that you were offering to him. “I still want to marry you.”

“Good, because I don’t want anyone else.”

The water was growing cold around you, and while you couldn't have cared less about it all, you didn’t want him to catch a chill or risk getting an infection in a still-healing wound, and so you stood from the tub, water running along your body, stepping carefully over the rim as he held your hand to assist you, before you were searching for a towel. Wrapping it around yourself, you helped him too, sealing the towel around his waist for him and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

Pulling the plug on the drain, you turned to find Bucky standing in front of the fogged up mirror, a patch wiped clean on it, as he rubbed at his wet hair with another towel. The strands were now lapping around his chin, long and knotty, and you moved through to the bedroom to pull the stool from your vanity through to the bathroom, placing it behind him and pushing him to sit down on it with a hand on either shoulder, leaning over him to kiss his cheek. “You should let me cut your hair.”

“Really?”

“Definitely, you need it.” There was a leather wallet with a comb and scissors tucked away in the drawer, he remembered its location, producing it for you with a grin, before he was soaping up along his jaw, and lifting his blade.

“Shave first, hair cut after.”

“You’ll look like my Bucky again.” You whispered, comb running through his hair gently, detangling the notes as you listened to the rhythmic drag of the blade along his skin, taking away the stubble that had been created. Once his skin was clean, bruises and marks revealed but flesh smooth and soft again, you were set to work on his hair. Chopping away the bad memories, clearing it all, chunks of soft brunette strands falling to ground and curling as they touched the tiles, severed from his scalp never to return as they carried away the memories. 

The locks disappearing from his head was like lifting a weight, the pain and torment of all that he had been through slipping away. As his hair shortened and began to become springy atop his head, flopping over a little in the same playful style he’d always worn it, the dark and sad look in his eyes cleared a little. He was watching you work, watching you chop away his past to remove those years from his life. 

“It looks good. Not great, we should probably take you to a real barber to get it perfected, but it’s better than it was.”

“Anything is better than it was, sweetheart.” He promised, reaching his hand up to cover yours that was sitting on his shoulder, and his eyes dropped down to look at it in the mirror. “Will you help me bandage it back up, please?”

There was a slightly embarrassed tone to his voice, words cracking a little as he spoke, but he squeezed your hand a little tighter and leaned back into you, letting your touch slip down to rest over his heart. There were gauze and wrapping in the small first aid kit under the sink, and as you shuffled through it, you made a mental note of everything you needed to patch up your boyfriend until he was healed, sealing it up and securing it tightly over his body, and he gave a happy sigh as the scarring was hidden from sight.

He followed you through to the bedroom, going through every drawer and his entire closet, familiarising himself with things he had forgotten than he’d ever owned, while you watched him from the bed with a smile. When he finally settled on his favourite shirt and pyjama pants, you lifted the covers, welcoming him to join you underneath them, and the bed felt crowded with his large frame beside yours, unfamiliar but treasured. 

As the candles were blown out, the smell of smoke drifting around you as the blaze dissipated, and you reached out for him, the place where you were so used to being able to rest your head being different now, and he huffed out. 

You shuffled forwards, heat crawling up your cheeks as you pressed your head to his chest instead, and he lifted his hand up to sit on your waist, smoothing around you, and trying to decide whether he wanted to play with your hair, or trace patterns on your back. “I’ll never be the same.”

“Do you still love me?”

“You know I do, doll.” It was too dark to be able to make out his features, and so you pressed your face into his neck, leaving a few chaste pecks there. 

“Then you’re exactly the same person I’ve always loved.” His hand came up to find your cheek, pulling his head back and stroking his thumb over your cheek. “Stop thinking I'm leaving you, Bucky, because I’ll always be right here with you, so just kiss me, sergeant, and remember that I adore you.”

A chuckle washed over your face, warm breath fanning across your skin, before the tip of his nose was dragging over your cheek, lips brushing your own. “Yes, ma’am.”

His lips sealed over your own, a goodnight kiss better than any there ever had been, even more so than the first time he’d ever kissed you; a quick, uncoordinated and messy collision of lips after he’d walk you home from a study group when you were just teens, because this was the promise of a future, returning you to your lover, your hearts becoming on, once again.

[becbecandherlife]

The problem with being an artist is that you must surround yourself with beautiful object de art. Clearly~ il fait accompli. Now the time has come to let this too big for one person house go. Downsizing is not for the faint of heart. So many years of antiquing and Saturdays spent at flea markets , estate sales and vintage shops and I have the haul to prove it. Early on I was introduced to yard sales when just a teenager, my stepmom dragged me out of bed at 6 to have breakfast together and begin The Hunt. She taught me well.

I developed a love for mix-matched China, linens, old bottles, antique and vintage books, bibles, handkerchiefs, China teacups and saucers, pillowcases, baskets. Oddly enough, I love antique photos of folks that were left abandoned and unclaimed by family and so I adopted them. The problem with this is they are mixed with authentic vintage photography of my ancestors and so I must label them.

Another problem with being a collector of beautiful object de art is that those close to you learn what you love and start adding to your collection as well at birthdays, Christmas, random “just because” gifts that I get a lot because my aunts and cousins love antiquing as much as I do and when they hand me a box or a bag the next thing they say is, lI saw it and knew it was you and had to get it for you”. And they are almost always right.

How do you get rid of years of collecting without the guilt? I told my daughters as they have helped me through this purging season that if they see in a pile a gift they’ve given me know that it was lived but I have to draw the line somewhere otherwise those two girls will be sitting in my living room after my funeral cluelessly foraging through stuff with no idea what to do with it. I have such a vivid memory of my mother and aunts doing that very thing...at Grandma’s making piles, keeping literally nothing and throwing away really good stuff. In I walk exclaiming ,”Why are y’all throwing away Grandma’s hat collection and her aprons and her tablecloths? “

Of course I saw only one course of action, rescue that stuff from the piles and carry it all home with me. I’ve cared for it for 40 years. The hat collection is now over a hundred years old, her aprons handmade and tattered, her threadbare quilt a treasure as is her faded baby blue linen tablecloth(many a leftover after Sunday dinner after church was covered with that tablecloth waiting for the evening meal. And not once did anyone get salmonella.

As a little girl I would venture into my grandma’s chifferobe and plunder, looking through all of her treasure. She had an antique wardrobe in this tiny room off her bedroom that held her hats, gloves and scarves. I would learn as an adult that room was actually supposed to be the master bath but back then one bath was the norm. And she crammed her dresser and wardrobe into this little space that to me was like a lair, the enchanted wardrobe cohere I could leave my real world filled with arguing parents and fighting brothers just to find peace and quiet there in that safe place, alone with her wardrobe , her chest of drawers (chesterdraws) and I would ramble through her stuff for hours, unnoticed unaccounted for, all by myself and my imagination. The wardrobe had a mirror so in order to see myself with the Hat on, I’d have to climb up on a dresser, like an acrobat just to catch a glimpse of me with this black velvet hat on.

I think I have kept these hats all these years for that sweet little girl who spent hours alone wishing and dreaming in of another life, another world. I just don’t know if I can part with them for fear of losing with them a little piece of myself.

It’s just stuff they say. Not to a poor girl in the South. To me that stuff has a story with each item and a dream.

[adrenaline-roulette]

Hallow-Queen (Ben)

I wrote three Hallow themed one shots back in October for the Boh Rhap cast (There was supposed to be a fourth, but unfortunately some things came up, and I was unable to write it. Maybe this Halloween I’ll finally get it done!?)

Anyways, there is a fic for Joe, Ben and Gwil

This time it’s the man with the most amazing lower lip biting technique, Ben!

@not-the-cleavers​  (I know how much you love Ben ATM boo!) Pairing: Ben Hardy x Reader

The BohRhap cast Halloween parties had become a tradition, well perhaps not a tradition quite yet, seeing as this was only the second time the event was occurring, but it was a tradition none the less! This year, Ben had put his hand up for organising the party , and to quote, “This year, Halloween will be the biggest, best party you will ever attend!” Of course, when you had asked your fiancé what he had meant by that, he would shrug and change the subject. To say you were concerned would be an understatement, the party invitations had gone out four weeks ago, and in that time you hadn’t seen Ben do anything remotely resembling party planning! All you knew, was that the party was to be held at his parents house. It was an odd location choice, though you knew his family was out of town currently, and their house was far bigger than the apartment you two currently shared. So perhaps it was the ideal location? “Good morning love. I’m going to get things set up for tonight, I’ll see you at eight yeah?” Ben whispers, as you feel the bed dip opposite you, as he lays down to face you.

Opening your eyes slowly, you yawn as the morning light catches you off guard, clearly Ben had opened the bedroom curtains, the sun now flooding the room. “Hm? Ben what time is it?”

“It’s ten, hey shh, don’t get up.” Ben smiles softly, resting his hand over your shoulder and gently pressing you back against the bed. “There’s tea on the nightstand, careful it’s still hot. Have a quiet day to yourself, and I’ll see you at the party.”

You smile, closing your eyes once again as you breathe in the scent that is so uniquely Ben. The smell of black coffee and cigarettes invading your sinuses. “Are you sure you don’t need help with anything?”

You had offered to help multiple times this past week, and each time Bed had declined, informing you that he had everything under control. “Thank you, but I’m all good Y/N, I promise that by eight o’clock tonight everything will be set up for the party!”

Snuggling deeper under the covers, you peer over at the blonde across from you, your eyes up only visible beneath the cacoon you had created. “Have fun, love you Benji.” Ben leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, before rolling off of the bed and heading out of the apartment.

Just as Ben had promised, when you roll over onto your other side, there on the nightstand, is a piping hot teacup filled with earl grey tea, made just the way you like it. You wriggle up in the bed, until you’re sat with your back pressed against a mountain of pillows against the headboard. You sip the tea carefully, holding the delicate cup with gentle hands. It was a teacup Ben had gifted you as part of your Christmas present a few years ago, and you used it every chance you got.

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

It was your first Christmas as a couple, and the first Christmas you had experienced with snow, it was perfect to say the least! The morning had started with soft, lazy kisses, that was until Frankie had decided she felt rather left out, and had jumped up on the bed and began giving you her own kisses. “No, bad girl. Off the bed!” Ben laughed, as he watched her attack you with slobbery kisses. You could hardly complain, you would always give Frankie attention if she wanted it.

  “She’s right you know; we really do need to get up.” You grin, sitting up fully causing Frankie to slide down onto your lap, before she jumped off the bed, and trotted back into the hall where she had appeared from.

Ben groaned, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face against the pile of pillows he slept on, a habit which you had adopted not long after you began dating. “But I don’t wanna get up.” He whined like a petulant child, all that was missing was him to begin stomping his feet.

You reach your hand out, carding your fingers through his golden curls, tugging gently at the roots. “If you don’t get up, then you won’t get your presents…”

That was enough to get his attention, and you watched as Ben shot up out of bed, his boxer shorts riding low on his hips. You bite your lip, trailing your eyes over his toned physique, maybe you could spare another few minutes just staring at him? “Well, are you coming?” Ben smirked, catching your wondering gaze and sending a wink your way.

With a roll of your eyes, and a sigh you drag yourself from the bed, slipping on a pair of bunny slippers. They were a gimmick gift from your best friend, and despite starting as a tacky piece of footwear, you now wore them all the time. Making your way around the bed, you meet Ben in the doorway, taking his hand in yours and leading you into the sitting room. In one of the corners of the room sat a short, plump Christmas tree, decorated in baubles, tinsel and fairy lights. The lights had been left on overnight. “So Santa knew where to leave the presents.” You had insisted with a childlike grin.

Frankie sat eagerly beneath the tree, having already found her present, it was a new doggy bed, wrapped in jolly red and green wrapping paper, with a large gold bow around the square package. You knew she would enjoy it more if the wrapping was no longer on it, but to remove said wrapping that would require her moving, and it didn’t look like she would be doing so for quite some time.   You and Ben sat cross legged on the floor around the tree, both of you having snuck out during the night to place your presents around the base of the tree. Ben hands you a box to start with, the design on the paper was an ombre effect starting in navy blue, moving into mauve, and ending in peach, with flecks of silver scattered within, and a matching bow on top. “Whatever you do, please don’t shake the box!” Ben warns quickly, holding his hand out before you.

You nod slowly, making sure to handle the box with a great deal of care. You remove the ribbon, leaning forward and wrapping it around Ben’s forehead with a triumphant grin, before slowly peeling back the paper, finally you lift the lid of the box and gasp. Your hands are shaking as you lift the porcelain cup from the bubble wrap which surrounded it. Inside the careful wrapping lay a petite teacup, it was cream coloured, with a gold handle. Around the cup, there were tiny painted flowers, of purple, pink and blue, delicate leaves and vines surrounding the bunches. “Oh Ben, this is too much…” You grin, as you take out the matching saucer, holding them between shaking hands. You place them on the ground beside you, crawling forwards, and kissing Ben fiercely, all thoughts of the other presents forgotten for the time being.

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

  Ben had it all planned, all he had to do now was get everything set up, which was why he had allowed himself over nine hours to do so. There was an awful lot that he had to get done for the party, and seeing as he had declined offers of help at every turn, he now had to task of preparing everything alone.

The plan seemed simple enough, but the execution was where the difficulties began. He somehow had to turn the normal looking family home, into a haunted house, he had spared no expense in buying the necessary props, but he wanted it to look good, and he knew it would take a fair bit of work, to get fake plastic gravestones to look realistic.

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

As the afternoon progressed, you began getting yourself ready for tonight’s fiesta. You had spent the day watching old movies, with Frankie curled up beside you on the bed. In fact, the only time you had left the bed for any extended period of time, was when you had gone to get your uber eats order when it had arrived, that had marked the longest conversation you had had all day, something that was sure to change as the night progressed.

You had been planning your costume for a few weeks now, and had kept it hidden from everyone, not that anyone had really discussed what they were dressing as. Though you had a feeling Rami and Lucy would once again come up with both the cutest, and most epic couples costume in existence. Your hair was the part that would take the longest, you had to get it prepared for the wig you had spent hours styling just the other day. You had worn wigs before, you were well known in the cosplay community for your quirky costumes, though it didn’t matter how many times you combed, braided, twisted and pinned your hair back, it was never a pleasant experience. You had considered shaving your head again, at least then you wouldn’t have to worry about the tedious part of applying a wig, but with Winter well on its way, you figured now was not the best time to do so. Only a few years ago, you had done just that however, you were at a convention with a few friends, and had just gone to put on your wig for your costume. At the time, you had exceptionally long hair, which meant you absolutely needed a wig cap before even considering applying said wig. Of course, you being you, meant you forgot to bring any wig caps, and no one had a spare one for you to use. It was suggested you forgo the wig, but to you that was never an option, so instead, you shaved your head! And just like that, voila, instant wig cap! It had taken years for your hair to grow back out, but when you look back on the event, you wouldn’t change a thing.

With the towering white wig in place, and the finishing touches applied to your makeup, all that was left now was to apply the multi piece costume, which would be a task and a half. Somehow you had to tie up a corset by yourself, when normally you would ask someone to help! “What are you looking at?” You laughed, as you turn on the spot, trying to get a better view of the back of the corset, in an effort to tie it up securely. Frankie sat beside you, nudging one of her toys in your direction. “Sweetie, I can’t play right now, I can’t bend down that far!” You can’t help but chuckle at that, realising only now that your movements were extremely limited in this costume. “How on Earth am I going to bend enough to sit in a car?”

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

 Ben clapped his hands together as he looked over his handy work, a grin slipping onto his lips, everything looked pretty damned good! The fake gravestones littered the front lawn, with zombie and skeleton hands sticking out around them. Jack o lanterns lined the footpath up to the house, and sat around the balcony by the front door, all sporting different expression, some shocked, happy, scared, and a few who were either dead or asleep. Inside, he had set up a large table with all types of haunting snacks, sausages cut to look like fingers, strawberries dipped in white chocolate that resembled ghosts, a giant platter of spaghetti and meatballs, the meatballs had a dollop of sour cream in the centre and a ring of black olive in the middle, serving as eyeballs in gore, and of course, because no adult party would be complete without them, jelly shots in syringes!

Around the house, fake cobwebs were scattered around the ceiling, and covering some of the furniture, there was a giant ghost hung up just above the fireplace which seemed to float with the breeze in the house. “Perfectly cheesy.” Ben grinned as he gazed around, there were other surprises for his guests to find during the night, but for what he could see, everything looked perfect.

He made his way up to what used to be his bedroom, but had long ago been transformed into a study, using the familiar space to get into his costume. People would be arriving shortly, and it simply wouldn’t do if the host wasn’t dressed! The blue bellbottom jeans felt all too familiar, after spending months dressing in 70’s regalia for the part of Roger Taylor, he had become so used to wearing them, that it was almost a struggle to go back to wearing skinny jeans.  He tucked a blue button down into the waist of his jeans, and slipped on a white jumper, popping the collar out of the neck so to tie around the bright red ascot. Finally, he toed on a pair of brown loafers, before gelling his hair back, and combing it into the best rendition of a pompadour he could achieve. “Let’s split up gang!” He chuckled as he looked himself over in the mirror, before remembering he was currently alone in the house, and you were nowhere around to laugh at his stupidity.

The sound of a car door slamming shut brought him back to attention, darting out of his old room, and towards the front door. As he went out to the front yard to greet his guests, he grinned as it became apparent that Lucy and Rami were the first to arrive, ever punctual. “Fuck, you guys look great!” Ben grinned, as he wrapped them both in a tight hug, one in each arm. Lucy looked flawless in a long-sleeved mermaid style black dress, with what would likely be the deepest cut neckline he had ever seen, her lips were coated in red that matched her fingernails, and she wore a pin straight black wig. Rami had his hair slicked back, and had pencilled on a thin moustache, he had donned a black suit with white stripes, and a black tie. “Please tell me Joe is dressed as Wednesday.” Ben howled with laughter, trying to picture his crazy friend as the sullen child. He couldn’t imagine anyone would pull of Mr and Mrs Addams the way Lucy and Rami did.

“Sadly no, he claims he had a better costume in mind! But we did try!” Rami laughs, as other people begin to arrive, cars parking all along the suburban street.

“Is Y/N here too?” Lucy asked excitedly, looking around the garden for your familiar face, only to come away looking disappointed.

  “Not yet, she’ll be here soon though. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise of how everything looked.” Ben smiled, as he caught a glimpse of what could only be descried as the oddest couples costume he had ever seen. “Gwil, Joe… Nice to see you both!” The two men in question walked past the mock graveyard, and grinned at the small group, Joe waving, while Gwil went in for the hug just as Ben had. “I’m just gonna cut to the chase right now, guys what the fuck are you wearing?” Ben couldn’t conceal his laughter, and Gwil turned to Joe, and simply sighed.

“Well to be clear, I just want you all to know, that this was always going to be my costume, I came up with this idea!” Gwilym grumbles, while Joe nods along eagerly.

“That is true, I won’t steal the credit for this phenomenal idea!” Joe chimes in, only to earn a glare from the Welshmen.

The men in question, were currently dressed as two characters from Peter Pan, but two rather unlikely characters. Gwil was dressed as a rather wonderful Captain hook, complete with black curled wig, grease moustache, red coat, and buckled shoes. Of course, he had a hook to really finish off the look. He really did look wonderful. Whereas Joe, had somehow squeezed himself into a Tinkerbell dress, which was at least two sizes too small. The green dress barely zipped up past his ass and was far too short to be considered decent. There were two pompoms glued to the end of a pair of flip flops, and the wings he sported on his back, were clearly designed for a child. “He was complaining that he didn’t know what to wear tonight, and I stupidly told him I was going as Captain Hook. I didn’t think he would do anything with that information! Or if he did, I thought maybe, he would go as Mr Smee! Not fucking Tinkerbell!”

Gwil was obviously frustrated, but at the same time, it appeared as if he were fighting off a grin, Joe looked ridiculous and with him stood beside Gwil, it only helped to boost how good the Captain’s outfit looked. “As if I would dress as Mister Smee! I look terrible in striped shirts!” Joe laughed, shimmying his shoulders just enough to wriggle the wings. “Besides, I look fabulous!”

“I absolutely do not believe in fairies.” Gwil muttered, causing Joe to press a hand against his chest in shock.

“Well, if there was ever any question, its sure as hell been answered now.  This is not a children’s party.” You grin, walking up to the group, your extravagant costume drawing the attention of the gang. Your white wig had been teased within an inch of its life, now standing on end adding a great deal of height to your appearance. Your face, neck, arms and chest had been covered in pale lilac face paint, blue eyeshadow reached up to over drawn, arched eyebrows, and a shockingly vibrant shade of red lined your lips. A golden shell necklace rest over your chest, and triangular purple earrings hung low from your ears. The dress had taken a while to create, but looked stunning in your opinion, The top was a sleeveless inky black fitted dress, which contoured to the shape of your body, all the way down to your ankles, where it fanned out into eight stuffed tentacles, with the underside a deep purple with cut out foam disks of light purple, glued on to form suckers. Finally, you had a pair of black silky opera gloves, which really completed the look.

“Did I miss the part where this was supposed to be Disney themed?” Rami laughed, as you gravitated to Lucy’s side, attacking her cheeks in kisses as she did the same to you, both grinning madly at each other.

“Um, Y/N love, what are you wearing?” Ben asks shyly, as he steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist securely.

You tilt your head back and gaze up at him, lifting an exceptionally tall eyebrow up at him. “I thought that was rather obvious love, I’m Ursula, you know, the sea witch…”

Ben’s eyebrows pull together in the middle as he gazes over you, he wouldn’t lie, he liked what he saw, but it was not what he had been expecting. “I thought we were going to do a couple costume remember? You were going to be Daphne to my Fred.”

You turn in his arms, cocking your head to the left as you regard him with a sceptical look. “Benji, we didn’t agree to a couples costume…”

“Yes, we did!” Ben nods eagerly.

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

You lay on the sofa, more like collapsed, with your had resting in Ben’s lap, occasionally he would massage his fingers against your scalp, but mostly he was there just to keep you company. You either had the cold from hell, or the bubonic plague, you were undecided which just yet, but either way you felt like absolute death. Ben was off from filming for a few weeks, and had decided to spend that time with you, sick or no, he had no intentions of leaving your side. “Babe, what if you get sick?”  You whined for the millionth time this week, only to be met with a groan from Ben beneath you.

“If I get sick, then I get sick. Now will you be quiet and watch the movie.” Ben chuckled, passing you the box of tissues as you went searching for it with grabby hands. You had no fight left in you, especially now that the cold medicine you had taken was beginning to kick in. If Ben wanted to stay with you, you would let him, besides, you rather liked the company. And with the fever you had been running recently, having your own personal space heater cuddle up to you, was exactly what the Doctor ordered!

The television went by relatively unnoticed on your end, though Ben seemed mildly invested in the film that had appeared on Netflix’s autoplay. You were vaguely aware of the film being that of the early 2000’s scooby doo remake, a movie you had loved as a child, but now tried to avoid. You were just beginning to drift off to sleep, the medication you had taken making you incredibly drowsy, when Ben’s voice woke you. “We should do this for Halloween.” He suggested, petting your head softly, as his breathing lulled you back to sleep.

“Do what Benny?”

“Dress as Fred and Daphne, we could….” That was the last thing you heard, before you drifted back into the land of nod.

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

“Benjamin! I was doped up on so many different medications that week! You could’ve been talking about anything I would’ve been none the wiser!” You burst out, slapping his shoulder playfully. Ben pouts down at you, but you quickly wipe the look away with a gentle kiss.   “I promise we can do a couple costume next year, alright? Though, maybe let me pick the costumes, I have a few ideas.”

Ben grins softly, pulling you against his side with a strong arm, keeping it locked around your waist securely. “Depends, have you got any ideas that will beat Rami and Lucy?”

The couple in question grin, as Rami takes Lucy’s hand and kissed from her knuckles, up to her shoulder. “Come now, we all know who the real competition is when it comes to couple costumes.” Rami ceases his kisses, as he looks up at his Morticia, grinning wickedly at her. “Joe and Gwil are clearly the cutest couple here tonight!”

The howling of laughter from you group can surely be heard across the whole street, not that any of you could possibly care. “Honestly, you guys are absolute couple goals.” You tease, as you retrieve your phone from the slit you had created in the side of your dress. The one good thing about making your own costume, meant you could add pockets wherever and whenever you wanted! “Smile you two.” You grin, as you aim the camera towards the so called couple, Joe leans against Gwil’s side, pretending to aim a kiss against his cheek, while Gwil raises his hook ready to strike the fairy.

“Oh boy, Instagram is going to have a field day with this.” Ben grins, as he looks at the photo over your shoulder, picking a filter before you upload it, with the caption #couplegoals.

“What will your fiancé think when she see’s that?” You turn towards Joe, who simply shrugs, his wings rising with the gesture.

“Need I remind you, that said fiancé dressed as a dinosaur last year for my Halloween party, which you so rudely did not attend!”

“Hey, I’ve said I’m sorry! I already had Luce giving me a hard time over that, I don’t need you doing the same!” You defend, looking up at Ben as if to ask for him to provide some kind of backup.

“You left Ben all alone, dressed as he was!” Gwil chimes in, grinning at the disappointed look you shoot his way.

“Whoa now, that costume was all Ben’s idea! I simply made it; I didn’t come up with it!”

This causes a collective gasp from the group, all eyes now on the blushing blonde. “Excuse me Benjamin, that is not what you told me last year!” Gwil declares.

Ben hangs his head low, and all you can do is laugh at his obvious discomfort. “Alright fine, sexy Patrick Star was 100% my idea. But after Y/N said she couldn’t come to the party anymore, I decided to say that it had been her costume I was wearing.”

You slide your arm down to your side, slipping your fingers around Ben’s gently, and giving them a soft squeeze. “Well I think you looked damn sexy. Have you still got those boots?” You wink, the blush fading from his cheeks.

“Ugh, y’all need to keep it PG!” Joe groans, covering his ears before he can hear anymore that you have to say.

“Joe has a point, besides, I believe I was promised jelly shots was I not?” You grin, taking a few steps towards the house, tugging Ben’s arm with you, keeping your hands firmly locked together.

“Aye, I did. They’re just on the table inside.”

“Lucy come on, it’s been a hot minute since we did any kind of shots!” You call over your shoulder, as Lucy begins to drag Rami inside in a similar manner to you and Ben.

“That’s because the last time we did shots together, you called Ben, who came and picked you up, while you left me in the club!”

“I forgot you were there!”

“We fucking arrived together!” Lucy cries, though the laughter is clear in her voice. You make your way over to the food table, grinning at the sight of gore themed snacks.

“Fuck Ben, this looks amazing! You did this all by yourself?”

Ben grins from ear to ear, feet shuffling against the floor gently. “Yeah, I did.”

“You’ve done an amazing job mate, Gwil grins patting Ben’s shoulder, as Joe shoots him a set of very outdated finger guns.

“I’m really proud of you, even if I am slightly jealous that you did this all without me.” You giggle, before pressing another kiss to his plump lips, the taste of his last cigarette lingering on his breathe.

“Hey Y/N, are we doing this or not?” Lucy calls, pulling you away from the moment you and Ben had been sharing. You turn on the spot, and look over the table at Lucy, who was holding two syringes in her hands, one for you and one for herself. “Did you make them very strong Ben?” She grins, waving the shots above her head excitedly.

“They are pretty strong, so maybe be careful?”

“I hear your suggestion, and I shall promptly ignore it!” You laugh, as you join Lucy on the opposite side of the table, taking your phone out once again to snap a photo. You wanted to get as many pictures in before you all got too tipsy, and started taking photos of things that should never see the light of day. You hold one of the syringes up to Lucy’s neck, who pretends to faint in your arms, her hand held to her forehead. The take the photo and grin at it, taking a mental note to post it in the morning.

You raise the syringe before you, as the others of your group either to the same with one of the shots, or a drink of some other kind. “I’d like to propose a toast, to Ben, for planning the spookiest Halloween party we have ever had!”

“To Ben!” A chorus echoes throughout the home, as various other guests take part in thanking the host. You grin at Lucy, tilting your head back, and dispense the shot down your throat, the slight burn of a rather large amount of vodka stinging the back of your throat.

You grin across at your fiancé, who held an icy cold beer in his hand, as he spoke with Rami, Joe and Gwil, all four of them talking over one another, it was a wonder any of them could understand each other. Ben catches your eyes, and winks at you, you laugh softly, before blowing a kiss his way, taking another syringe shot for yourself and Lucy. “Damn, could you two be any more adorable?” She smirks, taking the shot from you happily.

“Oh we will be peak adorable at the wedding next year. Frankie is going to be my flower girl.” You giggle, causing Lucy to squeal in absolute delight. “Don’t tell anyone!”

My Masterlist

[xiolaperry]

“Of Dogs and Cats” Chapter 2

Summary:  Another trio of vignettes featuring pets in Rumplestiltskin's life.

Notes:  Written during Camp NaNoWriMo April 2020. Special thanks to my fellow campers in the "Rumbelle Writers' Realm".

Read on AO3  ---  Read previous chapter here.

Rumplestiltskin approached the back door of his shop. His mind was reeling from the previous night’s encounter with Emma and the resulting flood of memories. But he was still observant enough to notice movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked around, but whatever he'd seen had disappeared.

Later that afternoon he glanced out the back window and saw it. A small black cat, lying in the sun. It was barely larger than a kitten, its ribs visible through its dull fur. His heart ached as he remembered Belle saving the mother cat and her kittens by bringing them into the Dark Castle.

He went into the refrigerator, looking for something to give it. He had to feed it, to save it. It was what Belle would have done.  She was gone, but he would do this for her memory.

He scraped tuna off of a half-finished sandwich onto a saucer and poured water into the matching teacup. Not the cup. That one was safe at his home. He could almost hear Belle laughing: the Dark One serving a stray cat on fine china dishes. He missed her laughter. He missed everything about her.   Feeling foolish, he opened the door, making as little noise as possible. The cat jumped and ran a short distance away. It turned to stare at him. “Here, kitty, kitty,” he called in a low voice. He put the water and tuna on the ground. “Little cat, look what I have for you.” The cat gazed at him with bleary gold eyes. One was nearly pasted shut. He knew it would never come while he stood there, so he closed the door. When he checked back in a few minutes, the cat had eaten the tuna and was lying in the sun again. Rumplestiltskin called Dove that evening and instructed him to purchase two cat dishes, wet and dry cat food, and cat treats. He delivered them the next day without comment, which was exactly how he liked it. And so started the routine: a can of food in the morning, dry food in the afternoon and always a bowl of fresh water. After a week he noticed the cat didn’t run as far when he opened the door. He set up a small table and chair not far from the bowls. He put out some treats, sat down and waited.  The little cat came and ate them while keeping a wary eye on this new development. No matter how crazy things started becoming in Storybrooke, he sat outside and had his tea every afternoon. The cat relaxed, coming closer each day. A few times it even came close enough for him to pet it. One day he sat down and the cat came running. It jumped on his lap, purring and butting its head against his hand for affection. It was difficult to speak around the lump in his throat. “Hello, little cat.” He stroked its black fur, no longer dull but glossy with health. Its bright gold eyes looked at him. Rumplestiltskin felt silly talking to a cat, but really, who else did he have to talk to? “I should give you a name. Names are important. I had cats once, back in my castle.  I could do magic then. You should have seen the treats I would conjure for them. I would sit in my kitchen and pet them, just like this. My caretaker had... gone, you see, and I was lonely. They were her cats, actually. I never even knew their names.  Why didn’t I ask her? She would have picked the perfect names. I would have given anything- well, I can’t name you. I won’t. The things I care for are always taken from me.” He placed the cat on the ground and returned to his shop, weary to his bones. Old. There was so much to do. There was magic to bring back to Storybrooke.

----

The jingle of the bell signaling the departure of the Charmings from his shop was a wonderful sound, second only to the one it made when it announced Belle's entrance.  When she walked in, picnic basket in hand and a smile on her face he almost forgot how to breathe. A smile. For him, the Dark One. Genuine smiles directed at him were rare things, precious. Then the Charmings had barged in, hurling accusations and interrupting their time together.

But Belle, his fearless scholar, had defended him. And now the “heroes” were gone. Rumplestiltskin was still tense. Belle would have questions. He needed to show her part of himself – pieces of truth, honesty of the heart. He wondered how large a piece of himself he would need to carve out.

Belle broke into his musings. “Rumple, I never pictured you as a dog person! Please tell me about your 'sheepdog or two'?”

He relaxed a bit. This piece he could give. It was still difficult. It had been years, centuries, since someone had been interested in him as a man, not as the Dark One. His instinct was deflection. Information was power. It could be used against you. Change was needed though, or he would lose her (again) forever. This would be good practice.

“You might have surmised from my hobby that I was a spinner in my previous life. What I spun was wool, into the finest yarn ever seen. And the best way to get good wool is to have your own sheep. And taking care of sheep is easier with a good sheepdog.”

“Were they just work animals or were they pets?” asked Belle, enthralled.

“I named my first dog Friend if that tells you anything.”

“That's so sweet, Rumple.”

“I was just a boy when I got him, and not very imaginative when it came to names. But he was my friend. I'm sure it is hard to believe, given my sunny disposition, but I didn't have many of those,” he said wryly. He continued in a more serious tone, “Having the unconditional love of a dog was a wonderful thing.”

He could have elaborated, explained. About the father who abandoned him. The villagers who shunned him. His aunties who loved him. It was the only good thing his father had ever done for him, and it wasn't even on purpose. Malcolm knew the women would jump at the opportunity to have a child, having no chance at one of their own. Luck was on his side, and they were loving and kind. No need to go into that now. Dogs. That was what honesty required today.

He continued, “My boy, Baelfire, had a limitless imagination. No plain name for his dog. He named him Sir Beric Dondarrion, Brave Hero of the Frontlands. He and that dog had many grand adventures. Slaying dragons, defeating ogres, saving damsels in distress. I looked forward to hearing his stories every night as I spun. Those were some of the happiest times of my life.”

Rumplestiltskin stopped. He didn't know what else to say. He couldn't bear to tell how the story of Bae's Sir Beric the Brave ended.

Hordor and his men taunting and threatening Bae. Bullies, all of them. The dog jumping to the boy's defense, growling and snapping. Hordor killing the dog without a thought, then laughing at his son's tears.

Killing Hordor was one of the most satisfying things Rumplestiltskin had done as the Dark One.

The silence was becoming awkward and he didn't know how to fill it. Belle saved him- she always saved him.

“Would you like to see what I brought for dessert?” she asked.

“Yes, I would,” he answered, grateful.

Belle chattered on, telling him in significant detail about the amazing cake whose ingredients came neatly packaged all in one box. He took a piece.

“Thank you,” he said. What he couldn't say was thank you for seeing I was trapped in my memories. Thank you for wanting to know me. And thank you for not forcing me to share more than I was ready for.              

----                                                                                                                                            Belle mentioned the reptile show in passing at breakfast. Rumple, busy making faces at a smiling Gideon, almost missed it.

“What did you say? Something about a reptile show?”

“I said I had to leave early to set up extra chairs. 'Forgotten Friend Reptile Sanctuary' is coming, and we always have an excellent turn out for storytime when there's a special presentation.”

“What kind of reptiles?”

“I don't know, I think the reptile lady said something about an iguana, some snakes, a chameleon. Why? Are you considering attending today?”

This had been a source of mild disagreement between them. Rumplestiltskin had assured her he thought it was important that she have time away from Gideon, and working a few mornings at the library made her happy. Having Gideon with him at his shop was the highlight of his week. But the Dark One did not attend storytime. Besides, Belle took him to baby lap-sit storytimes on one of the days she didn't work. He hadn't budged. But now....

“Just curious, that's all,” he answered, striving for nonchalance.

Belle gave them each a kiss, and she left.

9:50 found him hesitating at the door of the library. He told himself he ridiculous. The chameleon had never existed. It was a figment of Mr. Gold's cursed memories. But he remembered it so vividly. He had loved that wee lizard. And now was his chance to see one and show it to Gideon.

The chatter between the mothers died down as soon as they saw him enter the room. He sat down in a chair in the front middle of the semicircle, figuring it would give him the best view. He placed the diaper bag on the seat to his left, and Gideon's blanket to his right to dissuade anyone from sitting next to him.

Belle was speaking to a woman wearing a “Forgotten Friend” shirt. She turned to see what had caused everyone to quiet down.

“Rumple!” she said, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“Gideon wanted to see the reptiles,” he answered, bouncing the smiling six-month-old on his lap.

The woman saved him from a further reply.

“Hello, my name is Miss Pam. If all the children would come sit on the floor in front of me, we can begin.”

Rumplestiltskin waited through the snakes, the anoles, the bearded dragons, the iguana, and others. Children raised their hands to volunteer to be helpers as she uncovered cages and presented each one.

There was only one cage left.

“Who would like to help present our last friend?” asked Miss Pam. “I'll give you a clue as to her identity- she can change colors.”

Rumplestiltskin stood little Gideon on his lap and raised the boy's hand. He could feel Belle's eyes boring into the back of his head at this out of character behavior. He would have to explain later.

Miss Pam smiled.  “How about this young man,” she said, pointing at Gideon.

He stood up, holding Gideon on one hip as Miss Pam uncovered the chameleon's cage. She talked for a few minutes about its diet, its ability to change colors and its natural habitat.

“Mr. Gold, this veiled chameleon is quite tame. Could I let her out? She’ll climb on you and the children can get a closer look.”

“Yes, I'd like that very much.”

Belle continued to stare at him, flabbergasted.

The chameleon climbed to his left shoulder. Rumplestiltskin couldn't help the smile that appeared on his face. From his right hip Gideon watched, wide-eyed.

He heard nothing else that was said until the presentation was over and Miss Pam put the lizard away. He thanked the woman and made his way with Gideon to the back of the library. Belle was waiting.

“Rumple-”

“I'm sure you have questions. I'll tell you everything. Tonight.”

“I look forward to it,” Belle said, taking his hand.

A week later,  he came home to a box wrapped in gold paper sitting on the kitchen table.

“Who's this for?” he asked.

“Gideon and I wanted to get you a surprise. Hurry, open it!” said Belle. Gideon babbled with excitement, pointing at the present.

He took his time removing the wrapping, folding it into a neat square. He lifted the lid and saw a box of crickets, mealworms, a container of calcium dust and a bottle filled with bright orange cubes.

“What’s all this?”

“Come see in your office,” she said, grabbing his hand and leading the way.

He stopped short in the doorway. Next to his desk was a large reptile habitat full of beautiful plants. And a chameleon. “I contacted the 'Forgotten Friend' and they were agreeable to placing her with us. With the understanding that she can attend the occasional show.”

He opened the door of the habitat, and the lizard climbed up to his shoulder again. Gideon clapped his hands, wiggling with excitement.

“Who's a bonnie wee lass?” he asked the chameleon in a low tone, stroking it with one finger just as he had as a boy. His curse memories and the present came together, and he felt at peace.

“What's her name?”

“She doesn't have one yet. I thought we could come up with a name together.”

“That would be perfect.”

[drrjsb]

Happy Holidays! Body and Soul: The Endgame Fix "Part 16: Tea and Empathy"

Summary: Bruce and Natasha return home to find a friend waiting on the porch. They tap into Bruce’s supply of Girl Scout cookies, make a call across the galaxy, and later they answer one from closer to home. Yes, we earn our mature rating.

Notes: Happy Holidays to those who celebrate! Here’s nice big chapter for those who’ve waited. It’s still the evening of Monday, October 30, 2023.

AO3  Fanfiction.net  WattPad

Excerpt . . .

The last thing they'd expected to find was Dr. Stephen Strange waiting for them on the porch, but the Sorcerer Supreme was relaxing on the carved wooden swing with a gray cat on his lap as Bruce pulled up and parked the HX in its usual spot.

"Dr. Strange," Bruce said as he got out of the vehicle. Natasha didn't hesitate to hop out of the passenger's side door. She'd never met him, yet he looked exactly like the pictures she'd found when she researched him after Tony and Nebula had arrived back from Titan. She guessed the large gray cat that jumped out of the tall man's lap must be Gertie.

"Dr. Banner . . . and Ms. Romanoff, I presume," the magic-user returned in his deep baritone voice as he stood up.

"You presume correctly," she said as she joined Bruce. It was nice not to have her identity questioned from the get-go. The cat darted inside through the pet door, and Natasha caught Bruce huffing out a rather flummoxed breath through his nose.

"Stephen, good to see you. I assume you've already met, Gertrude. May I introduce you to Natasha Romanoff," Bruce said, extending his right hand. "Nat, this is Stephen Strange, Earth's Sorcerer Supreme," he explained and mirrored the same open-handed gesture of introduction with his left hand.

"A pleasure," the dark-haired physician said with a slightly amused smile. Natasha came forward and shook the hand he offered her as she stepped onto the porch with Bruce right behind her. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said. Nat noticed his hand was every bit as scarred as Bruce's was and almost as warm, too. She'd read about the auto accident that ended his surgical career in his file.

"It's good to finally meet you, Ms. Romanoff." He held onto her hand a moment longer than necessary, and Nat knew he was scanning and scrutinizing her, so she stared steadily back into his intense blue eyes and matched his firm grip.

"She's the real one," Bruce assured the sorcerer as he used the tile pad to let them into the house. "Please come in and have some tea, Doctor."

"I can't stay for long, but tea sounds good," the physician admitted and followed the couple through the mudroom and into the kitchen where Sirius greeted them with a low "Whoof!" as Bruce assured the dog the guest was welcome. Strange held out the back of his hand, and the overgrown pup gave it a brief sniff before backing off and circling Natasha protectively.

"Have a seat," Bruce said and filled a copper kettle with water and placed it on the stove before reaching into the cabinet for cups and saucers. Natasha collected Bruce's jacket and hung it up with hers on a peg near the door. She offered to hang up Strange's cloak but he kept it draped over his shoulders as if he were still warding off a chill from the evening air.

"Darjeeling, oolong, green, herbal, some other kind of herbal, or Earl Grey?" Bruce asked as he checked through the containers on the cabinet where the loose-leaf teas had congregated.

With a mischievous smile, the sorcerer suggested, "Surprise me."

"All right, but I doubt you came here for the tea, Stephen."

Strange looked at both Bruce and Natasha, moving around each other with the ease of an experienced pit crew. "No, but I did come for the company and to compare a few notes on certain loose ends, which have turned out to be something more like an unraveling than a tying up of threads."

Bruce sighed. "No neat dénouement for the Time Heist?"

"No, apparently not." Strange studied Natasha who had found Bruce's oversupply of Girl Scout Cookies in the pantry. Without missing a beat, Bruce handed her three small plates to go with the teacups and saucers he'd just set on the counter. The sorcerer was still marveling at how well they coordinated and in-tune they seemed, despite being separated for so long. "Please tell me you have the peanut butter ones dipped in chocolate," he requested. Those had always been a weakness of his.

Natasha dispensed with formality and handed the physician an unopened box of his apparent favorites. She stacked half a box of Thin Mints on a plate for Bruce and pulled out a few butter cookies with chocolate backing for herself. She placed the opened boxes in the middle of the table since it might take the remainder to get through the conversation even if it was brief. Bruce passed her some spoons and napkins to lay out, too. The honey and sugar were already in the table's center. None of them took cream with their tea.

Natasha sat down across the table from Strange whose back was to the mudroom door while Bruce stayed leaning against the higher section of counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. She'd missed seeing what type of tea he'd put into the stainless mesh ball, so it was going to be a surprise for her, too.

Strange cleared his throat as he slid the remainder of his box of cookies into the middle of the table with the others. "First, Ms. Romanoff . . ."

"Natasha, please."

"Natasha, I'm very happy to see you are among the living. I spoke to Wanda earlier, and she passed along the good news. I've since communicated with Fury and Captain Danvers, so I have some information about your captor to pass along if you'd care to hear it."

"Of course," Natasha affirmed.

"Please do," Bruce said with his burly arms folded across his chest.

"As you've already surmised, your impersonator was indeed a Skrull, Natasha. The assumption was the Skrull was either from a different group that Earth hadn't encountered before, one which split off during their diaspora, or perhaps he was some kind of a rogue agent. However, once Fury's allies, the Skrulls under Talos' leadership, compared cell samples collected from the craft in the lake to their database, it became evident that there was a connection."

"So, Nat's fake is related to some of Talos' people?" Bruce asked.

Strange nodded, "Four of them to be exact."

"I hope we're talking siblings or cousins," Bruce said with a frown.

Natasha cut to the other possibility, "Would they be grandparents?"

Strange nodded toward Natasha in acknowledgment, "In a manner of speaking, you were dealing with a being who doesn't exist yet."

The kettle's whistle gradually crescendoed to its full-throated high note as the implications sunk in. Bruce removed the kettle from the burner and turned the gas off. "Something tells me there's a common thread between this issue and what's been happening since the Time Heist. Clint told us there have been more paradoxes turning up."

"Yes, more than just the ones we've been dealing with concerning the Sousa family. In that case, it does seem to come back to a certain individual."

"Speaking of him, have you had a chance to sit down with Steve?" Bruce asked.

"We spoke about a week ago at a coffee shop in the Village, the day after he arrived (or reappeared?), but I can't say that he was extremely helpful. We went over what he'd done and where he said he was for all that time he was absent from our reality, but there were discrepancies almost from the beginning. Before I came here, I stopped by his apartment in Brooklyn, but he doesn't appear to have been there in some time if at all since Tony's funeral."

Bruce continued to frown. "I was hardly able to speak with him the day our Steve left and the old man arrived before that version left the Compound grounds. I asked if he understood the implications his little side junket might have for our timeline, and he clammed up tight. Sam and Bucky got in my face when I asked him again, so I thought it was better to back off before heavier things than words were flying. Do you think he's skipped?"

Natasha was imagining Sam's over-protective reaction and the possible outcome of a three-on-one fight with Bruce and the control it had taken on his part to avoid one. Even with those odds, a damaged arm, and a reluctance to harm the others, she'd have still put her money on Bruce. Nevertheless, the whole thing bothered her. She'd been at Peggy's funeral, and Natasha knew just how much Peggy had meant to him. Natasha also remembered seeing Peggy's husband Daniel there, not an older version of Steve. Selfishly throwing the rest of the universe into chaos and creating multiple splinters of the timeline—multiple conflicting realities—didn't match up with Steve's character or ethos at all.

The sorcerer shook his head. "I believe you were right not to press the matter, under those circumstances, Bruce." Strange thought a moment before answering the physicist's question, "If he's still in our reality, it seems likely he's gone underground. I've not been able to track him, and I suspect that's because he's not who he claims to be."

"Or he's found a way to cloak himself from a magical search since I imagine that's what you've already done," Natasha suggested. Strange nodded his confirmation. He'd used a hair from Steve's apartment to weave a tracking spell, and the magic had completely failed. "Do you have any idea exactly what he did to affect the timeline?" she asked.

Strange tried to keep from rolling his eyes with frustration before he dove into his explanation. "It appears he created a parallel timeline in which he lived out his life with Peggy Carter and then renounced that reality after her death to return to our own long enough to drop off the older version of his shield to Colonel Wilson. I'm not completely certain why he felt so compelled to return it, except that he seems to have wanted to pass along his mantel to Sam."

Bruce shook his head, feeling just as frustrated as the magic user. "Why would he want us to think he'd lived his past out in our timeline? Are you sure this really was our Steve?" the physicist asked.

"Those are good questions," the sorcerer stated.

"Was he human?" Natasha asked.

Strange shrugged the slightest bit. "That's also a good question."

"So, we really don't know if this was our Steve, another version of Steve, or a Skrull or something else?" Bruce posited. He'd warmed up a large ceramic teapot and steeped the tea, so now he poured their three cups full and settled them on the saucers for the other two.

"Correct, and that also leaves us with the anomalies involving the Souzas' background shifts and other exchanges or apparent 'edits' of digital footprints," the physician noted and blew on the steaming tea in his cup. "Mmm, white tea, ginger, and . . . bergamot?"

"You're good," Bruce said and placed his larger-sized cup and saucer at the head of the table and sat down in his extra-sturdy seat between the other two. "Whether this was our Steve or not, I'd seriously like to know where he acquired the Pym particles necessary to do the extra hop back to our reality," Bruce groused.

"Although I couldn't get him to say as much, I imagine he stole an extra vial or two when he returned the Space Stone," Strange surmised.

Bruce nodded, "That's the most likely explanation, but I'm amazed that didn't sabotage the whole Time Heist. Damn, it likely created at least one more splinter." The physicist clenched his jaws and then his right fist tightened. Now, he wished he'd thought faster, swallowed his pride, and called in Carol as soon as the old man had appeared on the lakeside bench. Things might have gotten messy, but they also might have had definitive answers to some of their questions. He felt Natasha's hand on his left forearm and realized his frustrations were getting the better of him. Bruce relaxed his jaw muscles and quit grinding his teeth as he loosened his clenched fist, flexing his damaged hand.

"Is Carol the only one who can detect a Skrull?" Natasha asked as she reached for a jar of honey in the middle of the table. Strange flicked his finger to levitate the jar gently into her grasp and unscrewed the lid. She raised an eyebrow and smiled her thanks.

"Please tell us you've figured out some method of detection, Stephen," Bruce said a bit forlornly.

Strange chuckled. "That actually brings me to another interesting piece of news," he said and unfastened his cloak to expose a familiar artifact resting on his chest.

The scar behind Bruce's right thumb heated up even before he realized what was once again housed in the amulet. A green light flared behind the metal housing, making the connection unmistakable. "How did you get it back?"

"As you might know, Stark returned the broken amulet that housed the Time Stone to Master Wong who had it repaired and returned to the place it had previously been kept. Two days ago, the Time Stone reappeared in its housing. I and several others have been investigating this phenomenon since then."

"How is this possible?" the scientist asked in disbelief. "Did Steve pocket it and bring it back?"

"I don't think so. Our surveillance cameras would have detected that" the sorcerer noted. The couple both gave him slightly incredulous looks. "What? We're not allowed to use both magic and technology?"

"You're right. That makes perfect sense," Natasha said. People were only human even if they were powerful magic users.

"What was on the recording?" Bruce asked, moving on with his inquiry.

"There was a green flash and the Stone manifested, once again whole and seated in the amulet just as it had been before."

"You wouldn't happen to have had a spectrometer nearby?" Bruce asked ruefully, wishing there had been more solid data collected.

Strange sighed, "No, but we can talk about adding one if you think that would be useful in the future."

"I'll start the paperwork for you myself," Bruce offered.

Natasha had grown quiet, her mind racing through possible scenarios and ramifications. "Is there any way to check for the presence of the other stones? If the Time Stone has returned, it must be possible for the others to do the same, right?"

The men looked at each other before Bruce spoke. "That's why I wish we'd gotten an energy signature and a reading on the Time Stone's manifestation; then, we might know what we need to look for with more specificity."

"Don't you have some of the data from the testing you and Tony and later Shuri did on the Space and Mind Stones?" she asked.

"You're right. We have data on those two energy signatures, which leaves . . ."

"The Power, Reality, and Soul Stones," Nat finished for him.

Strange held up his hand. "Perhaps another angle of inquiry that would help narrow a search would be to focus on the most likely places each Stone might manifest." The couple looked at each other and nodded. Strange gave a little snort as he watched them telegraphing and ending each other's thoughts. "Are you two sure you've been apart?"

Bruce went a little pale and then flushed beneath his verdant complexion as he looked at her with adoration. Natasha simply smiled back at the sorcerer and patted Bruce's muscular thigh beneath the table. "Now, Doctor, you're sounding like Tony Stark, except he'd have said something more embarrassing, and Bruce would be blushing less."

Bruce started to object but stopped himself. "True," he admitted with a thoughtful nod. "Anyway, as you were saying, Stephen?"

"I think it would help facilitate our search if we looked in the other Stones' last known locations," Strange suggested.

"You mean before Thanos 'acquired' them," Nat clarified.

"And using them and destroying them," Bruce added.

The sorcerer stroked his beard in thought. "Yes, and I believe I may know whom to ask for help with some of that. Bruce, can you still contact the Benatar?"

"That depends upon where they are and whether or not they're using a jump port," Bruce said. "Have you spoken to Fury about this? He may have better equipment and more contacts."

"Fury already knows and is checking through his channels, but I suspect the Guardians and Thor might be closer to Nowhere, Morag, or the remains of Xandar and Asgard than Fury's contacts."

"I have the prototype communication linkup that Rocket and I first put together if you'll give me a few minutes to set it up," Bruce said.

"I can spare it, especially if it gives us some answers," the physician responded.

"Back in a minute," he said and stood up from the table. Sirius watched as his master disappeared out the back door and headed to the warehouse, but he stayed at Natasha's feet.

"How about the Mind Stone?" Natasha asked. "Would Wanda be able to sense if it reappeared?"

"So far nothing," Strange admitted. "She was the first person I contacted after returning from the Kamar-Taj."

"And the next?"

"Wakanda."

"To check on Vision?"

"Yes, but nothing new, no manifestation. His body is still an empty shell."

"But Bruce, Shuri, and Helen are all working on it now," Natasha said.

"That's my understanding," Strange said. "The last time I spoke with Bruce they were working on integrating the programming and data from different sources, but still searching for a power source to replace the Stone."

"That's my understanding, too," she said, not wanting to get ahead of what Bruce may or may not have shared.

Sirius stirred and Bruce entered the kitchen with a reinforced metal case in hand, which he laid out on a clear spot in the middle of the kitchen floor and opened. "Give me a minute. This wasn't designed for hands my size. Friday, bring the array online and prepare the reactor for a higher power demand."

"Already on it, Doctor Banner," the Interface intoned brightly.

The physicist tapped a tile in the wall next to the counter to expose a variety of ports and outlets. He'd looped a coil of cables over his shoulder, which he unrolled and attached to the outlets first before connecting it to the device.

As Natasha rose from her seat, she looked at the open case that was unfolding onto the floor around itself to create a circular pad. She recognized some similarities to the diagnostic device at the medical facility from earlier in the day and the holographic communication array Bruce had designed for the Avengers Compound. She'd used it for almost a week to communicate with Okoye, Rocket, Rhodey, and Carol before the Skrull replaced her, but that device had been larger and less portable. Nat was certain this was the beta version of the machine, on which Bruce had kept tinkering after Rocket and he had designed it. Luckily, he kept it because the larger one was probably destroyed. "Do you need some help with the controls?" she asked.

"If you could flip the input lens up and handle the keypad, I'd appreciate it," he said as he handed her a modified Stark-pad and pointed to a manual set of switches on the base that stood out from the sleeker parts of the design. "That should give control of the contact calculations over to Friday." Nat did as he'd requested and adjusted the lens when it flipped into position. "Friday, engage please," Bruce said.

"Aye, initiating. Doctor, whom would you like me to contact?"

Strange caught himself before answering and Bruce grinned back. Having another degree holder in the kitchen was only slightly unusual. "Whoever is on the Benatar—Rocket, Nebula, or Thor will do. I imagine we'll be talking to all of them if this goes through."

"Please, not Drax or Quill," Strange said half under his breath.

The device hummed slightly and they waited a few moments. "Where is your antenna set up?" Natasha asked.

"The warehouse roof. It's the one place flat enough and big enough to hold the communication array, the telescopes, and some other equipment. The local Historical Society would have thrown a fit if I'd stuck anything on top of the house."

"And the reactor?" she asked as the pad in her hands began to display a map that looked like a detailed, three-dimensional star chart.

"It has a lab to itself. Why? Are you worried we'll need more juice?"

"Just thinking ahead to the Christmas lights," she teased back. "Can I display this with the holographic projector in the device?"

"There should be an option for that in the dropdown menu at the upper left," Bruce explained. She quickly had the images flashing into life in a gold column of light, and Strange moved around the table to get a closer look.

"I've found them," Friday said. "Do you want me to hail the Benatar?"

"Please," Bruce said.

In a moment, they heard a crackling that quickly resolved as the channel cleared. "Awwww . . . Did ya miss me, Big Green?" Rocket Racoon's voice asked as the golden image of the stars broke up and reformed into a life-size image of their friend that almost looked solid.

"Just the person I wanted to talk to," Bruce said.

The Guardian tilted his head and squinted. "Holy shhhh... .? Natasha?" Rocket sputtered as he recognized her. His fists went to his eyes and he wiped at them with disbelief before staring back again. "Nice haircut. What's going on? This better not be a joke!"

"No joke. Long story," she said, stepping further forward. "I lost about five years, but I did get to work with you for about a month and a half on the policing council we were setting up before I was grabbed."

"Sweet sushi! Then who was I working with? Who died? Who said she wouldn't let me in the kitchen anymore if I ate something out of the garbage can again?"

Natasha looked at Bruce for direction, and he raised his eyebrows and gave her a small shrug. Strange nodded briefly when she looked at him. "It was a doppelganger, a double who was also a very talented spy," she said.

"A Face Dancer or a Skrull?" Rocket asked.

"A Skrull. So, you've heard of them before?" she asked.

"Well, there aren't a lot of them around since the Kree went all empire on them, but they are known for their shape-shifting talents. I've never heard of one doing it for a whole five Earth years though. That's a hell of a commitment."

"Natasha! I knew I heard your voice!" Thor rumbled as he came into the column's projection field, pushing Rocket a bit to the side as the little technician protested and held his nose.

"Thor?" Natasha asked, sounding quite puzzled by his shaggy and fleshy appearance in exercise shorts and a tank top.

"Damn, I meant to tell you about him," Bruce whispered apologetically. "He got very depressed."

"Sorcerer Strange, do we have you to thank for her resurrection?" the Asgardian asked.

Bruce and Stephen looked at each other, and the sorcerer cleared his throat and stepped closer to the communication device's input lens. "No, I believe Natasha managed to free herself."

"Then you escaped Vormir on your own? That is truly auspicious!" the thunder god assumed.

"No, Thor, I was held in stasis for about five years."

"Five years? Baldur's ghost," he stammered and looked away, calculating how long she'd been a prisoner. "I . . . I'm so sorry. Then who did we work with? How did it happen?"

"A Skrull spy, you smelly dope," Rocket growled and slapped Thor's belly to back him up a bit.

"Is that who died?" Thor asked.

"Yes," Natasha said with a nod.

"I guess that explains some of her behavior and the shabby way she treated Bruce. You've told Clint, right?"

"He knows. He was here earlier," she explained.

"Ah, good," Thor said with a nod. "I'm glad you called me."

"You weren't the only one they called," Rocket said irritably as he elbowed in front of the gigantic blonde again. "Why don't you go back to helping Quill put that Bo-Flexier thing together?!"

"Looks like you've lost some weight," Bruce noted.

"Only because we're outta beer," Rocket snapped.

"Thank you for noticing," Thor said with a pleased smile.

"Actually," Strange spoke up, "there is another matter we wanted to discuss. If Nebula is there, we'd like to include her in the conversation." It took about ten minutes of discussion to get everyone up to speed between interruptions as the rest of the Guardians joined the conversation, except for Groot who mostly rolled his eyes as he worked a newer handheld game in the background before leaving the cabin. No, they'd not heard any news of the Infinity Stones manifesting, but they'd been mostly focused on following Gamora's trail and looking for Asgardian survivors. There was confusion, but also a lot of joy after Bruce's Snap returned people.

The Guardians had good news on that front. The spaceport where the heavily damaged hulk of the Ambassador had been hauled after its destruction at Thanos' hands had doubled its population of 1,200 as unsnapped Asgardians and even some resurrected ones rejoined the living along with a few Sakaaran gladiators as well. Thor teared up as he thanked Bruce for including so many of his people in the Hulk-Snap.

"It was the least I could do. I really wasn't sure if it had worked. Were Loki or Heimdall returned?" Bruce asked.

"No news of them yet, but we've not given up hope," Thor said with a shrug. "Most of the survivors will be immigrating to New Asgard to join the rest as ships become available," he explained.

Rocket chuckled, "It's not like we could get them an Uber Lift, but the locals seemed pretty motivated to get them all off the station and resettled."

"Before they eat them out of lauder and breathe them out of oxygen," Nebula added. "We're headed toward Nowhere next as we search for my sister. Perhaps we'll hear something about the Power or the Reality Stone there."

"Hope so," Quill added. "We've heard stories that don't match up. Some reports say there's nothing left of Xandar, but others say only the capital was damaged and it's slowly and quietly being rebuilt. When we get closer, the information should get more reliable."

"If there's something to see, we won't know till we see it with our own eyes or not," Draxx said stoically.

"I hate to break up this love fest," Rocket intoned, "but we are nearing the jump port. Has everyone made their requests, kissed their moms, and said their good-byes?"

"Please let us know as quickly as you're able if there's news of a Stone manifesting," Strange entreated.

"We certainly will," Nebula replied in her husky all-business tone. Bruce had a good rapport with Rocket and an abiding friendship with Thor, but he placed most of his confidence in the tall blue cyborg.

"Just a moment," Thor said and got close to the device as the others receded from view. "Let me know when the wedding is, okay? I'd like to be there." Before Bruce or Natasha could respond, he'd winked and signed off.

"Well," Strange asked impishly, "when is it?"

[thedyingmoon]

💜 This I Promise 💜

***

LII. Captain

***

"Well?"

"Huh?"

"(F/N), the key."

"Oh! Alright, here it is,..."

Levi fought the urge to sigh and get annoyed after asking (F/N) for the third time that evening where the key to the house is.

But, then again, the girl was not to be blamed, for she had her fair share of champagne a few minutes prior.

And now, as Levi watched the girl as she rummaged through her reticule for the key, he could not help, but think: why did she let herself be this wasted?

Was it because of those heartless nobles who kept on criticizing her?

"(F/N), let me do it,..." said Levi as (F/N)'s key missed the keyhole for the fifth time. Ah, now she's getting dizzy,...

"I can do it." she drawled in a really slurred voice.

Levi raised an eyebrow. "Try saying that in the morning when you wake up."

(F/N) was about to say something when the man snatched the key away from her. Levi ignored her drunken plea as he successfully opened the door with ease.

And, as he let her enter first, a very random thought crossed his mind like a lone meteor in the night sky,...

... Kenny was trying to make (F/N) come with him,...

You're coming with me! He said.

I asked my man to look for someone, as well. He remembered the Duchess Fleminger's words to him.

Wait,...

He thought.

Was the Duchess looking for (F/N)?

Levi shrugged his head in disbelief and ignored the crazy idea that just crossed his mind. The Duchess had very few acquaintances. If there ever was, well, other nobles gossiped that they're either gone or were the King's former secret spies. Some insane ones even declared that she WAS, indeed, the King's former spy.

He could not help, but chuckle at the thought. A robust widow of four and sixty, how could someone as old and as fragile as her be a spy, let alone someone who's in everyone's conspiracy theories?

"Wait, Elvis?"

"What is it?" Levi whispered as he gently closed the door. He was just glad that Nile's family won't be home until four in the morning and that the servants were all asleep. If there's someone who's not, then, definitely, he would open the front door for them and not let (F/N) rummage drunkenly through her reticule in the first place.

"We left Erwin,..."

Ah, Erwin,...

"He's fine. Don't worry about him." he said as he lead her towards the living room.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive."

"Oh. Elvis, I - "

(F/N) whirled around to face him when her dizziness caused her to suddenly collapse, with her mind reeling, making her stomach lurch in three to four different directions. Levi caught her just in time before her body could even hit the ground.

"(F/N)!"

The girl looked up at him and suddenly saw three copies of him superimposed over each other. She shut her eyes, and when she opened them once more, the copies merged into one, worried, blue - eyed blonde. And a handsome one, at that.

"Elvis?"

"I'll get you a cup of tea,..." he said and gently lifted her up, careful not to make her even more dizzy as she was. He carried her towards the nearest sofa and laid her gently down.

He was surprised: for the first time, ever, he noticed that (F/N) was no longer that skinny compared to how she was back then when she was still in the Legion. As he brushed some (H/C) locks away from her hair, he noticed that she was much rosier now, and livelier. He was not sure if the effect was just the aftermath of too much champagne, but the seductive curves he was seeing surely wasn't the product of a drunken mind. She looked much fuller now. And she's heavier now. God, she was so skinny as stick back then,...

All in all, her stay in the Dawk household had done her much good compared to how she was in the Military, where she was often treated poorly.

He winced, suddenly remembering all the things that happened between them in the past, and was about to go to the kitchen to make her tea when the girl suddenly grabbed his arm, preventing him from leaving.

"Don't leave me,..." she said to him, her eyelids closing as sleep started to overcome her. "Stay,..."

Levi sighed and kneeled before her form.

"Do you really want me to stay?"

(F/N), despite her state, managed to conjure up the most wonderful smile that he had ever seen and nodded, her hand wandering close to his chest. And even before she could wander towards unknown territories of his body, he took her hand in his and kissed it, the sensation that he deprived himself of actually made him alive. In another way.

God! He really wanted to kiss her, already, and make her his!

But, of course, that was not feasible, as of the moment. He still had a promise to fulfill. He knew it would not be easy, but he also believed that it would all be so worth it.

And, after that, finally,...

"I love you,..." she suddenly whispered, making his eyes wide and his insides hotter than ever before. "I love you, so much,..."

"No." he replied and went closer towards her, their faces now only inches away from each other. "I love you even more." he said, actually surprised at the foreign tone he just let out. It sounded gentle, kind, soft,...

... and starving,...

He quickly took hold of her other arm as lips wandered to her smooth neck up towards her right earlobe, slightly nibbling on it. He felt the girl shiver, and when he looked at her once more, he knew it in an instant,...

... he wanted to make love with her,...

Oh, fuck! He thought as he was about to kiss her,...

... when the sound of shattering porcelain pierced his ears and his mood.

He looked up and noticed a wide - eyed Jonas staring at the two of them on the sofa, a forlorn saucer on his grasp, and the pieces of the broken cup on the marble floor along with its amber - colored content, now reaching the carpet,...

"What in the Hades are you doing to my cousin?!" Jonas whispered loudly, pointing the saucer at Levi.

"Wait! It's not,..." Levi began and realized it was too late for explanations now. "... what you think,... Bullshit,..."

He stood up, his lower region hurting too much because of deprivation of attention and went towards the teen.

Jonas stepped back like Levi was the undead and held the saucer out for defense, like the man was actually going to hit him.

"Step away, you - fornicator! I'm warning you,..." Jonas lamely threatened.

Levi clicked his tongue and grabbed the teen's shoulders, making poor Jonas shiver in fear.

"Step away, brat." Levi said as he forcefully made Jonas move away from the doorway that lead to the kitchen.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Jonas said, trying too hard to not wake up the household. "Get back here and fight like a - a man!"

No word was heard from Levi, until five minutes later when he reemerged, a dustpan on one hand and a plastic bag on the other.

Jonas watched, dumbfounded, as Lord Elvis Shunerman started picking the pieces of broken teacup carefully and putting them into the bag. After that, he stood, went back to the kitchen, and appeared once more, and this time, holding a wet rag that seemed dipped in lemon - scented cleaning substance. The teen was even more confused when the haughty Lord started wiping the floor, ridding it of the menace of the spilled tea and preventing it from creating even more stains on the floor.

After that, Shunerman stood up and went back to the kitchen, and when he did not return, Jonas finally followed him and found him rummaging through the shelves like a thief.

The teen carefully put the saucer down and grabbed the broom, ready to fight if the need arises. It seemed that in the boy's opinion, Lord Elvis Shunerman had become insane.

"What are you doing?" Jonas asked, his hand trembling, making the poor weapon of his choice look pathetic than ever before.

Elvis faced him, his hands still rummaging through the shelves, and raised an eyebrow.

"It seems that you just had an upgrade." the man told him in a hoarse voice. After that, he faced the shelves once more. "But, it won't do anything against me, believe me, brat."

"You - THIEF! Get your hands off those shelves!"

And the man did! Only to obtain three different boxes of rare tea leaves.

"I only ever drank black. We don't have enough supplies, you know." he said as he read the label on the boxes. "Lavender infused? It's a flower, right? I didn't know that it could be made into tea. And, what's this? Morning tea? And,... ginger,... very interesting,..."

"Drop those, now!" Jonas weakly threatened as he waved the broom about him, looking more and more pathetic as time went by.

The noble put the boxes down on the table and went back towards the shelves to fetch a kettle.

"Which one would you like?" he simply asked. Jonas could never stop the man from what he was doing. Simply put, he was beginning to make himself a cup of tea. And he even offered him some!

"I don't drink lavender! It's for girls!"

"Oh, really?" Levi drawled sarcastically. "Then, what was that you spilled on the floor?"

He turned to the teen once more and saw him still holding the broom, like he was about to swat a cockroach. He sighed and sat on one of the chairs, waiting for the water to boil.

"I told you, already. It won't do anything to me."

"Shut up!"

"And how would you consider yourself a Scout if you could not even make a strange man leave your house?" Levi asked, putting his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers, covering the lower part of his face with them, his eyes still not leaving the teen.

Jonas slowly lowered the broom in confusion.

How in the world - ?

"How did you know I want to join the Legion?" Jonas asked a bit calmer, but still not letting his guard down.

"I just,... know things,..." the man closed his eyes and started rubbing his aching temples. "Ah, fuck, I've had this thing on for long, I'm starting to get a headache."

Jonas watched in disbelief as the man removed his blonde hair, revealing raven - colored ones. One movement of his hand also removed the thick pair of blonde pseudo eyebrows, revealing dark, thinner ones. One last movement of his long and slender fingers removed the unbelievably believable fake nose, revealing a much smaller, pointed one.

One look at him and it finally sank in,...

... that Lord Elvis Shunerman was naught,...

He was,...

... a different man, altogether.

"C-captain!" Jonas stuttered as he finally dropped the broom on the floor, his eyes wide as the saucer he held earlier. "CAPTAIN!"

"No. Right now, I'm not." Levi simply told him. The kettle started whistling, and before it could make any more noise, he whisked it away and started preparing for his much awaited drink. "Now, I'm asking you for the last time, or you won't get any. What would you like?"

"Lavender." Jonas mumbled and collapsed on the chair across from Levi's. He looked at the man once more and confirmed even further that he was, indeed, the honorable Captain of the Scouting Legion, Levi Ackerman, himself.

"You're Humanity's Strongest. A man whose strength is comparable to that of an entire brigade. You replaced Mike Zacharius from his title,..."

"Replaced Mike?" Levi started pouring the kettle's contents on a porcelain pitcher. "I did not replace him or anyone in the Legion!"

"But, you did! He was Humanity's Strongest before you!"

Levi raised an eyebrow and waved the pitcher's lid in some gesture before putting it back on the pitcher, his silence on the mattter almost killing Jonas.

"I never said I was the strongest. The lot of you did." he answered and went back to his chair.

"What are you even doing here? Where is the real Elvis Shunerman? And, now that I think about it, who are you to (F/N)?"

"You ask too many questions, brat." Levi answered as he ran a hand through his dark hair.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to fulfill a promise."

"To whom?"

Levi did not answer. Instead, his tired eyes wandered towards the doorway that lead to the living room,...

... where (F/N) currently slept.

"I don't understand any of this! How are you even connected to her? The moment we came to see her, she can't remember a damn thing! Not even her name! What happened to her? Are you involved in it? Is that why you're here?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer all of your questions."

"And why is that?"

"It's for your own good."

Jonas didn't say anything else. He remained silent for the rest of the preparation for the tea, and when Levi finally gave him the cup of Lavender - infused tea for girls, his tongue went active, once more.

"You are the cause of her memory loss."

"Yes."

"I can't know why or how."

"That's right."

"Your promise is to bring her back, am I correct?"

"More or less."

"More,... or less?"

"Yes."

"I' am not allowed to know what else?"

"Yes." Levi poured himself a cup of Lavender tea and began sipping.

"You said that's for girls."

"I did not. You did."

"Oh, right."

Jonas went silent once more and decided to sip the tea that the renowned Legion Captain made for him. It was,... not bad!

"So, are you,... were you,... in a relationship? You and (F/N)?"

Jonas noticed the slight tremble in the Captain's hand as he held the cup in a most peculiar way, by the rim, and slowly took a sip. He brought the cup down and hummed.

"Hmm, not bad. But, it could be better." Levi said as he stood up and went towards the shelves once more to ransack them once more. "Hey, kid, you have sugar and cream?"

"Y-yeah, they're on the second shelf." Jonas awkwardly answered.

"Ah, there, found them." Levi took them out and went back to his chair. He started adding sugar and cream to his own cup of lavender. "Lavender. Tea of the nobles. They can be pretty pretentious."

"Sorry?"

"Pretentious. They are not aware of one thing's beauty. Why do they even need to add sugar or cream to an already flavorful drink?"

"I don't understand, Captain, I - "

"And, when they realize their fault, they try to cover them up with additives that don't make any sense. And when it's too much,..."

Levi looked at Jonas' eyes once more after the third teasepoon of sugar and the fourth tablespoon of cream, his eyes as solemn as a judge's before numerous sinners.

"... they eliminate them without a single, fucking, thought." Levi took the cup once more and sipped, and almost gagged.

"Shit. Look, the thing has become even more complicated than before. You can't even see the Lavender for what it is, anymore. Ah, such a waste, this is,..." Levi stood up and threw the contents of his cup down the sink.

Jonas was still gawking at what the Captain just did, but then, he realized something,...

... the Captain cannot tell him anything regarding his business here, or his affiliation with (F/N),...

But, his weird opinion of Lavender?

Or,...

... was he even talking about the Lavender, in the first place?

What if he was trying to tell him something a lot more different? Something,... even more? He said pretentious. What if he was referring to something else other than Lavender? He said that Lavender is the tea of the nobles.

Nobles,...

Jonas eyes widened once more as realization hit him like a speeding bullet.

"Lavender,..."

"I don't like lavender, kid. I'll make myself a cup of ginger tea,..." Levi answered as he prepared himself a new one.

"No! (F/N). The reason she's here is because of the nobles, am I right? Or not exactly related,... You're trying to tell me that there has been a cover up of all the things regarding her! Come to think of it, she has a new name, a new title. But, it's not who she really is! But, her being here is a mistake, so someone is trying to dispose her because of it! Creating something out of another thing is tantamount to,... wait, the Commander was the one who brought her here! He has something planned for her. He was the one who gave her a new name and a title. But, why? Unless - !"

"Okay, kid. That's enough. I'm only referring to the lavender, not her." Levi said as he crossed his arms. For a space of a few moments, the kid had already scratched the surface of (F/N)'s very complicated situation. But, that's it. It's just a scratch.

The kid must not delve deeper into it. For his own safety.

"But, surely! You will not go here to Sina for nothing! Something's going on here! And not just love - related,..."

"Okay, you're embarrasing me, brat. Enough of your chit - chat,..."

"But, I assumed right, am I right? I'm smart, right?" Jonas said, his eyes full of wonder and excitement.

"Seriously, kid,..."

"So, will you let me join the Legion now?"

"No."

"Aww, come on! Don't you care about me spreading the word that you tried to kiss the Commander's fiancee'?"

"That's blackmail, brat. Don't you think that's going too far for your selfish dream?"

"It's not selfish!" Jonas stood up and banged his fists on the table. He regarded Levi down as seriously as he could, mustering all his strength to face the Captain. "I want to join the Scouting Legion, because I wanted to help humanity! It's the truth!"

"You want to help humanity? Don't you care what happens to your mother and father should you perish outside the Walls? You'll break their heart."

"I will not perish! Please, just give me a chance. I can't convince the Commander, but maybe, I can convince you. I've trained hard enough for this. Just let me prove to you that I can be a good Soldier!"

Levi brought his fingers to his chin and hummed.

"No, you're not. To me, you're not trained enough."

"But, you can train me to be better!"

Levi decided for a while.

He can't mess up with this. The kid haven't even seen Titans, yet. Will he still be courageous after seeing them kill humans?

But, then, he can see something in his those eyes,...

... he can see,...

"Alright, kid. But, I'll be the one to tell if you're ready or not, got it?"

"Yes!" Jonas jumped as he rejoiced at the Captain's answer. "I won't fail you, I swear!"

"On one condition,..."

"What is it?"

"I tell you to hide. You hide. I tell you to run, you don't fight. You run. And finally, I tell you to decide, you decide on your own and see to it through the end without any remorse. The outside world is a place of danger, but there is freedom should one decide to fight. But, right now, danger is lurking in the shadows, maybe even here inside the confines of your home. So, when I tell you to hide, you hide. I tell you to run, you don't fight. You run. And finally, I tell you to decide,..."

"I decide on my own and see to it through the end without any remorse. Got it."

Levi sighed and stood up.

He may make a mess out of the kid's life for letting him in on his schemes and the Legion, in particular.

But, the damage was done. His disguise was out for Jonas to see.

He must see to his decision through the end,...

... without letting him know the full details of (F/N)'s existence here in Sina and the reason he wanted to take her away from here and Erwin as soon as possible,...

***

~ @levi4mikasa , @chocolate-mmilk , @super-peace-fangirl , @fangurl-ontgeside , @yepps , @shewolfofficial , @unhappysap , @nerdyphantomlady , and @emilyackerman78 . 💜

***

💜💜💜

***

[second-hand-heaven]

More Than a Butler

Alfred and the Waynes were very... close. Here’s a look at how close.

Ao3

Summ: “Can you love more than one person at the same time?” Bruce finally spits out, and Alfred can barely contain a laugh. Bruce turns to him sharply, eyes narrowed.

He should apologise for laughing at Bruce’s inner turmoil, but Alfred just smiles, not unkindly. “My dear boy, I very much hope so.”

Bruce has a personal dilemma, and Alfred has a secret. 

Master Bruce is in the den, curled up on the sofa like he isn’t a six foot two mass of muscle and scar tissue. He stares into the fireplace, thoughts elsewhere, not bothering to look up as Alfred enters the room. There was no patrol tonight, not in this harsh weather, and Alfred considered it a blessing to see the master of the house take a night off.

There’s still tension in Bruce’s shoulders, something unsettling him. It can’t be a case, or else he’d be locked away in the Cave, so it must be something of a more personal variety. The only solution on Alfred’s part is to wait and offer guidance if asked- and maybe before he’s asked, if Master Bruce is particularly slow. Alfred sets down the tray on the coffee table, the teacups never shifting in their saucers. “I thought you might like some tea,” Alfred says, pouring two cups. Bruce says noting, not that Alfred had expected him to. For a man as perceptive as Bruce, he could zone out with ease within the walls of this house, unaware of another’s presence.

The portrait of Martha and Thomas sits above the mantelpiece, their faces younger than that of the painting in the hall. Alfred smiles up at them softly, adding sugar to his own cup of tea. Even after all these years, he's never been able to kick the habit. Some things never change.

Saucer in hand, Alfred takes a seat on the sofa, perching beside Bruce. It’s only then that Bruce looks up from his silent contemplation. He makes it speak, then pauses, lips pursed. Alfred waits, takes a sip of tea, and waits some more.

“Can you love more than one person at the same time?” Bruce finally spits out, and Alfred can barely contain a laugh. Tea sloshes from his cup, pooling at the ridges of the saucer. Bruce turns to him sharply, eyes narrowed.

He should apologise for laughing at Bruce’s inner turmoil, but Alfred just smiles, not unkindly, and says, “my dear boy, I very much hope so.”

The Wayne’s were already married when Alfred began working for them. Young, intelligent, incredibly wealthy, both Thomas and Martha were stunningly beautiful. Right away, Alfred was half enamoured with the pair of them. It was their charisma at first, then later their unpolished charm, that drew Alfred deeper into the mess of unrequited pining.

It was the first rule of being ‘the help’: never fall for your employers. Or maybe it was the second rule, after ‘don’t steal the silverware’. Either way, there were lines that should never, could never be crossed. The Waynes were happily married, and Alfred was a chauffeur, nothing could ever happen. There were rules, goddammit!

But even in the SAS, Alfred was never the best at following rules. The rings on their fingers were a sore reminder each and every day, but he carried on as Pennyworths do. Jealousy was unbecoming, just as pining for one’s employers. But the Waynes made it so easy, with their soft smiles and invitations for private drinks. They were so easy to fall in love with, and so very hard to love.

. . .

It was a rare occasion to have only the three of them in the Manor, the Wayne household usually buzzing with activity. But tonight, the mistress had given the staff the night off, all of them except for Alfred. Thomas was home early from the office, a pleasant surprise. Alfred double checked the calendar to make sure he hadn’t missed a special occasion for the couple.

Alfred finished laying the table for two and called the Waynes to be seated. He pulled out their chairs and seated them, Martha first, then Thomas, placing the unfolded cloth napkins in their laps. Uncorking a fresh bottle of red from the cellar, he poured two glasses, and found Thomas holding out a third.

“Why don't you eat with us tonight?” Thomas asked, his smile broad and hopeful. “We do enjoy your company.”

Alfred frowned, “I don't think-” I don't think this is a good idea.

“Join us, please, Alfred,” Martha insisted. “The more the merrier.”

It was just the three of them, no one to comment on the lack of decorum in either party’s behalf. The alternative was a quiet dinner by himself in the kitchen, which sounded rather drab compared to the effervescent company of the Waynes. Not to mention, the sheer joy that arose at the thought of joining the Waynes for a meal, even if it were just a casual dinner. So Alfred nodded and fetched another dinner set, setting a third place at the table.

It was odd to begin with, but by the end of the entree, it was like they were old friends. And like old friends, the teasing was incessant, though Alfred gave back as good as he got. Thomas joked, Martha snooped, and Alfred gossiped. He nearly spat out his Merlot when Martha asked him, “are you seeing anyone?”

His cheeks nearly grew as red as the wine. “Ah, no ma’am. Seems I haven't had the time.”

Thomas frowned at him, calculating. “Perhaps you could do with some time off, have a chance to meet some new people?”

Alfred's eyes flew wide. “No! I mean, I'm perfectly happy with they way things are at present.” It was only a partial lie. “And really, could you survive without me for more than a day?”

Martha sighed dramatically, the back of her hand pressed against her forehead in a theatrical display. “We could never bear to let you go!”

“Insufferable,” Alfred huffed, with a smirk twitching at his lips. He played the unappreciated butler card countless times, much to their amusement.

“Oh but you love us, Alfie,” Thomas had said, jovial as ever as he clapped a hand on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred didn't correct him; there was nothing to correct. He just smiled demurely and took another sip of his wine.

. . .

It happened more often that Alfred had anticipated, Martha and Thomas inviting him to join them for dinner, or drinks, or other small activities. One night they would play poker, where Martha cleaned both Thomas and Alfred out, and the next they would simply sit by the fire in amicable silence. Together, the three of them would relax, enjoying one another’s company, and it pleased as much as confused poor Alfred.

Other times, they would come to him separately. Martha would insist he join her in the garden while she tended to the rose bushes she adored so greatly. He learnt the best times of year to prune, when to be harsh and when to be gentle to them. He learnt his mistress’ favourite strains and her desire to breed new ones. He learnt the sting of a rose thorn is nothing compared to unrequited longing.

Thomas would invite him for a game of chess, played with a glass or two of top shelf brandy and those cigars that Martha detested. They'd talk, mostly about nothing, sometimes about Martha: her new hat, what she'd like for her anniversary, a movie she was interested in seeing. Alfred kept it professional as always, but something at the back of his mind craved more, craved an intimacy unrestrained, an intimacy he could never achieve. So instead Alfred took another nip and moved his bishop. “Checkmate.”

. . .

For the Waynes’ upcoming wedding anniversary, Thomas had Alfred drive him to a jewellers in Midtown, high end, awfully exclusive. Expecting instructions to drive around the block for a while, Alfred was surprised to hear Thomas ask him to park and follow him into the store. It was hardly the first time his master had asked him along for such errands, but to help choose an anniversary gift? It was too much.

But still, he followed Thomas into the store just like he'd follow Thomas across No Man's Land, with a raised eyebrow and a quickening step. They browsed through the cabinets, Thomas touching Alfred’s arm any time he saw something of merit, excited like a child. After what felt like hours of looking at diamond after diamond, Thomas had grinned down at him and asked, “what do you think she’d like, Alfie?”  

Alfie, such a term of endearment. How could he so much as think when Thomas called him such a name. “I-uhhh.” Alfred could feel a blush spread across his cheeks that refused to budge. “Pearls,” he suggested, “a rather elegant look, I’d think, sir.” A string of pearls, tight around his mistress’ taut and regal throat, made a beautiful picture.

“Thomas,” the doctor corrected, but he still nodded, pleased with the verdict. “Pearls it is,” he said, and asked the sales assistant what they had with pearls.

. . .

Later that night, they gathered in the den, Alfred serving some coffee, when Thomas produced a box done up in an elaborate bow. The box from the jewellery store, Alfred recalled, and was about to leave the room to give his employers some much needed privacy.

“These are from us,” Thomas had said as he handed the gift to his wife, oblivious to Alfred’s shock. “Alfie helped pick them out.” He pressed a kiss to Martha's cheek, so intimate that Alfred had to look away. “Happy anniversary.”

She opened the box and gasped at the sight, two strings of pearls laid out across navy velvet. Hand to her heart, she said, “thank you, boys,” and held up the pearls to the light, examining their shine. “They’re beautiful.”

They were superb, Alfred had to agree. They might even be worthy enough to decorate his mistress’ throat.

“Alfred, dear, would you mind?” she’d asked, holding the necklace to her throat with one hand, the other holding her loose hair away from the chain.

Him? Unsure of what games his employers were playing, Alfred played along. He crossed the room until he was behind Martha, and with shaking hands he took the clasp. His fingers brushed against Martha’s as he took hold of the fastener, a simple touch that he could never forget. He tried to close the clasp, but his hands, hands that never shook in the heat of battle, would not comply. He felt a brush of fabric against his back, a seam from a lapel perhaps. Alfred swallowed thickly, not daring to move.

“Nervous?” Alfred heard Thomas say, impossibly close to his ear. “Don't be. Let me help.” Thomas’s hands covered Alfred’s, the surgeon’s hands steadying the soldier’s. Together, they worked the clasp of the necklace around Martha’s throat. “Done.” Thomas announced, but didn’t let go of Alfred’s hands. Alfred held his breath as Thomas brought their joined left hands to his lips, a feather-light kiss ghosting across Alfred's knuckles.

Alfred jerked free of Thomas’s grasp, and spun across the room, trying to put some distance between them. “What on Earth is going on?” Alfred cried, humiliation burning in his throat.

Martha and Thomas stared at him in shock. “Alfred, we-” they tried, but Alfred cut them off.

“No, I will not have this… this teasing any longer.” Anger melted away until he was left with resignation and a hopeless sadness. “I thought I could conceal myself, my feelings, but I was incorrect. I-I apologise. I will be gone before the morning.”

Martha blinked at him. “Alfred, we aren’t teasing.” She moved closer and closer to Alfred, who was frozen to the spot. “We want you, if you’ll have us.”

Alfred spluttered in disbelief. “What?”

“We’re serious,” Thomas said, now at his wife’s shoulder, “we’d like you to join us. Intimately. Not just for tonight.” He took Alfred’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb over Alfred’s knuckles. “An arrangement between the three of us could be most rewarding.” His smile was welcoming, sincere, and Alfred could not bring himself to believe their words to be a lie. He thought of the dinners with just the three of them, the late night drinks. He thought of Martha's smile amongst rosebuds, Thomas’s lips wrapped in a smile around a cigar, idle chatter and warm touches. They wouldn't lie to him, not now.

“But,” Alfred tried to protest, but the only excuse that came to mind was “it’s your anniversary?”

Martha grinned, taking hold of his tie and pulling him down close enough for a kiss. “Think of yourself as the gift,” she whispered, before closing the distance between their lips.

. . .

It was a messy affair, with plenty of near-misses, but no one in the Wayne household was stupid or brave enough to mention it. It would have been worth the scandal, he had decided, just to have had a moment with them. But there were plenty of moments, both luxurious and short, where the three of them could be together in the most casual and intimate ways. It was easy for Alfred to love them, far too easy.

It all came to a head when they found out Martha was pregnant. A joyous occasion, surely. But the question that none of them were willing to ask was, of course, whose child would it be? Alfred knew, in name at least, the child would never be his, and it hurt more than he could admit.

That night, Thomas had found him on the Manor roof, with a bottle of whiskey and two cigars in hand. He sat beside Alfred, their shoulders pressed together, and lit both cigars, passing one to Alfred. In silence, they smoked and drank, watching the Gotham skyline light up the night.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your wife?” Alfred had finally said, looking anywhere other than at the man beside him. “It is, after all, your child.”

But Thomas would never rise to Alfred’s bait. “You know,” Thomas said, taking another swig, “I quite like the thought that it might be your child.” Alfred had gaped at him, cigar nearly falling from his hand until Thomas took it in his own, stubbing out the cigar against the roof tiles, but keeping hold of that hand. “We love you, I love you, and by God will we love this child.”

Alfred nodded silently. He would, until the end of his days. The floodgates opened, tears spilling down Alfred’s cheeks. Thomas chuckled and held Alfred to his chest as he sobbed, whispering soothing words into Alfred’s hair, chest rumbling against Alfred’s cheek. The comfort of Thomas’s arms was almost unrivalled. “You’ll be an excellent father,” Alfred had said, once his tears had subsided. He pulled away, just a fraction, but kept hold of Thomas’s hand.

Thomas smiled and pressed the whiskey bottle to Alfred’s chest. “As will you.”

. . .

They never did find out who the father was. It never mattered. Bruce was their child, a child born to the three of them, no matter what the birth certificate said. For all intents and purposes, Bruce Wayne was the son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, and Alfred was a chauffeur, a butler, whatever his role was for the day. And that was okay. Bruce grew up in a household that loved him, his blue eyes always sparkling with mischief. As his hair changed from soft blonde to unruly, inky dark curls, they were none the wiser about his parentage.

Alfred worked in, for, a household that loved him, but loved him behind closed doors. The Manor afforded some privacy, but the public eye was ever-watchful. It was unheard of for a butler, or a glorified chauffer, to join his employers to the opera, to dinner, or to the theatre. So he would wait, always wait, and and try not to think of what could be.

He should have been there. He should have done something to save them. Too late, he heard of their blood and pearls spilled in a dark and grisly alleyway. He’d have collapsed in grief, but their son, his son, was alive. He raced to the scene and he clung to the boy tighter than ever before. Bruce was safe, and Alfred vowed to keep him safe for as long as he took breath.

Bruce gapes at him. “Alfred, I never…” I never knew.

The World’s Greatest Detective, deceived by an old man, he would laugh if it weren’t so painful to think about all the lies they told, even after all these years. “And you were never meant to know, not really. We wanted to tell you when you were older, but then…” but then they died. “I didn’t want the memory of your parents to be sullied,” he decides on saying, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Sullied? Alfred, it would never do that. You could never do that.”  There a certainty in Bruce’s voice that brings tears to Alfred’s eyes. “All these years, in silence?”

Alfred nods, tears stinging, unshed. “I loved them, Master Bruce, in silence or otherwise.” The truth fills the room, spilling across every surface. He looks up at the ceiling, taking a moment to compose himself. “So yes, I believe you can love more than one person at once. You are not broken, nor are you foolish or indecisive. Well, perhaps just a little foolish.” He sends a wry smile in Bruce’s direction. “But love is foolishness. And love is precious. Your love is precious, Bruce, don’t let it be silent.”

Bruce nods, his blue eyes glittering. Look at them, Alfred thinks to himself, two grown men brought to tears by love. Thomas and Martha must be laughing at them somewhere, surely.

Alfred clears his throat. “So, will Ms Prince and Master Kent be accompanying you for dinner tomorrow night?” It’s hardly a secret who Bruce could have meant, not to Alfred.

“Not tomorrow night,” Bruce says, though it’s not a denial.

Alfred hides the smirk that teases at the corner of his mouth. “The night after, perhaps?”

“Sounds good,” Bruce smiles at him and nods. He reaches across the space between them, covering Alfred’s hand in his. “Thank you,” Bruce says, and that’s all it takes for the tears to fall.

The figures of portrait above the fireplace watch on, smiles on both their faces.

FIN

[madokasoratsugu]

to good fortune and luck

[rod/lucette; post-canon (good end)]

summary: five blessings Lucette receives from the people dearest to her.(and the one blessing she'll never beg for.)

a/n: i really like them /chinhands/. i also really like lucette metaphorically giving the middle finger. as usual pls read on ao3 bc tumblr probs didnt catch all my italics and stuff lmao

read on ao3

1.

“Lucette, you’re with Rod, are you not?”

Lucette’s hand comes to a perfect standstill. Gently setting the teacup back down on its saucer, she forces herself to meet Ophelia’s eyes.

There is no judgement in her patient gaze, but no doubt either.

Lucette doesn’t allow herself a second breath, a second thought of denial to run through her mind.

“Yes.”

The spring breeze flips pages of a book Emelaigne left open on the picnic blanket. The owner is nowhere to be seen, having dragged her brother off to procure more baked goods.

“I see.”

Ophelia quietly smiles. It’s tinged with pain, and the expression cuts deeper into Lucette than she likes.

“Then I suppose i’ll have to dig out my wedding veil. It’ll need some work, but I hope you won’t mind. It’s always been a tradition in my family to pass down the veil as an heirloom.”

Lucette blinks. Her hand is shaking too badly to lift her teacup to her dry mouth.

“Of course not.” Lucette manages. She blinks harder, and tries to suck in a discrete breath. “Your lacework has always been lovely.”

Ophelia’s smile grows. It’s still dampened at the edges, but in Ophelia’s sudden embrace, it’s clear as day to Lucette that the grief isn’t directed at her.

Rather, it exists for her.

Not for the first time, Lucette mumbles thanks to her mother, who loved Lucette so deeply she suffered tenfold at the thought of Lucette ever, ever being hurt.

Who would support her, even if the world wouldn’t.

2.

“When you get married to Rod - .” Emelaigne stops to sigh dreamily, and Lucette secretly loves it; the way Emelaigne uses her words, the way she says ‘when’ and not ‘if’, ‘married’ and not anything less.

“When the both of you get married, I want to arrange your bouquet.” Emelaigne flops backwards onto her bed, spreading her arms out above her.

A wide grin stretches on her face. “It’s the only thing i’m better than you at, so you can’t say no!”

Lucette laughs, pressing her hands into her lap. “Why would I?”

Emelaigne pulls herself up as abruptly as she laid down. “Maybe because you already have someone else you want to do it, or someone more qualified, or - .”

“Em.”

Emelaigne pouts. “Okay, okay. That means no one, right? Then i’ve called dibs!”

She pauses, eyes dipping to one side that hints at something else.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Lucette asks gently, prodding Emelaigne’s side.

“Well….” Emelaigne flushes.

She reaches to her nightstand, opening the drawer to reveal a matte silver box.

Handing it to Lucette, she motions for the auburn to open it.

White stargazer lilies bloom outwards, surrounded by artistic sprigs of lily-of-the-valley and baby’s breath.

Lucette slowly lifts the beautifully decorated golden barrette, wide eyed.

“I know I’m jumping the gun here, but.” Emelaigne clasps her hands before her middle, smiling hopefully. “It’s an engagement gift. I noticed your old one was fraying at it’s petals.”

“It’s lovely, Em.” Lucette breathes.

Every petal was angled with dedication, faux beads of water giving life to the mini bouquet.

“It’d look nicer if Rod would just propose already, so you could wear it.”

Lucette bursts into giggles, red faced.

She’s welling with embarrassment and childish glee unbefitting a princess, but with Emelaigne laughing by her side, Lucette cannot imagine herself as anything else.

3.

“Take this.”

Fritz shoves a practice sword against Rod’s chest. He stands towering before Lucette’s door, shielding Rod from any passerby’s sight.

“Go back using the South staircase behind the kitchen. There shouldn’t be anyone using it at this time, but if there is, tell them you were having a private training session with me. If they try badgering you for any more information, just mention the name Varg.”

Rod nods once, before walking briskly away, immaculately dressed like Lucette is not.

She shuffles backwards in her nightgown, uncertain. It wouldn’t do to have her knight see her like this.

It wouldn’t do to have her knight see her secret lover sneaking out of her room either, but there’s that.

Still, all Fritz does is send her a reassuring smile. “We still have half an hour, princess. Plenty of time to get ready for breakfast.”

When Lucette next exits her room, everything is encased in silk, pressed out of sight with powder.

It takes everything in her to look at Fritz directly.

“With five minutes to spare. Let’s hurry, though.”

At the sight of Fritz’s warm grin, the coldness in her middle melts. Yet a chunk of ice remains as she stands before the dining hall doors.

A sick feeling grows in her. She doubts it’s the overpowering scent of syrup, this time.

Still, the sticky feeling of the silenced topic that hangs in the air tastes just like it, if only not as sweet.

“Princess, want to know a magic trick?”

Bewildered, Lucette turns to see Fritz drawing two strokes diagonally away from each other on his palm three times before he mimes eating it.

“I heard its a spell for confidence.”

The half-witch feels her face twitch with a smile.

“I can tell you that is not true.”

“But I can tell you that the fact that i’ll support you no matter what is.” Fritz says, knowing, understanding. “I hope at least that inspires confidence.”

Lucette stares at Fritz, at the streak of black that curls around one side of his face, the bright curve of his lips and remembers the way her silver knight had tamed his wolf just to serve by her side.

“It does.”

And Lucette pushes the doors open herself.

4.

“Are you adjusting well to the Tenebrarum?” Waltz asks, grinning wildly.

“As well as you are to your role as magical advisor to the kingdom.” Lucette immediately replies, cracking a smile at their silly inside joke.

Waltz chuckles, patting the space beside him on the wide fountain rim.

“You look tired, little star.”

“Secrets are hard things to keep.” Lucette says, shaking her head as she sits.

“You’re doing quite well, for one of this magnitude.” Waltz says, stroking her hair, and Lucette allows herself to indulge in his pampering.

“Although I do have something that might help.”

Waltz pulls out a tiny drawstring bag, and tips out from it a pair of earrings.

Attached to delicate white gold clasps, the clear blue crystals capture shooting stars within streaks of white.

Lucette cannot hold back her startled gasp.

“They’re blue kyanite. It helps with balance, communication, and fresh beginnings.” Waltz explains. “Perfect for you and Rod.”

Putting them on, Lucette delights in the way they gently reflect the starry expanse above. “Thank you.”

Still, the thought of what Waltz’s encouragement entails makes her happiness falter.

“I just wish - .” Lucette says, words trailing off, full of unfinished thoughts and endless desires.

“So do I.” Waltz hums. “We all do.”

Lucette laughs at the philosophy, and Waltz doesn’t hold back his smile.

“But you’ll do more than that, won’t you little star?”

Lucette yelps as he picks her up, spinning her around once before settling her on his arm.

“You’ll grant your wishes, because that’s what stars do, with a little help. You’ll be happy, and you’ll shine like all stars deserve to.”

Waltz looks at her with such pride and fondness that Lucette laughs aloud again, a little breathless, a little choked.

Within the arms of her closest friend who never stopped believing in her, Lucette thinks that it’s time she repaid that with some belief in herself, too.

5.

“You let your hair down.” Rod murmurs, twirling a loose lock with his forefinger.

“I am supposed to be in bed right now.” Lucette says, glancing at the high moon.

Rod smiles ruefully, in a way that implies she stay, in a manner that asks to be kissed.

So Lucette does, carefully, gently, and relishes in his returning tilt of his head.

Moving apart, Rod hesitates. His fixed stare on Lucette inspires a slight smile, a rising blush.

At that tender expression, he turns to take a plain box behind him on the window seat, resting it on his lap.

“I couldn’t get a ring.” Rod starts slowly, with eyes averted. “Not as myself. And I didn’t want anyone else to do it for me. So I….”

He opens the shoebox, and Lucette claps her hands over her mouth.

Intricate silver filigree vines twine up the heels and partway down the side of her glass slippers, with miniature stargazer lily blossoms by the counter, supported by well placed leaves.

“A silver sixpence in her shoe, right?” Rod says softly, smiling.

Trapped between a sob and a laugh, all Lucette can do is watch as Rod gets down on one knee before her, as his bandaged fingers cradle the glass heels, her hand.

The grip of their interlaced fingers hurt.

“Lucette Riella Britton, will you marry me?”

“I will.”

The words tumble out easier than she thought it would have.

Salty tears roll down her face, and she finds Rod tastes the same when he leans forward to seal the promise.

“I will.” Lucette breathes, again, pressed against the glass window as pleasantly cold as the heels on her feet.

“I took some liberties with the rhyme.” Rod confesses, running a hand through her long hair. “But I still wish I could have given you more.”

“This is plenty.” Lucette says, tilting her head up to look in Rod’s eyes. “This is more than I dreamed of. You’re more than I dreamed of.”

Rod kisses her on the jaw, just below her ear, and Lucette sighs helplessly.

“Don’t go back tonight.” Rod says aloud, this time.

Lucette thinks there isn’t any need to tell her that, not when her solace is already embracing her tight.

“I never intended to.”

And when Rod laughs, brilliant and jubilant and filled with infinite hope, Lucette feels on the verge of tears, on the verge of everything all at once.

But with his every kiss, every touch, Lucette finds herself coming back down, coming back to her tingling senses, coming back home to Rod.

Some secrets are worth keeping.

But in his embrace, Lucette thinks this is not a secret she wants to keep.

Not anymore.

0.

The throne room falls eerily silent.

Genaro stares at Lucette and Rod, and their connected hands.

Lucette’s announcement has swallowed the atmosphere whole, echoing in the whispers of the maids, in the minds of all occupants present.

“An engagement.” Genaro finally speaks, laboured and confused. “With Rod?”

Lucette doesn’t answer the rhetorical question.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Lucette says, less of a challenge and more of a statement.

In the conflict of denying his blood daughter the only thing she’s ever asked of him, Genaro turns helplessly to Ophelia standing beside.

“Listen to them.” Ophelia encourages, and Genaro’s eyes grow wide at the realisation of being the only one left in the dark.

Genaro turns towards the pair again, expression somber.

“Lucette.” He tries again, brows furrowing.

Genaro sinks deeper into his throne, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I apologise. This is all...quite a lot to take in.”

Lucette does not tell him to take his time.

At the side of the room, Emelaigne shifts from one foot to another anxiously, while Fritz keeps a steady hand on his sword’s hilt. Waltz doesn’t tell him to let up, not when the sparks of a protective barrier dance upon the fingertips of his hand behind his back.

Genaro sucks in a breath.

“I cannot approve of this union.” He says heavily. “Not for the sake of Angielle.”

“You abandoned me for it, too.”

Genaro’s eyes fly open, taken aback by Lucette’s words.

“You misunderstand me, father. I have never asked you for anything. I would not start now.”

Weathered lacework chuffs at her wrists as she raises a hand to press against her chest, hair pinned back with nearly-alive sprigs of lilies and baby’s breath fastened by gold.

Her palm burns with borrowed courage carved with nails; white stars caught in blue crystals glinting as she holds her head high.

Glass and silver making a clean, crisp sound as she takes a single step forward.

Blessings don’t just belong in magic folktales, in old wives' tales; they come in words and gifts, and love.

“This isn’t me seeking your acceptance, father.”

Rod’s grip anchors her, reminds her who it is she goes home to, who it is that taught her what it meant to be loved.

Who it was that held her during her darkest hours, who became the light of her future.

“This is a declaration.”

[pendragonfics]

He’s a McGregor

Paring: Thomas McGregor/Reader

Tags: female reader, alternative canon, gardening, slow build, fluff and angst. 

Summary: Bea's next door neighbour, Reader can't help but fall for Thomas the moment he steps foot into her life. Too bad that life is complicated.

Word Count: 3,602

Current Date: 2018-05-10

Every Sunday, near religiously, you would always be at the farmer’s markets. Even the days when you felt a tad ill, or, the night before you had a fun night out at the pub with friends. It was a fact known around the town that, despite divine intervention, or perhaps the Queen herself, there was never anything in your life which could stop you from setting up your fresh produce stall at the farmer’s markets.

Your friend, Bea, would tease you whenever she had the chance about this. She was a painter – a quite good one, if anyone asked for your opinion – and lived in the cottage just beyond the little woods which separated her and the grumpy Mr. McGregor’s homes. But, despite being neighbours, and, friends for nigh five years, Bea was more like a sister to you than anything, and, together, you shared your love for the rabbits and the other creatures who lived in the woods.

Today, with cinnamon tea cakes made with your eggs and apples from the orchard, you sat on her cottage’s little balcony and enjoyed the silence of Saturday mornings in the company of one another, and a cup of Earl Grey. You were sure that if there were unexpected guests they would be aghast at the sight of two spinsters, sitting in the warmth of the English summer. You, with the dirt of your garden still under your fingernails, and she with the flecks of paint on her face.

But then again, there seemed to be visitors approaching on the driveway, and silently, you and Bea turned to one another as if to question whose visitors they were. Bea’s drastic chance to the country meant all her family were still in the metropolitan regions of England, and your family weren’t local, and scattered over the globe like indecisive dice.

“That’s a nice car,” you intoned.

The old Land Rover was only a nice car the person deciding it was nice or not was a someone who was interested in vintage cars, and since you were, it was one. It had to be from the early seventies and was a shade of military green which made you wonder had ever been a good colour for anything to be painted.

“It’s an old car,” Bea quirked her lip. “I’m not expecting any visitors…”

You shook your head. “Me neither.” With a sip of your tea, you added, “Must be someone for the late Mr. McGregor’s property. Maybe they’ll renovate it to be a halfway home or sell it for charity. Then something good’ll come from that horrid old man’s place.”

The both of you chuckled.

It was then the Land Rover pulled up before the McGregor house. From the car, stepped out a man; he was tall, in the way which made you wonder if all his limbs were long, or if it were just his legs. His hair was a dark shade of red which looked almost brown, and he wore a fancy suit like he had walked straight from the city, into his car, and somehow wound up here, up in the Lake District.

You and Bea shared a glance, and biting your lip, you took a deep sip of your tea. It was then your mobile phone took to vibrating upon the table beside your saucer, your screen lighting up with a reminder that your rising dough was ready to be baked.

“I’ll leave you to this handsome stranger,” you set your teacup down, gathering your things. Bea sighed, and doing the same, the both of you made to clear the table before you went on your merry way to bake bread. “Be nice,” you remind her, setting the teapot beside her sink.

But when you exit her front door, you catch the eye of the newcomer, whoever he is. Despite the fact he’s as stiff as a beanpole and as frowny as a barn owl, you give him a small wave, and, take the trail through the woods to your awaiting dough.

---

You wake two hours before sunrise, and pulling on your big galoshes, you begin the task you do every Sunday morning. Harvest. It’s a lovely thing, really – you spend the week coercing your tomatoes to blossom from verdant to rosy, nurturing your cauliflowers to become the size of dinner plates. Not everything is harvested every week; you’re still waiting for your squash to ripen, and your thyme is still not mature enough. You feel almost like an eccentric witch when you harvest for the markets in the morning. A gardening witch, you’d be, the sort children read about in fairy-tale books. Then again, if someone came to steal anything, you’d never ask for their firstborn in a million years (you very much preferred to sleep through the night, thank you very much).

Soon enough, your produce is washed, loaded into the back seat of your 1979 Volkswagen Beatle, and just as the sunrise stains the tops of the trees and the world around, you’ve washed the dirt from yourself, and are dressed and ready to go to the markets. When you park, you’re soon seeing familiar faces; Betsy from the library selling preloved books, Mr. Johns’ miscellaneous trinkets, Mrs. Zawadzcy has her potted plants on display.

“Morning, __________,” Betsy gives you a wave from behind her table. “Ooh, your vegetables are looking quite lovely today!”

You wave her off. “They look quite lovely every day, Betsy,” you chuckle, toting the box of potatoes onto your designated trestle table. “How about the books, any nice titles you’ve got there?”

“Oh, nothing good,” She shrugs, and giving a big sigh, adds, “The kids these days only want to read longwinded romances between people who’ll never be together.”

You thank her, moving your produce around in a sort of display. “and how about your book? How’s writing going?”

Betsy laughs.

Sundays are often fast, perhaps because you’re focused on selling your vegetables, or, because there isn’t a way to tell the time other than the distant bong of the town clock, or the cries of tired toddlers. But today, when the sun was high enough to be in your eyes, you saw Bea approaching hurriedly, her jacket buttons mismatched, hair awry.

When she made it to your table, you raised an eyebrow. “You look like you saw the gatekeeper of Hades, Bea.” You chuckle, giving Mrs. Zawadzcy’s nieces a wave as they walked by. When your friend did not laugh it off, you frowned. “Is everything alright?”

She gaped. “Alright? No! The man, from yesterday, you remember him?”

“We watched him,” you nod, wrapping up Mr. John’s usual order of carrots in brown paper. As you exchanged produce for coin, you added, “He drove in a terribly old Land Rover, how can’t I?”

Bea gave an exasperated shudder. “Yes, well, he’s a McGregor.”

You paused. Remembering that you had thought he had Bean handsome, you blanched. You were a lovely person, whom mostly everyone labelled as kind, or forgiving. But there was one – no, two, people in this world who deserved no forgiveness; whoever decided to kill off Eccleston’s rendition in Doctor Who after a single season, and Mr. McGregor.

“Oh,” you replied.

She nods. “Oh, is just about right, __________!” Bea runs a hand through her wild hair, and adds, “He comes into town as if he’s Bean here all this time and demands – demands! – that I keep the rabbits away from his property!”

“Sounds like a real prick to me,” you intone.

Bea agrees, and navigating her way around the trestle table, throws herself into your arms. With a sigh, you console your neighbour and confidant. You know just how much she disliked the old Mr. McGregor – you both shared that passion fervently – and you know just how much she loved the rabbits who lived around the woods between both of your houses. She’d even named them; little Peter was her favourite.

“Hey, why don’t you send the bunnies my way, until he cools off?” You suggest, withdrawing from the embrace. “I’ll leave my gate open, too; I’m sure they’ll think they’re in heaven.”

---

The first time you find yourself speaking to new Mr. McGregor, you’re in your bathers, trying to get beetroot stains out of your favourite blouse in the creek that runs between all three houses. Normally, you would be fine to be spotted in your swimsuit, but, it’s a terribly cold morning, and you’re wearing a haggard old woollen jumper as you do the task as to not die of pneumonia. And, then, add the tall, mysterious new neighbour to the scene, and your face is flushed with embarrassment.

“Morning,” you wave to him, your hand clutching a bar of laundry soap.

He frowns, pausing mid-step to focus, “What are you doing?”

You show him the blouse. “Beetroot stain. I’m too stubborn to throw my shirt away, and too stingy to go to town to pay hard-earned quid for a washing machine.” You huff playfully, and pushing your hair back, go back to the chore of blotting the blouse. “Oh, and I’m your other neighbour, too, I’m __________.” You explain. “Not just some village weirdo who’s washing clothes in the creek.”

He nods, putting his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m Thomas. Thomas McGregor.”

You grin, understanding. You weren’t sure when Bea said ‘He’s a McGregor’ she meant he was a relative, or even alike in spirit, but, it seemed he was both. “Ah, that explains the changes you’ve done to the garden,” you say, gesturing to the garden’s walls.

Thomas hums. From his pocket, you hear his car keys rattle, as if he’s wondering whether to leave the terribly awkward conversation between the both of you and go off to do better things. But instead of bidding adieu, he surprises you.

“You can use my laundry, if you like,” he suggests.

“Really?” you wonder.

You’re unsure if you’re incredulous, or just shocked. The other McGregor used to call you a ‘Spinster Wench’ – a direct quotation! – and every year would grow the larger pumpkin at the local fair’s competition. He was a bitter man, intolerable and bitter. You’re not sure why you expected this McGregor to be the same, and yet, he’s being nice.

“I mean, until yours is able to be fixed,” he adds hastily. A digital tone sounds from his pocket, and the moment is broken. Checking his phone, he makes a face, and goes off toward his car. “Sorry, got to dash.”

“It was nice meeting you, Thomas!” You call after him as he climbs into his Land Rover.

He drives off, down the driveway, and at the end, takes the turn toward town. It’s not until an icy breeze from the heavens above goes through your bones that you remember you’re dressed less than favourably for October. Coming to your senses, you gather your things and rush home.

When you’re inside, you throw your wet clothes into the kitchen sink. It’s then you dash toward the bathroom adjacent to your bedroom, and spinning the bathtub’s tap on so fast, you’re not sure why the knob doesn’t spin right off and hit your head.

It’s then, standing in the bathroom, amid the slowly-heating steam and the crudely self-painted walls, you feel a sting, a reminder. You don’t acknowledge this feeling until your whole body is immerged under the terrifically hot water, when your hair is wet, ears full of water, and eyes closed.

You’re lonely.

Your parents had been so happy in your childhood memories; those sepia-toned mind-pictures were the stuff of dreams. But that was just it; they were dreams, and children knew nothing about adults, and adults were sometimes only playing pretend romance when they were really seething in sadness and regret. Your mother left when you were twelve, moving to Santorini with a brand-new girlfriend and a half-dozen dogs and communicated in post-cards, and your father went when you were old enough to live alone, and took to New Zealand, and married into a blended family.

Maybe they’re why you’re alone, trying not to fall into the same trap of it all. Why you’re reminded of your shortcomings when meet the new neighbour, you’re not sure, but, your heart beats faster at just the thought of him.

Your lips breach the surface of the bathwater, and taking a deep breath in, you replace it with a sigh. With your bones thawed from the freezing autumnal coldness, you sit back, the warm water tumbling down your forehead, and smile to yourself, realising something so obvious.

You like him.

---

It’s colder this morning, and while Bea’s away for the holidays to visit her family in the city, you’ve got the rabbits staying in the warm of your renovated atrium. You’re as much in love with the rabbits as Bea, treasuring them all so very much. It keeps them out of trouble; little Peter has been up to so much trouble lately, and you’re doing your all to wean the bunnies off the thrill of annoying Thomas.

You’re constantly seeing him; when you meet at the letterboxes, when you’re passing in the street with your reusable bags after your weekly trip to Tesco, or when you’re using his laundry still because you’re still not able to afford a new washing machine. Every time you share words, you fervently defending the local wildlife against his raging distaste for it, and all the while, you’re doing your best to hide the blossoming feelings you have for him.

When you find out he’s got no plans for Christmas, you blink. Surely a man like himself isn’t going to be spending the day alone, yet, he plans to.

“You can’t be alone for Christmas,” you shake your head in disbelief, looking to him as you filch your mailbox of its contents. “Even Harry Potter had a proper Christmas in book one, and he had no family!” you protest.

Thomas frowns. “I’ve never read Harry Potter,” he says, and adds, “and I like Christmas alone.”

At this, you throw your hands in the air. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that. It’s just not the __________ family way.” You sigh, and tucking your bills beneath your armpit, you add, “You’re having Christmas lunch with me.”

He raises a single eyebrow, and asks, “The __________ family way is to force people to socialise on Christmas?”

You shake your head. “My family haven’t really talked to me for years,” you laugh it off, and add, “The __________ family way is to avoid confrontation as long as possible, and then run away from it when it comes to you.”

He nods. “and you’re not like your family?”

You turn toward your car where it’s idling. If the car was a sentient object, you would expect it to be anxiously waiting for you to stop flirting with the too-handsome-for-you man. As you walk away, you call over your shoulder, “Hell yeah!”

The day after, you let the bunnies into your garden during the warmest part of the day. During the colder months, you didn’t sell produce at the markets. It was harder to garden when the earth was colder than whatever cruel God had written your life’s fate. So, the rabbits were free to take what root vegetables they could want and turn the soil over with their searching paws.

It’s then when you hear footsteps tramping their way through the forest pathway, and glancing above the fence, you see Thomas. “Hey there, neighbour,” you smile, standing to greet your guest. “Let me guess, you’re here to excuse yourself from Christmas lunch?”

He shakes his head. “No, the opposite.” He gives you a small smile. “Just making sure what time you’ll want me over?”

“How about eleven?” you suggest. It’s then you feel Benjamin nuzzle against your ankle. With a smile, you pick him up, and hold him close to your chest. “If that suits you, that is.”

Instead of answering, he asks, “How can you stand those rabbits?”

You glance at Benjamin. His winter pudge is thick this year, and he snuggles into your hands further when your hot breath touches his exposed nose. With a small smile, you look to the other rabbits; Peter, Mopsy, Flopsy and Cottontail are all investigating your potatoes, sniffing at what exposed vine they can see.

“When I was very small, I had a rabbit. Her name was Brum.” you say softly. You notice the odd look on his face, and you add, “I really liked the show when I was little. Don’t judge me, I was eight.” You look down to Benjamin once more and give him a scratch behind his ears. “I had Brum for years, honestly, but, she died the day before my parents told me they didn’t love each other anymore.”

You swallow, trying not to think of it. You’re a grown woman, and it has been years, and yet, it hurts still. Why does it hurt still?

“Anyway,” you take a deep breath, and bending, place Benjamin back upon the ground. “So, I’ll see you at eleven, next Tuesday?”

Thomas nods, and otherwise silent, he says, “See you next Tuesday.”

---

When the world warmed itself up again, so did the mischief of the rabbits. Bea shared all the stories of her family’s Christmas antics for months following the festive season, and you finally had enough money scraped together to buy yourself a replacement for your washing machine. You were happy to have it, yes, but now there was no excuse to pop on over to Thomas’ home and chat while the machine cleaned your mixed colours.

Bea was confused. “Why didn’t you use your spare key for my washing machine?” She asked, one day over tea and biscuits. Your silence was your answer, and with an understanding hum, Bea gave your back a pat, and cooed apologetically. “Oh dear,” she said, with a sigh, “I see.”

While her paintings improved with the warmer weather, your garden took itself back to life, and once again, once your crop was invigorated, back to the markets every Sunday. You had Bean at the markets the day Bea texted you furiously.

He blew up the burrow, came the first one.

And the tree hit my house!!

You were left blinking at the phone as it vibrated with every furious update, too stunned to reply. You couldn’t reply, not until you served the plethora of customers lined up for your fresh produce at the trestle table. Not until you worked your way out of the shock.

You refused to believe anything, and when you drove home in your Volkswagen, you almost stalled the car in the driveway when you saw the still-clearing dust in the air and the tree in Bea’s home. But you didn’t stall, and when you saw Thomas’s face over his fence, you pretended you didn’t see him, and drove around to your home.

Bea was waiting for you on the porch, head in her hands.

“I can’t afford the rent as it is,” she moans, tears in her eyes. “but the insurance?” You gather your friend into your arms, and together, you sit on the steps to your house in the embrace of one another. “He’s a McGregor, of course he hates the rabbits,” she whispers. “Why did I expect him to be any less?”

You’re silent. How did you ever like him? How could – how did you ever fall for him? Who blows up trees with no regard for the outcome? You hold your friend close, her head on your heart, and together, you sit there until the chill of the evening breeze tickles sense into you both. When you separate, you lead her inside for tea and comfort food, or, really, any leftovers you have.

Into her teacup, Bea whispers, “I’m going to have to move back to the city.”

You recoil, aghast. “No! No, Bea, don’t move! I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you weren’t around, honestly,” you plead. “We’ll get the money, I promise.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not just that…I don’t think I can stand to be near him after this.” She pauses, and adds, “Oh, __________, I’m so sorry. I – what are you going to do?”

You frown. “What?”

Bea places a hand on yours. “You’re in love with man,” she replies, as confused as your answer as you are with her rejoinder. “and you’re in the middle of all this.”

You shake your head, and with a curt laugh, you say, “I’m very sure that your house being hit by a blown-up tree completely outweighs my terribly judged crush.” You pour more tea into your cup, and add, “And don’t think you’re still sleeping at your place while there’s a bloody big hole in the roof. I’ve got a spare room.”

Bea makes a noise that sounds like the words thank you as she sips her tea. “What would I do without you, __________?”

You chuckle, moving to clear the table. “You’d have nobody to stop you from moving back to the city, for starters,” you retort, your words putting a little smile upon her face.

“You’re too good to me,” she says simply.

From the kitchen sink, you reply, “But that’s what friends are for!”

---

There’s a FOR SALE sign on the McGregor house not even half a week after the tree incident, and by the end of the week, Thomas has packed up and left without so much of a goodbye to any of you. Even the men in the hardware store in town who he got to know quite well say they miss him. But you saw him nigh every day, and you miss him more; more than perhaps you should or have ever let on to Bea.

But Bea can’t take living in your spare room much longer; it’s Bean months, and yet, she’s looking for a cheap place to live away from here. Any words you share aren’t enough to keep her, and anything you try and get anyone else to do isn’t enough; Betsy from the library can’t sway her, nor Mr. Johns or Mrs. Zawadzcy.

So, you do what you can only do; you let your best, and closest friend go.

You can’t stand to wave her off when the UBER arrives to take her to the train station, and instead, say your goodbyes at your gate, and take to pottering around your garden to take your mind from things. Your lettuce does need some love, and tending to it, you can’t help but think of all the almosts that this past year has entailed.

You almost bared your heart to Thomas.

You almost fell too hard for him.

You almost confessed to him about your feelings, in the months after Christmas.

You almost miss him now.

When your watch beeps upon the hour, you’re reminded that Bea’s already on her way down the road. Saddened again, you almost don’t hear a voice calling your name, and leaves crunching under foot.  

But that’s when you glance up.

You’re met with the familiar head of dark auburn hair, those green eyes. His face is a little red, hair wild, yet, he’s as handsome as ever and your stomach ties itself in knots at the sight of him. Thomas approaches the other side of your fence, wearing a fancy coat, and in his hands, is a fist full of flowers.

“Hi, Thomas,” you breathe. “What –,”

“I had to come and make things right,” the words burst from his lips, the lower one wobbling. He holds the flowers to you, and adds, softly, “I’m sorry for everything, I’m such a prick.”

You blink, accepting the bouquet of flowers. You look at the flowers, noticing that they’re the same sort of wildflowers that grow in the woods between your house and his. “Thomas – I –,” you can’t form a sentence, taking to stammering instead, “What are you doing here?”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m stupid. Incredibly. It took me a year to realise that I’m a horrible person. I’ve come back, and I hope you don’t hate me, __________.”

You consider the hand-picked bouquet. “I could never hate you, Thomas.”

There’s a small smile on his face. “Let’s start over.” He says, quickly adds, “Hello, I’m Thomas McGregor. I’m incredibly stupid when it comes to realising my feelings, and I hate Harrods.”

You can’t help but giggle.  “Hello, Thomas, I’m __________. I distance myself from people because my parents were loveless assholes and I think I’ve loved you for a whole year.”

He eyes light up. “I don’t just think I love you, __________.” He says, leaning over the fence, closer and closer with every word. “I know I love you.”

You feel your fingers loosening around the flowers Thomas gave you, and on their own accord, your hands take the lapel of his fancy coat into your fists. In the moment, your body on autopilot, your lips are on his lips, your breath mingling with his breath, and for the first time in your life, you notice the absence of the sting you’ve always felt.

“I’m sorry, that was a bit forward of me –,” you mutter, breaking away.

But Thomas shakes his head. “__________, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he says. Standing straight once more, he adds, “But I meant to say, Bea’s not leaving, I’m using my inheritance to pay for the damages, and –,”

Over his shoulder, you see Bea giving you a big thumb’s up, with a wide grin. Eyes back to Thomas, you all but growl, “Oh, shut up and kiss me again,” you say. “We’ve got a year to make up for.”

[fantabee]

The Old Lady in the Bookstore

The whistle of the kettle on the stove echoed through the quiet store, just like it did every morning. Wrinkled hands with bright red nails picked it up and poured the hot water into a teacup, followed by two bags of Earl Gray. Careful not to spill it, the little old lady carried the cup and saucer down a narrow hallway, past five doors of different shapes and colors. The little old lady stopped in front of the small green door and turned the deadbolt before she opened it, leaving behind her humble living space.

She smiled as she breathed in the air, musty and old, but always comforting. She walked past aisles of bookshelves, her cup quietly clinking against the saucer. It was dark, but her feet knew the path past stacks of books and uneven floorboards, all the way to the front desk by the windows, where light barely managed to streak in through the dusty curtains and piles of papers. The old lady set her tea down and made her rounds turning on the lamps, replacing the darkness with gentle yellow light. Her hand gripped the banister as she went to the loft above, filled to the brim with books, and barely enough room for the old patterned loveseat in the center. When she was happy with the state of her store, she hummed to herself and unlocked the door, turning on the sign to let the world know she was open for business. The little old lady sat down behind the counter and added sugar to her tea as she opened the book waiting in front of her. Like always, she turned to page one and started the story.

The store was quiet as she sipped her tea and read, too soon for anyone to come in. Some days, there was nobody. But she had a feeling there would be important customers today.

Almost an hour went by before the doorknob turned and the bell tinkled, announcing the arrival of the first guest of the day. "Welcome, dear, how are you today?" The old lady asked as she put down her book.

The customer, a woman in her early twenties, quickly closed her umbrella and pulled the door shut behind her, "I'm doing well, thank you. The weather out there is terrible, so I thought I would take a look around while the storm rained itself out." She laughed quietly.

"Oh, I understand. If you need any help, don't hesitate to ask me. You can put your umbrella in the stand right there, and take off your coat while you're at it. I like to say you should make the store your home while you're shopping." The wrinkles in her face deepened as she smiled and returned to her book, letting the young woman browse the store in peace.

Not twenty minutes later, the bell rang again. This time it was a young man, also in his twenties. He moved his sunglasses to the top of his head and smiled warmly at the old lady at the counter, "Hello! This is just the store I was looking for! I was just thinking about how I needed a new sci-fi book."

The old lady chuckled and dog eared her book before she put it down, "I'm glad you stumbled upon my little shop. There are light fiction and novels to the left on the first floor, but if you want more fantastical and world-escaping sort of reading, you should look upstairs to the right of the couch. I think you'll find something you'll like in that selection." She winked and chuckled as she took a sip of tea. "And take your time, there's no rush in this store. I want to make sure you find the book perfect for you."

The young man grinned and thanked her, heading up the narrow stairs and towards the books that called his name. The other customer downstairs hardly paid him any mind as she continued browsing. The store returned to near silence, with only the occasional sounds of pages turning and floorboards creaking.

Just as the old lady picked up her book to continue reading, the loud ringing of the bell announced the impatient arrival of the next customer. A boy, no older than 16, walked in with a box full of well-worn books. He hefted them onto the counter and closed the door quickly, "Hi, uh, I saw the sign in the window that says you buy used books, is that true?" His eyes never met the old woman's as he scanned the room, taking in the dusty surroundings.

"Why yes," She smiled sweetly and peered over her glasses, "I do buy books, no matter what condition or subject. My only stipulation is that they were well loved."

The boy nodded absentmindedly, "I don’t know how much these are worth, I'm just looking to get rid of them." He quickly glanced at the old woman's face, "For other people to read, I enjoyed them enough, ya know? I just don't need them anymore." He shrugged. "Actually, I don't need any money, that how much I want other people to read them. I guess you can say it's a donation to the shop." He turned around quickly.

"Please, young man, wait just a moment before running off. You are so kind to not want anything in return, but the least I could do is give you a book of my own. Let me see…" She opened the book she had been reading and skimmed through, "Ah yes, I know just the one. Follow me, if you will." She stepped out from behind the counter and beckoned the boy to follow, which he did reluctantly. "You must be quite the reader to have so many well-loved books. I'm glad inked stories have not been lost to the youth." They made their way to the opposite side of the store, past the dictionaries and biographies. She stopped abruptly in front of a pile of novels on the floor, "Oh, heavens, I guess I haven't cleaned up recently. These are in the entirely wrong place." The boy looked over her grey-topped head and looked at the book she picked up, "But here it is. Nothing but a Smile."

The boy smiled and reluctantly took the book from her outstretched hand, "I've never heard of it, but thank you. I'll give it a look."

The old lady smiled, "Can you promise me you'll finish the first chapter? If you just give it a chance, I really think the world the author creates will grow on you." She grasped his hand with surprising strength.

"Yes." The boy said with wide eyes, "I promise I'll at least try it."

The woman nodded and patted his hand, more gently now, "Thank you. For the books, and the promise."

The boy smiled meekly and nodded, "Well, uh, thank you for your help. And the book. I need to get going, but, uh, have a great day."

He hurried out, and the store fell quiet once again. The old lady returned to her seat behind the register and opened her book again. She smiled as she read, engrossed in the dialogue and twists that revealed themselves. In the store, the young woman had perused all of the shelves on the first floor, and had finally made her way upstairs. She barely paid any mind to the young man sitting on the couch, nose deep in a book. Though they were all three in the same space, they were each in their own worlds. The silence only stretched on for a few minutes before it was interrupted with whispers.

"Excuse me, are you… Levi?"

The man pulled his attention from the book and blinked in surprise, "Cynthia? What are you doing here?"

"I was just about to ask you that? I thought you were on the other side of the country?"

The old woman cleared her throat behind them, making them both jump, "It looks like you two know each other. Isn't it wonderful to meet friends in the most unlikely places?" She eyed them both carefully and offered the two cups of tea she was holding, "I wouldn't worry about how or why it happened, I would just make the most of this opportunity."

"Right." Cynthia took a cup and smiled faintly, "Thank you so much, I hope we aren't intruding."

The old lady waved a hand dismissively, "When you get to be my age, a few hours is nothing to spare for the youth. Stay as long as you like, all I ask is when you leave, don't walk out together. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

The two nodded and began talking to each other excitedly as the old lady walked back down the stairs, smiling to herself. It wasn't often she had days as busy as this. She took another sip of tea as she opened the book one last time, reading over the last few pages. In the kitchen, deep in the interior of the building, a grandfather clock chimed.

It was impossible to know how much time passed while the two talked, but eventually Cynthia stood and left, offering sincere thanks to the little old lady, and taking her umbrella in preparation for the rain. A few minutes later, Levi came down with a handful of books and a great smile on his face.

"I see you found a few that caught you eye." The old lady said as she wrote the receipt.

"Oh, yes, this store is amazing. I can't believe I've never seen it before." Levi looked around in awe, "Well, maybe I can. There's a couple things I can't really explain. But I won't question it." He said quickly.

She nodded and smiled as she tore the paper, "That's a wise decision. Those four titles will be $9.37."

He opened his wallet and pulled out the bills and coins, after a bit of searching, "Would you look at that, I had just enough change."

"Yet another strange coincidence," The old lady said with a twinkle in her eye. She handed him the books in a plastic bag and smiled, "Thank you for coming to my humble shop today."

"Thank you for… being here. I'm not going to ask how, but I want you to know I am glad I got to see her. Here, today. I never thought I would be able to talk to her in person, be able to reach out and touch her hand. But because of this place, I could. I'll never be able to express just how thankful I am for that."

"It's because of times like that I run this shop. I hope you're able to find your way back some day. Have a wonderful afternoon." The old lady smiled and waved as Levi left, returning the store to silence. She opened her book again, checking to make sure she hadn't missed any last words, and began the process of closing her store. She locked the door, turned off the lights, and carried her now-empty teacup back through the back door. The deadbolt turned with a satisfying click, and the cup clinked against the saucer as she passed the same five doors. The little old lady followed the same routine as always as she prepared for bed: she hummed the same song as she cooked and cleaned, wound the grandfather clock, and checked the locks. She went to bed with a smile, as she always did, excited for the story her book would tell tomorrow.

Tada! That’s the short story I worked on this weekend! just under 2000 words, and I’m pretty happy with it. I actually had the idea in my head for a little while, and I decided to write it down while I was in a slump with my current WiP. I hope you liked it, thanks for reading!

[ghostwise]

Mortar & Pestle

“I can’t find it!” Morana called out from the dusty closet, through which she was currently rummaging in what was probably her best approximation of a mole digging through dirt.

“Why do you need it?” Zirnitra asked, still confused.

“Don’t need it. Want it.”

The ghost sighed and picked up a rag. Dejectedly, he began dusting off the various items that had been tossed about, deciding to at least make himself useful while she searched.

He was fairly certain everything here was protected through magic—it was the only explanation he could think of as he watched a set of teacups and saucers clatter to the hardwood floors with a force that would shatter them otherwise. Those could use a thorough dusting as well.

It was at least a half hour later when Morana finally emerged, filthy and victorious. “Voila!” she shouted, waving a small box around.

“What is it?”

“Bird skulls! I just wanted to make sure I still had them.”

She looked at the long row of clean items that sat on the parlor table. “Where’d all this come from?”

“The closet,” Zirnitra said, still working on a pile that appeared to be mostly dust bunnies.

“I thought that was all trash,” she said idly, punctuating this with a cough. “You’re making the house dusty…”

“Why would you have a closet full of trash?” he asked, ignoring her pointedly.

She shrugged. “Hard to find trash cans. It’s not polite to litter in other dimensions.”

“It’s not polite to litter in any dimension…”

“Oh! You know what I mean.”

“Hey,” Zirnitra stopped abruptly, his hands landing on something heavy. “Look at this.”

Morana glanced over at what he’d found. She would’ve guessed it to be a solid chunk of dirt, but he was cleaning at it with interest, and the object’s smooth marbled surface was quickly revealed.

It was a pestle, nothing special about it at first glance.

“This is mine,” Zirnitra said.

“Huh!” Morana peered at it. “Why do I have it?”

“It must’ve been from… from before!” he stammered, staring at it with awe. “Oh, my god. Where’s the mortar?”

It took only a bit of hunting to find the hollowed out shape of the mortar, including one false alarm where Morana briefly mistook a large ammonite fossil for it (“So that’s where that was!”). Once secured, the mortar was polished up, and Zirnitra set the paired items on the table before them.

“Damn, I really had no idea that was in there.” Morana laughed. “I wonder if I have more of your shit lying around? I’m sorry I’m so late in returning it, I guess.”

“You don’t remember this at all?” Zirnitra tilted his head, a fond smile warming his features.

“Well, I was going to say, it’s just a mortar and pestle… I have one too. But…” Morana rested her arm upon his shoulder. “… You got a look that says this one is special, so I’m sure you’re gonna tell me!” She gave him a little shake, earning some laughter from her friend. “Come on, I wanna hear the story behind it!”

“This was, ah, my grandmother’s! You met her once, remember?” Holding up the mortar, Zirnitra tipped it over and pointed at the smooth underside of it. “See here?”

Morana peered at it between his fingers, spotting the runes etched delicately underneath. They were so small, it took her a moment to read them and comprehend them. “This is for…”

“Flight!” he finished excitedly. “I was the only one of her grandchildren who could use it, so she gave it to me. I never would have imagined I’d see it again! This is so…”

Morana patted his back, letting him process his emotions. She looked away as he clutched the mortar tightly. For Zirnitra, memories and feelings flowed so easily. Meanwhile, she was surrounded in personal effects of her old life, and couldn’t even muster up a mental image of her own family.

Still, she felt glad for his sake.

And in these meandering thoughts she was suddenly struck by a sensation—like wind on her face, like a drop through clouds, causing her stomach to flip.

“Oh! Zi!”

“Ow,” he frowned at her sudden enthusiastic flapping, scooting away from those small flailing hands. “What is it?”

“I remember this! We used it one time!”

“You remember that?”

“Yes!!” She held her hands up, clutched into tiny fists, accentuating her words. “Because! It—was—terrifying!”

He burst out laughing, so loudly he nearly dropped the heavy thing. “That’s right! You hated it. I was going to teach you to use it, but you refused to try again!”

“Ah! You were scaring me on purpose, though.”

“Was not.” He shook his head. “I even did a little jump the first time, to ease you into it. Not my fault you’re scared of heights.”

Still beaming, he set the mortar and pestle aside, and set about tidying up the mess in the closet. Morana was still looking at the mortar, thoughtfully.

“Well,” she said carefully, “I’m not scared of heights anymore. Never too late to try again, right?”

 .

“Hold it carefully,” Zirnitra instructed.

“I don’t know how to be more careful than this.” Morana held up the mortar and pestle, raising an eyebrow. “Am I… holding it recklessly, or…?”

“I’m just anxious,” he said, repositioning her arms. “It’s a delicate process. You can’t overdo it.”

“Right, right…”

She had been ready for a test run for the better half of ten minutes, but Zirnitra still fluttered about her full of nervous energy. He tested the straps tying his skull to her belt about five more times before being satisfied.

“This type of flight is different from flying with a broom,” he explained. “It has more to do with a magical equation based on the measurements of the mortar’s shape, which forms a parabola; you’re using your magic to mirror that on a larger scale, get it?”

“I know magical equations, Zi.” She refrained from rolling her eyes.

“Don’t take us too high, use the pestle for steering, and if worse comes to worst, well, we’re both already dead so!”

“So we’re ready?”

“All up to how confident you feel,” he said.

“Okay!” Morana grabbed him by the arm with a little wink. “Hold on,” she told him.

Seeming less reassured than before, he nodded and latched onto her side.

Magic was intrinsic to mages. Techniques could be taught, but the act of it, that was all innate.

Morana felt out the shape of her will, the shape of the mortar, the shape of the sky above them and found that they matched. From there it was easy to strike the pestle and…

The mortar resounded with the clash of magic, like a bell, or booming thunder. The ground rushed away from them, and she instinctively tucked her legs in, cackling gleefully.

Zirnitra’s nails were digging through her shirt as he yelped. “Bit much! Good enthusiasm though!” he shouted, watching the clouds lean down to meet them. “Okay! Take us down easy, strike it again but… not that hard! Just, uhm, feel it out?”

“It’s going well!” she shouted, leading them on a westward incline.

“It is! It’s going very well!” Zi shouted back. “But what happened to down? Morana, down!”

She was laughing breathlessly, her skirt tugged this way and that by the wind. “Taking us down on the mountains! Those are up, so we gotta go up before we go down!” Her sights were set on a range of peaks in the distance, and Zirnitra eyed them miserably, wondering if his friend was trying to make up for that first time all those years ago.

“What happens if I tip the mortar?” she asked.

“That’s an advanced technique!”

She was, unfortunately, a natural now that her fear was gone. The words had barely left his lips before he found himself dragged along, their flight taking them straight to those distant peaks.

Still, after that eventful first flight, he never at any time regretted teaching her how to use the old mortar and pestle.

He was simply glad that it would always be used by someone that was family to him.

[llantano]

Turning Leaves, 13. We Know Better

Blair was at the kitchen table, drinking hot cocoa and reading The Sun. "Dorian!" she said, surprised, as she folded the paper and laid it aside. "You're home. I didn't hear you come in."

Dorian sighed as she paused to check a thermostat. "Yes, I was asked not to shout while the baby is sleeping," she winced. "Hot cocoa? You read my mind." She crossed the room to retrieve a cup, her shoes clicking against the dark marble floor.

Blair smirked to herself. She had been trying to convince Dorian to stop shouting for years. "Actually, I'm glad I ran into you. We need to talk about a couple of things."

Dear god, Dorian thought to herself. Everyone wanted to talk. She poured herself a teacup of cocoa and set it aside on a saucer to cool, feigning interest. "Oh?" She grabbed a bottle of water and poured it into a clear glass. She had been concealing a pill in her fist and now popped it into her mouth.

"What's the matter?" Blair asked. "You have a headache or something?"

Dorian gestured that it was just a little headache, measuring it with her fingers as she drank the water and swallowed the pill.

"Well, first of all, there's David," she explained, watching as her aunt lifted the hot cup of chocolate toward the table where she sat down across from Blair. "You really need to rein that guy in."

Dorian groaned, her voice low and loathsome. "Working for me is supposed to keep him 'reined in.'" She turned the cup on its saucer. "What else?"

Blair squinted at Dorian. "So … never mind that David thinks that your campaign manager has some sort of conspiracy to destroy you with gay marriage. If you ask me, I think he's just jealous that he's not getting all the attention. You know he's been worse than usual since he found out he really is a Buchanan. He's … not … is he?"

Dorian quirked a quizzical brow at her niece.

"Getting attention?" Blair clarified.

Dorian knew what she was implying. "Noo…." Dorian lifted her hot drink to her lips and sipped it with a tired sigh. Sentimentality crept into her mind as the image of David Buchanan wearing the black cowboy hat she had picked out for him flashed through her mind. She didn't want to have to think about David at the moment.

Blair eyed her aunt and sensed that it was time to change the subject. "I also wanted to talk to you about Lucas."

"Lucas?" Dorian asked, casting her eyes to the side in contemplation.

"Yeah, the assistant editor at Craze? Ring a bell?" Blair put one hand on her hip and leaned on the table with her other forearm, drumming her fingernails on the tabletop, annoyed.

"I fired him," Dorian stated as a matter of fact. "I specifically asked that Nuage Onze be featured."

"Well," Blair informed her aunt with a sneer. "I just wanted you to know that I re-hired him."

"Blair!" Dorian protested.

"Dorian, we need him right now," Blair stated. "You just focus on…." She waved her hand dismissively at her aunt. "…Whatever it is that you and Amelia do, and just get yourself elected. Let me handle Craze." She slid out of her seat and carried her mug to the sink.

"Blair…."

"I'm serious, Dorian," Blair told her without turning around.

Dorian frowned at her cocoa, sighing, before she noticed a shopping bag that had been sitting in the seat next to Blair. Intrigued, she leaned forward to grab it and peek inside.

Blair returned to the table and stood watching. "Uh, hey! Nosy much?"

Dorian looked up at her and dug in the bag. "What is this?" She pulled out a large box of crayons. "Didn't you just buy brand new school supplies a couple of months ago?" She blinked at her niece, concerned and curious.

"Yeah, well…." Blair rubbed her temple with her forefinger and then pointed at the box. "Sam needed some new crayons so, you know, I went out and bought him the biggest, best box I could find. Look." She grabbed the crayons from Dorian and turned the box over. "There's a built-in sharpener, too. Cool, huh?"

Dorian shook her head. There was more to this story. "Cool? Sam went through a whole box of crayons in two months?" She gazed at Blair, squinting.

"Yeah, well … okay, so there was this other kid at school," Blair admitted, shrugging. "He broke Sam's crayons." Before Dorian could respond she held her hands up. "Just promise me you aren't gonna fly off the handle about this."

Dorian blinked with a grave frown. "Me? Why would I do that?" Blair didn't respond. "Why did this … other child … break Sam's crayons, Blair?" she interrogated.

"Well, apparently…." Blair spoke with caution. "Gay kids can't use the same crayons that other kids do."

Dorian knocked her chair back as she jumped up from the table. "What?! Sam's not even old enough to…."

"I know, I know!" Blair interrupted, waving her hands at Dorian in an attempt to calm her down. "Listen to me, okay? This is just one ignorant kid who probably learned this from his parents, and … let's face it … you've been getting a lot of publicity, so…. And it is hard for these little ones to understand how it all … 'works,' so to speak."

"Oh, come on!" Dorian stomped her foot. "How dupable does this kid think we are? He didn't break Sam's crayons because Sam is gay or someone in his family … is gay." She swallowed. "This was a deliberate scare tactic! Your child is being threatened, Blair."

Blair bit her bottom lip as she listened to her aunt. "I don't know…." Blair waved her hand before Dorian could argue. "I mean, yes, you may be right, but I did a lot of stupid things when I was younger – when I didn't know better – that I wouldn't do now." She gestured at Dorian. "You know that." She left the history of how she and Dorian had first come to know each other between the lines. "And maybe this kid just doesn't know better yet."

Dorian was visibly distressed. "Well, what are you going to do about this situation, Blair?" she demanded to know. "And where was his teacher when this was happening?"

"You know what? Sam's teacher and I discussed this, and it's being handled. She's the one who came to me about it, okay? She's aware of the problem. It's fine." Blair turned the box in her hands, pretending to inspect it.

Dorian begged to differ. "Uh, no-oo. This is not fine." She lifted her finger in adamant protest. "I am not going to have my family subjected to cruelty like this because of my actions." She pointed at herself as she talked. "We are talking about innocent children here – Sam and Jack … even the baby. Starr and Langston can handle it, but I can't let this go any further. No, no." Dorian didn't mention that she still felt guilty about Starr and Hope being kidnapped because of her association with the former mayor.

Blair slumped her shoulders at her aunt, exasperated. "Dorian, come on. Now, calm down. What exactly are you saying here?"

Dorian was as angry as she was saddened. "I'm saying I'm going to march back into the other room and tell Amelia this 'engagement' is off."

"And what about the election?" Blair put her hands on her hips, still clutching the crayons.

Dorian repositioned her chair at the table and stood behind it, looking down at her cup. "I can still support equal rights and use the gay and lesbian platform, even if I don't marry Amelia." Her voice revealed her doubt.

"So … what?" Blair gestured with her empty hand and smacked the front of her leg with her palm. "You're going to stage a public break-up now?" She stared at her aunt for a minute, as Dorian was lost in thought. "You know how to tell when a politician is lying, right?"

Dorian's head snapped toward Blair. "Are you suggesting I tell the truth? I mean … it's one thing to end this charade but it is another to admit to all those people who don't believe I'm gay to start with that they're right."

"Oh, right … aaaallll those people – you mean all the people who know you?" Blair pressed one finger against her chin and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, squinting. "Your family already knows the truth so who does that leave? Viki? Clint? All your friends? Oh, wait … I think they already know the truth, too. So…. " Blair set the box of crayons down on the table and rocked them with one hand. "Basically, you've already ruined your credibility with the people who know you, so you might as well destroy the credibility you have with the majority of voters, right?" She shrugged.

Dorian slumped her shoulders. "Your sarcasm and ironic wit is never lost on me."

"I know it isn't."

Dorian took a deep breath and released it. "Then I have to stage a break up … and I have to convince Amelia to go along with it."

"You can't do that, Dorian," Blair insisted.

"What?" Dorian asked. She knew she could convince Amelia to go along with it. Amelia's job depended on Dorian's approval. So Blair meant she couldn't stage a break up. "Why can't I?"

"Because a lot of people are looking up to you right now, Dorian. You've turned yourself into some kind of gay icon. And let's face it – if you broke up with Amelia because of this situation with Sam, it would just be a matter of time until you were parading around town with some strapping guy on your arm – or telling another lie to try to hide a straight relationship. Hell, Dorian, David's lurking around here like he's waiting in the wings. For all we know, you're already trying to hide something."

Blair was half-teasing, but Dorian rolled her eyes. "I assure you I am not!"

"The point is that you're in too deep – or maybe over your head?" Blair lowered her chin at Dorian, wondering.

"Which is why I need to come out with the truth as soon as possible," Dorian said out of the corner of her mouth, unmoving.

Blair lowered her voice and tried to sound comforting. "I know you're under a lot of pressure right now, Dorian. I get it. I see all the work and money going into this campaign." She stepped beside Dorian and draped her arm over her aunt's shoulders.

"Money, yes," Dorian nodded, looking up at the ceiling. "I can already imagine the lawsuits from the people who are endorsing me…."

"Just stop a minute and listen to me, would you?" Blair hushed her aunt. Dorian relented and she continued. "I get it – I mean, you're out there every day holding your head high while the media is running stories that say, 'Is She For Real?' and people are putting up those stupid signs that say, 'Put Her Back in the Closet.'"

Dorian flinched away from Blair at the mention of the protests.

Blair balled her fists and let Dorian move away from her, then took a few steps to the side and turned to look at her aunt again. "Dorian," she lowered her voice, serious. "You're doing a good job. For every hate letter, you get two people who volunteer for the campaign or write a thank you – or even come out of the closet because … you give them hope."

Dorian thought about it for a moment and then turned to her niece. "Hope based on an impulsive lie," she muttered. "I was under pressure, I had a microphone in front of me, and the eyes of everyone in town on me – including my political opposition and every liberal organization that could possibly influence voters. As much pressure as I felt in that moment, this is definitely not worth it." She pointed at the crayons.

"To you? Or to the people who are taking a stand with you?"

"Blair, are you even listening to yourself? Your children are…."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know all about what my children are going through here, Dorian." Blair moved to stand behind the other woman and placed her hands on each of Dorian's shoulders, leaning forward and speaking in a soft tone. "Listen to me for a minute, okay? My kids are innocent in all this, right?" She waited for Dorian to acknowledge.

"Exactly," Dorian nodded.

"Well, so are the kids who have gay parents or gay people in their families – real gay people. Someday – and it needs to be soon – there has to come a time when children from all walks of life can sit in school together and they won't even think about their differences anymore." She stepped around and examined the wary look in Dorian's eyes as she continued. "What race they are, what religion they are, or even if their parents – or aunts – are gay. Am I right?"

Dorian softened as she looked into Blair's eyes, listening. "Yes, of course. And I would truly like to help our society reach that point." She shook her head. "But not at the expense of my own family." She continued to shake her head and took a step away from Blair and back toward the sitting room.

"So that's kind of message you want to send, Dorian?" Blair continued. "You're just going to up and change your story because of one ignorant little bully? What good is breaking up with Amelia if you're still saying you're a lesbian?"

Dorian halted. "Blair, this can still be a success story. I'm just going to take the focus off of my sexuality."

"Who does that benefit besides yourself?" Blair asked.

"Blair, are you even listening to me?" Dorian gestured at her ear and then at Blair. "It benefits the children," she emphasized.

Blair pointed at the kitchen door. "Well, fine, whatever. Go on and discuss your next ploy with Amelia." Blair looked down at Dorian's cooling cocoa and shrugged. "Go riding to everyone's rescue like you always do. Whatever Dorian thinks is best."

Dorian furrowed her brows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Blair spun to her. "You know exactly what it means. That's sort-of your M.O. The mother-protector." She paused to lift her brows at Dorian and let her statement sink in before she stepped after her aunt.

Dorian knew it was true and didn't know whether to resent the accusation or be proud of it.

"All I'm saying is … what does it matter anyway? Straight, gay – it isn't anyone's business. You could say you moonlight as the tooth fairy and it shouldn't matter as long as voters think you're the most qualified for the job. So are you?"

Dorian's brows were still drawn toward each other. "Of course I am," she answered.

"You obviously believe in gay rights, but it isn't the only issue you care about, right? So why does that have to define your whole campaign? Breaking it off with Amelia isn't going to win you any battles."

"No, but it might win one for Sam."

"Sam can win his own battles." Blair crossed her arms. "You seem to forget that you have Cramer boys, too. And if you keep protecting Sam, he's going to be what you so eloquently refer to as 'a feeler.' Let him fight for himself, Dorian."

Dorian's breath caught and she withdrew into a moment of introspection. Was Blair saying that her protective interference made people weaker? She shook her head as she snapped back to the world around her. "I just don't know if it is good for the children to see me acting out this relationship."

Blair stepped forward and took Dorian's hand, drawing her back toward the center of the room and away from the kitchen door. "Do you know what Jack said to me the other night?" Blair did a Jack impersonation. "'Like, you know, Mom, it's totally gross to see Aunt Dorian swappin' spit with a guy, so it couldn't be any more revolting to see her kissing Amelia.' You know, he's thinking. It's good for him to decide for himself – rather than listen to outside influences."

Dorian cracked a smile at Blair's words, though they didn't make her feel any better. "Like his father."

Blair continued. "The kids are still trying to figure things out. So I guess what I'm saying is, this isn't all bad."

"But it's a lie," Dorian whispered.

"So, let me see if I understand this. You don't like that you're lying when you say you're in a relationship with Amelia, so … you're going to lie that you're breaking up with her?"

Dorian blinked a few times. "At least the latter would be closer to the actual truth?"

"Again, what does it matter? Gay, straight – you're still running on the same platform, right? And you stand to lose a really great campaign manager, and possibly the election. But, hey," Blair over-emphasized her shrug. "What do I know?"

Dorian pinched the bridge of her nose. She hadn't thought about the fact that breaking up with Amelia would seem suspicious if Amelia remained with the campaign afterward. "No, you're right," she admitted in a quiet mutter.

"What was that?" Blair asked, cupping her ear.

Dorian dropped her hand to her side. "I just have to think about this."

"Promise me," Blair demanded. "You're not going to make any rash decisions right now."

"Okay, fine," Dorian sighed, still not convinced.

Blair spun and gathered her shopping bag and crayons, which she shook at Dorian. "And I swear to God if Todd finds out about this…." She didn't finish her sentence.

"Blair?" Dorian questioned as her niece started to leave the room. "Promise me something in return?"

Blair turned to her aunt.

"Please tell me if there are any more … situations … with the children?"

Blair nodded her assurance. "Oh. Yeah, of course." She rounded the corner and headed upstairs, leaving her aunt in the kitchen. She wasn't very convincing.

Dorian shook her head at herself. On one hand, it killed her to think that the children might suffer because of her personal agendas. On the other, Blair was right. Langston's article was right. Everyone – including the children - had to stand up for what they believed in, or other people would keep holding them down.

It was a lesson that had helped Dorian survive since she was a tiny child.

And maybe Blair had a point about trying to be protective. Maybe people who were always protected or helped were weaker, and those who had to stand up were the strong ones. It reminded her of a story she had once heard about a butterfly.

Feelers and fighters, she reminded herself, not really comforted.

Dorian abandoned her cocoa and made herself a different drink before returning to the sitting room.

[jonsa-creatives]

I Dream of Jonnie

Jonsa Summer Challenge - Day 5 - Firsts or Dreams

Submitted by @lathwell55​

Sansa coughed and spluttered as she screwed her eyes shut tight against the swirling puffs of dust coming off of the old brassware. The trinket she was polishing had been part of a lot that Sansa bought at auction meant for her vintage tea rooms. Utterly charmed by the collection of fine bone china with dainty floral decal that made up part of the mismatched lot, Sansa remembers the elation of being declared the highest bidder at auction as she excitedly waved her little paddle with her dedicated number on. 

Having long ago integrated the little teacups, saucers, sugar bowls and teapots to her vast collection in use at Lemontree Tea Rooms, now her attention had been turned to the sad looking box of odd and ends that came with her prized china. Thinking she might fetch a fair price for it on ebay, with her little pot of polish and a rag, Sansa had set to work on a brass oil lamp. That was when a sudden outpouring of black dust began to come spewing out of the funnel, the lamp itself grew unbearably hot and was suddenly no longer within her grasp, as if the object had leapt from her hands.

The dust cloud grew and grew, it became so large that Sansa wondered how on earth all that dust could have possibly fit inside the little oil lamp? The deep dark colour of the mist brought with it a rapid panic as Sansa’s lounge was quickly engulfed in black. And then, quite suddenly, the cloud receded as if being swallowed and sucked back into the piece of brass laid on the floor. Sansa continued to cough into her fist, her eyes screwed shut and her other hand waving about wildly at a fog that was no longer there.  

“What the fuck was that all about?” She muttered to herself.

“Sorry about that - it’s been a while” came an unexpected male voice.

Sansa’s eyes flew open and she let loose a scream.

“No! No! No! Shit!” The dark haired intruder flustered as he waved his arms about “I’m not…I’m not here to hurt you” he winced through her screaming. Sansa rose from her seat on the couch and began backing away, her chest heaving from fright and the exertion form her scream, she picked up the nearest object to hand - which happened to be a magazine - she rolled it up in her hands whilst continuing to back away from the intruder.

The man’s eyebrows raised and he smirked as his hands stayed in their surrendering pose. “Are you gonna swat me like a fly milady?” He asked in amusement.

“Who are you?! What are you doing here?!” Sansa shouted, waving the rolled up magazine wildly about.

“Calm down, I-”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN?! A STRANGE MAN IS IN MY FLAT AND-”

The man had snapped his fingers and just like that, Sansa’s voice was gone. Her mouth was moving, but no noise was escaping. She clutched her throat and then rounded on the stranger with the magazine again, mouthing her silent words ‘what have you done to my voice!?’

“Sorry about that” he said as he started looking around her lounge before walking over to her bookshelf and starting to stroke the book spines and picking up her ornaments and framed photos for his curious inspection. “Your shrieking wasn’t helping.”

Sansa threw her arms up in exasperation. She then folded them over her chest and watched him as he assessed her decor and nick-knacks. He was dressed rather oddly for a thief - he had smart, black, quite high-waisted suit trousers on that looked as if they had been starched and pressed within an inch of their life, he wore a pristine crisp white shirt, topped off with braces and a bowtie. His jet back hair had far too much hair gel in it and was slicked to a side parting.  

“Look, I’m not here to hurt you, or steal from you or anything like that” the man turned to face her, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his feet - that were encased in the shiniest shoes Sansa had ever seen. “I’m here to help you actually.”

Sansa stared blankly at the man, hoping all would start to make sense very soon.

“That lamp” he inclined his head towards the piece of brass on her rug “you rubbed it didn’t you?” Sansa nodded. The man started making a rolling gesture with both hands, as if he was urging her thoughts to connect the dots more quickly. Sansa unfolded her arms. Her mouth hung open. She mouthed the words ‘you’re a fucking genie?!’ “Jon” the man says, taking a few long strides and offering his hand. Sansa stares at it blankly.

“If I give you your voice back, do you promise not to scream?”

Sansa gives one sharp nod, Jon clicks his fingers.

“Why are you dressed like that?” She asks. The man looks down at his clothes and then back to her, assessing what she’s wearing - and letting his eyes linger a little too long in certain areas, making her pull her dressing gown together to cover her little camisole top and sleep shorts. Jon clears his throat, somehow making it sound like an apology. “Where are your harem pants and little jacket thingy?”

“Ahh yes, the traditional genie attire - always hated that get-up” Jon scoffs. “What year is it anyway?” he asks, snatching the rolled up magazine from Sansa’s hand.

“2017″

Sansa watches him curiously as he’s flicking through the pages. He nods to himself at some of the photos, clicks his finger and all of a sudden, he’s in tight grey jeans, boots, a black henley and his hair is tied neatly at the back of his head in a ‘man-bun’.

“Wow” Sansa breathes before cursing her slip. Jon grins back at her. 

“Thanks! I haven’t been out of that sodding thing since 1926! Feels good to stretch the ol’ magical muscles, so to speak”

“This isn’t real” she whispers to herself in disbelief. “You’re a genie? A real-life magical genie?”

“Yep.”

“So…do I get-?”

“Three wishes? Indeed you do…what’ll it be?”

Three weeks. Three weeks and Jon’s new Wish Master had not chosen one wish yet. Not that he was complaining. Sansa Stark was by far the most attractive Master he’d ever had - and once she had begun to relax around him more (letting him at least sleep in her guest bedroom instead of back in his lamp that she would then lock in her safety deposit box overnight) Jon came to realise that she was also the sweetest Master he’d ever worked for too. He wished he could stay as her genie forever.

But he knew Sansa wasn’t hanging on to her wishes through want of his prolonged company. No, she was just one of those. One of those people who like to plan - like to make sure that the decisions they make are the right ones. She was simply taking her time. And then, once he grants her third and final wish, he’ll be sucked back into that infernal lump of brass once more until some other unsuspecting person rubs his lamp and he has a new Wish Master. And on and on it will go.

Jon rakes his fingers through his hair and sighs at the thought of moving on from Sansa.

“What’s wrong?” 

“Oh nothing” he reassures with a false smile. She doesn’t buy it.

“Want some?” Sansa asks, pointing her spoon loaded with mint choc-chip ice cream at him “it always cheers me up.”

Jon concedes and grabs the spoon, wrapping his mouth around the pale green icy cold substance as Sansa watches the movement.

“Oh this is good” he says, slightly surprised before licking the remnants from the spoon and digging it back into the tub in Sansa’s hand to retrieve more.

“Uh-huh” she says, looking a little dazed. Shaking her head she furrows her brows “do you even need to eat?”

“No, not really…doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate some good flavours though. I like tasting things.”

“Uh-huh” she repeats, her gaze still intent on his mouth. 

“What is it?…Have I got something on my face?” Jon asks self-consciously, licking all around his lips.

“NO! NO!..err.. I mean -” Sansa averts her eyes and clears her throat before carrying on in a calmer tone “no…you’re good” she nods. Jon shrugs.

“So you thought any more about your wishes?”

“Uh!” Sansa flops down onto the bar stool at her kitchen island “it’s just so hard to decide!…what do people normally wish for?”

“Well” Jon starts, taking a seat on the other stool “after they stop trying to get me to grant the un-grantables they-”

“The un-grantables?”

“Yeah…you know, wishing for more wishes, bringing people back from the dead, making someone fall in love with you etc etc” Jon rattled off.

“Oh yeah…those.”

“Yeah, so after they try me with the un-grantables, I get a lot of ‘I wish I was rich’, ‘I wish I was famous’, ‘I wish I had a massive dick’.”

Sansa failed to contain a coughing fit, causing Jon to lean over and gently pat her back. She waved him off “Wow…umm…you get a lot of that?”

“Yeah….I dunno…it seems important to human men” Jon shrugs “..at least important enough to waste a wish on.”

“You consider that a waste?” Sansa asked, swiping the spoon back from her genie and hiding her curious expression by pretending to be far too interested in the remaining ice cream in the tub.

“Well I wouldn’t really know as I’ve never-”

“You’re a virgin?! You’re….what was it?….2500 years old and you’re a virgin?!”

“2431 years old actually” Jon corrects with a roll of his eyes “and it would be pretty hard for me to….you know…since I don’t even have a-”

Jon trails off, waving his hand in the general direction of his crotch. Sansa’s mouth falls open. “You don’t have a-….Why not? What do you have?” she asks, staring at the juncture of his legs.

“I’m a genie Sansa, not a human…there’s just nothing there.”

“Like a Ken doll?!”

Jon laughs and scrubs at the back of his neck. “yeah…like a Ken doll.”

“How do genies… procreate?”

“We don’t” he shrugs “We were made with magic, back when it was stronger in the world….there were about 10 of us in all and we’ve just….existed….a lot of our time is spent between Masters…there’s less of us now of course….I heard Theon’s lamp got buried in an as yet undiscovered Egyptian tomb…so I guess he’s just waiting for some archaeologist to unearth him….then I heard Val got lucky and managed to get her final Master to wish her to become human.”

“Is that what you want? To be human?” 

“I’d just like to be free” Jon shrugged, swiping back the ice cream and spoon.

Sansa studied him before making up her mind. “I’ll wish you were human…if that’s what you want?”

Jon’s breathing slowed and his hand holding the spoon stilled. His heart raced as he slowly brought his eyes to meet Sansa’s. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll do it” She takes a deep inhaling breath, looking like she is about to declare the words - her wish that is also his. 

“Wait! What about your other two wishes? Once I’m human, I won’t be able to grant you anything.”

“You can’t give me what I really want anyway” Sansa says, in a small voice, staring unseeing at a fixed point over Jon’s shoulder.

“And what’s that?” he asks gently.

“To love someone, and have them love me back. Truly, unconditionally…..you can’t grant me that.” 

There’s a story or two behind the sadness in her eyes - this much Jon knows. Maybe she��ll tell him those stories, maybe she won’t, but she is wrong about one thing. “I could.” Jon declares softly. “I think I’m already half in love with you already…” he explains after seeing the confused look on her face.

Sansa scans his features for any falsity or mocking, her own expression softening slightly when she finds none. 

“But you’ve only known me for two weeks.”

“Three.”

“Yes - because that extra week makes all the difference” Sansa responds sarcastically. Jon rolls his eyes and huffs before taking the spoon and ice cream from her and setting it down on the kitchen island so that he is able to scoop up her hands in his.

“There is other magic in this world besides genie magic Sansa….I’d like to share it with you…if you want me to?”

“I…” she stutters, taking a gulp and watching the way Jon’s thumbs sweep softly across her knuckles “I think I’d like that.”

Bringing her hands up to his lips, Jon places a gentle kiss on her skin and gives her an encouraging smile. “Your other two wishes then?…what will it be my love?”

Sansa’s eyes start to scan her kitchen, as if it might hold some helpful clues. She frowns when she spies the tub of mint choc-chip. “More ice cream”.

“Seriously?”

Sansa nods enthusiastically.

“Alright” Jon shrugs. He snaps his fingers and three extra tubs of ice cream appear on the island counter. Sansa grabs her spoon and tears open one of the new tubs, closing her eyes and letting out a little groan of relish as the spoon slips out of her lips. Jon watches her intently, making her blush a little.

“Will…umm….once you’re human….you’ll have….all the human parts?”

“Err….yes…I guess I will.” Jon says, his own cheeks turning a bit pink in turn.

“Ok” Sansa says, licking her spoon clean and placing it down on the counter-top “for my second wish…..I wish for…condoms.” Jon’s eyes widen. He gulps and clicks his fingers. His eyes never leave her as there’s suddenly a literal shower of shiny square packets. They instantly drop everywhere - piled on the counter-tops, all over the floor and even in the sink. There must be hundreds. Sansa lets out a bark of laughter. “Plan on being busy do we?”

“Better safe than sorry.” he grins.

Sansa picks out a foil packet that has somehow managed to wind up in her hair, she raises her brows as she’s scrutinising the writing on it. “XXL huh?”

“Apparently size is important.”

Sansa giggles prettily, her eyes dance and sparkle and Jon thinks that he may not be half in love with her after all….perhaps he’s fallen completely, never to return. He barely knows what he’s doing until it’s done - he’s taken her face in his hands and is kissing her rosy lips. He’s sloppy and unpractised but after her initial swallowed gasp and shock, Sansa guides him to a slower pace.

Pulling away, he stares at her, his breaths ragged and his lips slightly swollen. He slides his hands from either side of her face down to her slender neck, fingers speared through her hair at the base of it and his thumbs brushing gently against her cheekbones.

“It…err…when you want to…use..one of those…it will be my first time….you might need to go easy on me” Jon says with a self-deprecating, nervous laugh. Sansa wraps her hands around his wrists, stroking the skin she finds there.

“As long as you go easy on me with your massive magical monster cock.”

As their combined laughter fades, Jon swears he feels the air in the room shift. Sansa gives his wrists a squeeze and offers him a soft smile with twinkling eyes.

“Are you ready for my final wish Jon?”

[akihanoyume]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Little Witch Academia Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ursula Callistis | Chariot du Nord/Croix Meridies Characters: Ursula Callistis | Chariot du Nord, Croix Meridies Additional Tags: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, The Author Regrets Nothing, please do not hurt me i will make them happy soon Summary:

Professor Ursula gets a visit during the night. Two childhood friends take a moment to put away their differences and reflect upon the past.

Ursula sat by her lonesome at her desk, peering at an old photograph under the warm glow of her lampshade. It was another one of those nights where she felt tired, but restless all the same. There were only the stars to whisper to her their secrets that night through her window facing towards the sky. The picture she held gently between her fingers was one from the golden age, when people still respected and revered magic – when Luna Nova was filled to the brim with bright-eyed girls so freely chasing their dreams of becoming a true witch. Ursula herself, was one of them–or, perhaps–it would be best to refer to her as ‘Chariot’, if speaking in past tense. The girl she stood tall next to with a wide smile dancing across her face was one too, during that time. Then, her name was Croix. Now, her name is still the same, and yet it seems that everything else has changed since then. Ursula brushed across the photograph with her fingertips. There are just some things that magic simply cannot bring back, nor can it fix.

Two knocks came at Ursula’s door. “I-I’ll be right there!” She half-mindedly stuffed the photo between two books on her table and scrambled up to her feet as she wondered what kind of visitor she would have at this time of night. The young professor approached her door, twisted the doorknob and quickly swung it open, expecting her usual upbeat student to be standing there.

Instead, a much taller, and a much, much more familiar figure stood before her eyes. Of course, within a split second of seeing that all too familiar lavender hair, her face twisted into a scowl. She quickly whipped down a hand to hover over her wand at her side as she was about to slam the door back shut, until the woman on the other side stopped it with a thud.

“Whoa, whoa, hey now. Simmer down, Chariot. Can’t an old friend pay a visit from time to time?” Croix grinned and pulled out something she hid behind her back. “Seems like I wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping, huh? I brought some nice tea…It’s the kind that you like.” She held out the box of tea and opened it, revealing the neatly arranged packets of seemingly expensive tea. Ursula relaxed her arm, but still glared in suspicion between the box and the woman. Croix sighed and lolled her head to the side. “I understand if you don’t want me to come in, but at least take the tea. I bought it for you in the first place.” She gestured towards her offering of peace. Ursula thought in silence for a moment. Croix wasn’t really the type to pull underhanded tricks to get what she wanted. Ursula knew this and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt, stepping to the side to gesture her into her quarters. Croix chuckled. “Thanks.” She stepped inside as Ursula slowly closed the door shut.

“…I’ll got put on a kettle.” Ursula muttered.

“Ah, yeah, go ahead.” Ursula plucked the box of tea from Croix’s hands, then turned on her heels and stepped into another room.

Croix–in Ursula’s absence–glanced around, observing the room piece by piece. First to catch her eye was the old ball of feathers perched silently on a tall, wooden T-stand that traced Croix’s every step with its black, beady eyes. She trodded up to it, extending a hand that hovered nearby the fowl’s head. Its eyes squinted in judgement as it leaned forward–before bowing to reveal the nape of its neck as if providing permission. “Long time no see, Alcor. I see you’ve aged well.” Croix chuckled softly as she scratched his feathered head. He whispered out a “caw” in response. Croix stepped back to tour around a bit more as Alcor went on to preen the azure feathers at his wing.

Compared to her own place, it was like comparing a medieval tower to a laboratory on the top floor of a skyscraper. But still, there was plenty of comfort to be taken in a room like this one. The nostalgia and the blue light of the moon filtering in through the large skylight was a nice touch. Once Croix had her fill, she wandered over to the workdesk at the side. Ungraded homework assignments, study materials, and plans for upcoming classroom topics were so littered across the table you couldn’t even see the table itself.

Croix, out of habit, took the liberty of organizing the papers herself. She wasn’t even quite aware of what she was doing until after she separated the papers into neat piles. Her hands seemed to move on their own. The tall professor smiled inwardly and crossed her arms. “I guess old habits die hard.” She thought to herself. Her eyes scanned over the desk one more time before she turned around to check on the other professor. But just as Croix turned her back, something seemed to shout at her eyes. She pivoted back around and spotted something stuck between two books. Croix reached out and pinched the corner to gently pull it out from its hiding spot. At first, it seemed to be just a regular photo-sized paper at a glance. But when Croix turned it over to see the picture, her eyes widened. “This photo…” She whispered to herself. “So she kept it too.”

“Sorry that took so long. I couldn’t find the kettle.” Ursula apologized as she walked back into the main room with a tray holding a teapot and two teacups seated on saucers. Croix jumped as she clumsily fumbled the photo back between two books on the desk before Ursula could notice. “It’s no problem,” Croix assured. “I took it upon myself to organize the papers on your desk. I hope you don’t mind.” She gestured to the desk. “O-oh, thanks.” Ursula forced out. She approached her table with her gaze aimed down at her feet and set down the teapot along with the teacups before quickly turning back to return the tray. Croix poured out the tea into the cups, then pulled up a chair. Once Ursula returned, she gracefully sat down and slowly picked up the steaming cup of tea. Alcor perked his head up, taking notice of the two witches that had cared for him when he was but a chick finally reunited. He extended his wings, taking flight towards Croix and perching upon her head. He cawed happily. “Hey, Al. Don’t mess up my hair. For the last time, it’s not a nest.” Croix chided. Ursula couldn’t help but smile at the familiar scene. “He missed you.” Ursula said as Alcor began to nestle in Croix’s hair.

Alcor squawked repeatedly as if he was laughing and hopped down to Croix’s shoulder. Croix sighed at him in defeat, figuring she’d might as well let him do as he liked for now.

Ursula took a moment to close her eyes and enjoy the aroma the beverage offered into the air. Once she opened her eyes again, she saw Croix putting the still steaming cup of tea to her lips. “Oh, wait, it’s still ho- ” Too late. Croix had already taken a sip.

…But she simply just stared back down at her reflection in the teacup with a blank expression.

“…Uh…Croix…?” The professor in question looked back up at attention.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Are you…alright? You drank that tea when it was still hot.” Ursula pointed out. Croix cocked her head to the side and flicked her eyes down at her tea. She chuckled upon realization.

“Ah, of course. Hot tea is nothing once you’ve eaten instant cup noodle for days on end. I get impatient when I wait for it to cool down.” Croix explained with a grin.

“You’re still eating those? Even after all these years?” Ursula exasperated.

“Yes.” The other professor deadpanned. Ursula shook her head as she put a hand on her temple. “What? They’re easy to make. Can’t really blame a witch can you?” Croix shrugged.

“Maybe so, but you shouldn’t be eating them everyday! It’s bad for your health!” Ursula reprimanded.

“…Oh?” Croix raised a brow with a knowing smile. Once Ursula realized what she had let slip out, she quickly snapped a hand over her mouth.

Ursula huffed as heat began to rise to her face and went on to drink her tea.

“Seems like the former Moonlight witch still cares for me. That warms my heart.” Croix teased. Ursula furrowed her brows.

“Well, I could say just the same to you, Croix.” She shot back.

“Hm?”

“At the Wagandea Tree.” Ursula clarified. She set her cup down on the saucer. “I heard your voice as I was falling down, telling me to wake up. When I opened my eyes, I saw your face, looking down at me like…like you were scared.” Croix’s expression twisted into a frown as she put down her teacup onto the desk. Ursula’s gaze bore into Croix, searching for an answer.

“Yeah, I was.” Croix confessed. “At that moment, I felt as if I was thrown back all those years ago when we were kids. All I could think about as I chased after you was how I wouldn’t ever be able to forgive myself if I’d let you die. So…yeah. I was scared, Chariot.”

Chariot du Nord’s eyes widened a bit at the honesty. “A-ah…Is that so…?”

“But, despite my attempt, you still managed to get yourself hurt from another fall. If it weren’t for Akko and the Claimh Solais, you’d be covered in bandages right now.” Croix’s eyes traced down Chariot’s sleeve. Chariot subconsciously fidgeted her hands around, attempting to cover up the marks on the top of her hand. Croix had already noticed and extended her arm, gently taking Chariot’s hand into hers to examine the scratches marring her soft skin. She pulled out her wand and muttered a spell under her breath. Her aura began to glow as tendrils of emerald magic flowed from herself to Chariot’s hands. The scratches quickly sealed themselves and not a mark was left upon the professor.

“There. All better now.” Croix lifted Chariot’s hand, pressing her lips against the silky skin. Chariot gasped, mind racing in shock. Two sides of herself began to clash. If things had been normal between them, she would have welcomed it–maybe even blush a little. But the things that Croix has done ever since coming to Luna Nova–not as a student–but now as a professor, Chariot could not forgive.

She scowled, chair scrapping against the stone floor as she bolted up and jerked her hands away from Croix’s hold.

“Chariot…” Croix watched her storm away and up the stairs to her observatory. She got to her feet, dropping off Alcor back to his T-stand before following after Chariot. The fowl looked on with his head cocked in curiosity.

Chariot leaned her back against the fence, gazing up at the moon in deep thought. Its waning shape seemed to tower proudly over the land along with the stars.

“Chariot…Hey, Chariot…” Croix called out. The professor continued to look upwards.

“Croix…Why did you come here?” Chariot questioned, meeting eye to eye with the woman at her side. “Please, tell me the truth.” She pleaded.

Croix peered into her fiery eyes. They were like a blaze that burned at her insides and left her bare. She turned and peered up at the moon just as Chariot had.

“I came here because…I wanted to say I’m sorry.” Croix said softly.

“You’re…sorry?”

“Yeah. For everything. Up till now, and…for what’s to come. I know what I’m doing is wrong. But there’s no other way. I can’t just rely on some naive teenage girl who doesn’t even realize the significance of the Claihm Solais to restore magic back to the world. That’s why I took matters into my own hands, and I won’t stop until magic is returned throughout the land.”

Chariot put a hand up to her head, wincing. “You came all the way across the academy just to tell me that? You’re sorry, but you’re still going to keep on doing the despicable things you’ve done up till now. Is that it?”

Croix nodded. The professor sighed and shook her head.

“That’s so like you. Whatever. I’m…I’m too tired to even say anything else.” Chariot slid down to the floor as she removed her glasses and rubbed at her temple. Croix sat down next to her with her knees pulled up to her chest.

“I’m sorr-”

“Stop talking.”

Croix snapped her mouth shut on command. She stayed silent, drumming her fingers against her knees while her eyes kept flicking back from Chariot, to the window, to Chariot, and back to the window again.

“Alright, fine. What.” Chariot clipped.

“W-well…if you wanted, you could always…use my shoulder, if you’re tired.” Croix said, looking away at some corner. Her brain scolded her for saying such things that sounded stupid, but still went on to blurt out anyways.

However, a pressure upon her shoulder stopped her stream of self-berating thoughts. The familiarity of it seemed to unknot all the anxiety burdening her chest. Croix looked down at Chariot, smiling softly. She warily lifted a hand to drape part of her cloak around the other professor.

“Croix…” Chariot said, barely above a whisper. Croix hummed in response. “Why did…everything have to change like this? Sometimes I wish we could turn back time. Back to when we were both students again. Back to when we were young and foolish. Naive and…”

And in love.

A knot tied itself at her throat before she could finish her thought.

“Yeah…It would be nice if we could simply turn back the clock, wouldn’t it? But time doesn’t know how to look back. All it does is keep marching forward. Onward…and onward…until even the universe itself withers away. Even then, time will still keep moving.” Croix mused.

Chariot’s eyelids began to grow heavy. Eventually Croix’s scent, mingled with her own, provided a blanket of comfort around her senses. The familiarity and nostalgia of it all made Chariot curl even closer to Croix’s body. Even if it were to be just for a moment, Chariot wanted to savor it. Slowly, the colors began to blur and fade…

Croix watched Chariot’s long lashes flutter sofly, like the wings of a butterfly, to a close. Her breaths were small and light, almost like a child’s. Croix tucked an arm under Chariot’s knees and gently lifted her up with her other arm supporting her back into a bridal carry. Chariot’s head fell into Croix’s chest as the lavender-haired professor slowly walked her down the stairs to her bed.

Alcor watched closely while Croix set the slumbering professor down on her bed. She unclipped her cape from her collar and draped it over Chariot as a blanket.

“Good night, Chariot,” She murmured. “Sleep well.” With a chaste kiss upon the forehead, Croix turned on her heels to leave, until something had crossed her mind. She walked back to the desk, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a square folded slip of paper and inserted it between the two books. Croix clicked the lamp off, leaving only the moonlight to illuminate the room. She headed towards the door.

Alcor observed her intently as she was about to leave. He cawed softly, not loud enough to wake his master, but audible enough to give his former a farewell. Croix looked back as she opened the door and chuckled. “See ya later, Al. Take care of her for me.” The fowl bowed as he saw her off. Croix stepped outside, closing the door with a soft click.

Chariot woke up in a circular room adorned with harsh red lights. She squeezed her eyes open and close a few times to adjust to the jarring lights, then slowly rose up to her feet with a hand at her temple. Without a doubt in her mind, this room was certainly a creation of Croix’s. Her scent was here.

The blood red lights were installed into the walls of the room and extended upwards into darkness. Chariot craned her neck upwards to see where they led, but it was as if they were just being swallowed by a black hole. She looked to her left and right where a hall on each side stretched into the depths of even more darkness. Chariot put a hand to her chin, contemplating which way to go before deciding on the left hallway. Croix’s scent seemed to be stronger in that direction.

Chariot pulled out her wand to light her path. She hesitantly put one foot forward into the pitch black hallway, her heart shaking in her chest. With a deep breath, she descended into the thick shadows of the corridor.

With each click of her heel, it seemed that a hum of energy whirred louder and Croix’s scent grew stronger. Her hand that reached outwards with her wand began to tremble. She thought that this hallway might never have an ending.

Finally, a dim light shined through. It was only just a speck, but a welcome sight to Chariot after having wandered through the dark for far too long. She ran, hoping to find some answers or clues as to what was happening at the end of this narrow tunnel. The light grew larger and larger as she approached. Soon it become too bright, stinging her eyes as she got closer. Chariot raised an arm to shield it from blinding her any further just as she crossed over the threshold. She stopped running when her heels seemed to click against what seemed to be metal plating, blinked away the spots in her vision and raised her head.

Her eyes widened. Before her stood a monolith of a mockery of the Shiny Rod, and in front of it, a blood red cape hanging upon the shoulders of her childhood friend.

“Croix!” She shouted. “What’s the meaning of this!? What do you plan on doing!?”

The woman did not respond. Croix continued to look down at her device. “Croix! Answer m-! Argh!” A sudden blast of air gusted about the room. Chariot snapped her arms up as her ponytail came undone and hair flew freely at her back.

“At long last…the Noir Rod is at full power. Now, I can finally restore magic…I can show that Woodward that she was fool for not picking me!!” Croix cackled into the air. The Noir Rod, as Croix had called it, took off into the air like a missile, breaking through the roof and causing it to crumble down. Chariot watched it as it flew upwards at the moon.

“Croix…what have you done!?” She yelled. The caped woman continued to laugh as if she’d lost all form of sanity.

Chariot traced the flight of the missile’s journey to the stars…and then watched it halt to a stop…then gasped in realization as the missile began to descend right back on top of them. Except now, it no longer seemed to take the form of a missile or a rod. No…now, it had transformed itself into a black wyvern streaked with red magic, its eyes trained straight down at Croix.

“Look out! It’s coming back!” Chariot cried. She jumped forward, only to fall not even two feet in front of her. Some sort of force weighted her legs down like lead balls. She extended a hand. “Croix, move! Get out of the way! You’ll die!!” She begged in desperation, only for her words to fall onto deaf ears. The caped woman only cackled madly, arms spread wide as if about to embrace the creature.The wyvern quickly grew closer and closer. It roared a deafening roar.

Chariot called out to woman she had once loved so dearly one last time, just before the monster came crashing down to decide their fate.

“Croix!” Chariot shot up in a cold sweat, her breaths ragged and hair burning red. Alcor squawked and flapped his wings in shock from his master’s sudden outburst.

It was just a bad dream…

Chariot looked around her room. Everything to be perfectly normal. No wyvern. No red lights. No Croix…

The young proferssor suddenly felt something warm on her cheek. She touched a hand against it to find it damp. For a moment, it didn’t occur to her that she had been crying.

“Oh no…What am I doing…?” She brushed a sleeve across her eyes to wipe away the tears welling up. “Just a bad dream. It’s just a bad dream, Chariot. Nothing to cry over. It’s alright.” She mumbled to herself in reassurance. Once her blurry vision cleared up, she sniffled and swung her legs over the side of the bed, only to realize the scarlet cloth over her lap. She stared over it for a while with her brows furrowed together before sighing, folding it up, and laying it at the corner of her bed. The professor rose to her feet and wandered over to her workdesk, seeking some sort of distraction like paperwork to help take her mind of things. She sat down on her wooden chair that creaked against her weight. Chariot moved over the cold tea to the side and shuffled the reorganized papers in front of her to work on.

Chariot had only managed to pick up her pen before something about the scene seemed a bit strange in the back of her mind. She scanned around her desk, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, until it appeared to her a slip of paper that stuck out between two books. Normally, this wouldn’t seem so odd to her. She would often take out that paper and reminisce about old times. But what was odd was that the photo was lodged in two different books than the two she always hid it in. Chariot’s hand moved on its own, gripping the photo by its corner and pulling it out. As it slipped from its hiding place, another piece of paper came out with it and dropped onto the table. It had been folded into a small square.

Chariot picked it up and slowly unfolded it by its corners. Her eyes met the ink on the paper.

It was a photo of them, still as students. The young Chariot was lying down on Croix’s lap, her eyes closed and sleeping soundly while Croix smiled at the camera with a hand on Chariot’s fiery red hair.

She remembered this photo from years ago. Chariot had kept it when she found out Croix took the picture without her knowing in embarassment, but couldn’t find it later on and figured she simply had misplaced it. To think that Croix had been to one to have kept it all this while…

Chariot’s body shook. She snapped a hand over her mouth to keep the noise at the back of her throat from coming out, as a familiar sensation began to well up in the corners of her eyes. Her chest constricted and body shuddered more violently with each passing second.

Why? Why now? All this time, she’d been concealing herself behind a mask after throwing away the bright, shining person she once was. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve, but now, all the things she wanted to scream and cry were all just tucked away in little glass bottle hidden inside her heart. She thought that she’d learned well enough by now how to keep those feelings sealed away.

Maybe it had gone on for too long. Maybe the glass bottle was beginning to crack. Maybe the glass bottle had even already shattered with this one, small, photograph.

Or, maybe, it was because even through all of this, after doubting if Croix even remembered who she was or what they had been through together throughout their youth, it was comforting to know that she still cared.

She realized this.

…And the professor wept.

[nightingveilxo]

The Blind Banker and How Things Improve With Age

In the National Antiquities Museum, an ancient Chinese clay tea set has been arranged on a tray. Oriental flute music is playing gently. A young Chinese woman, Soo Lin Yao, takes a large pinch of tea leaves from a bowl and sprinkles them into a clay teapot before pouring water on top of them. A group of children and a few adults are watching her demonstration. SOO LIN: The great artisans say the more the teapot is used, the more beautiful it becomes. (She has deliberately overfilled the pot so that when she picks up the lid and gently presses it down into place, water spills out over the sides of the pot. Now she picks up a small jug and pours more liquid over the top of the pot.) (To me, this always made it look like the teapot is crying.) SOO LIN: The pot is seasoned by repeatedly pouring tea over the surface. The deposit left on the clay creates this beautiful patina over time. (She holds up the wet teapot to show her audience how the pot is shining.) SOO LIN: For some pots, the clay has been burnished by tea made over four hundred years ago.

Some time later, the visitors have left and Soo Lin is gently drying and dusting off the tea set with a brush. TANNOY ANNOUNCEMENT: This museum will be closing in *ten minutes.

(A young English male employee, Andy Galbraith, walks over. He stands behind her and watches as she carefully packs the tea set into a box.) ANDY (in a joking tone): Four hundred years old, and they’re lettin’ you use it to make yourself a brew! SOO LIN (not turning around): Some things aren’t supposed to sit behind glass. They’re made to be touched; to be handled. (She turns and looks at him. Andy – who clearly has a massive crush on her – looks back at her all doe-eyed. She turns back to the box and frowns.) SOO LIN: These pots need attention. (She holds up a dry-looking pot with no shine on it.) The clay is cracking. ANDY: Well, I can’t see how a tiny splash of tea’s gonna help. (It’s not. It takes a lot of tea, and a long time, to bring real results.) (He grins nervously.) SOO LIN: Sometimes you have to look hard at something to see its value. (She puts down the teapot as Andy steels himself to say something. Just as he opens his mouth she lifts up another pot to show him.) SOO LIN: See? This one shines a little brighter. (Andy braces himself.) ANDY: I don’t suppose ... um, I mean, I don’t suppose that you ... you wanna have a drink? (He grimaces.) Not tea, obviously. Um, in a pub, with me, tonight ... umm. (Soo Lin puts down the pot, not looking at him.) SOO LIN: You wouldn’t like me all that much. ANDY: Couldn’t I maybe decide that for myself? (She hesitates, but then briefly glances towards him.) SOO LIN: I can’t. I’m sorry. Please stop asking. (She closes the box.)

From there, we go to the scene of John using the chip-and-PIN-machine, which is also an indicator of Sherlock not being a machine. It even ties in with how Sebastian helps with the formulation of the character Eurus, glass, and how Sherlock perceives himself/is perceived by others. ( x )

Fast forward...

Later, elsewhere in the museum, fingers reach through the gaps in a large grating at the bottom of a wall and carefully push the grating outwards. Moments after that, a shadow moves across the dimly lit display room, and a hand reaches into the glass case to take out one of the not-shiny teapots. The shadow moves away again. Not long afterwards, Soo Lin is in an almost-dark restoration room, pouring tea into the teapot on the desk in front of her. She picks up the lid and carefully strokes it around the rim as, behind her, a very recognisable curly-headed silhouette appears on the other side of a window in the door. Unaware of this, she picks up the teapot and pours some of the liquid into a pair of cups. Pouring more of the tea into the tray on which the cups are standing, she swills the teapot around to cover the outside with the drips. A figure steps up beside her. SHERLOCK: Fancy a biscuit with that? (Before he finishes the sentence she gasps in fright and turns towards him, the teapot dropping from her terrified fingers. Sherlock reacts instantly and bends his knees to reach down and catch the teapot before it hits the floor. He looks up at her.) SHERLOCK: Centuries old. Don’t wanna break that. (He slowly straightens up and hands the teapot back to her. As she takes it, he reaches out and flicks a switch on the desk, turning on the lights underneath the surface. He smiles slightly at her.) SHERLOCK: Hello.

Fast forward...

SOO LIN: I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting. (The hands have nearly completed their work and the paper is now folded into an intricate shape.) (In the museum, Sherlock lays the photographs on the table.) SHERLOCK: Can you decipher these? (Soo Lin leans forward and points to the mark beside Sir William’s portrait.) SOO LIN: These are numbers. SHERLOCK: Yes, I know. SOO LIN (pointing to another photograph): Here: the line across the man’s eyes – it’s the Chinese number one. SHERLOCK (pointing to the first photo): And this one is fifteen. But what’s the code? SOO LIN: All the smugglers know it. It’s based upon a book ... (Just then almost all the lights go out. Soo Lin looks up in dread. Sherlock straightens up and looks around sharply.) SOO LIN (softly, her face full of terror): He’s here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me. (And Sherlock’s off, racing across the room. John calls to him softly but urgently.) JOHN: Sh-Sherlock. Sherlock, wait! (Sherlock charges out of the room. John turns to Soo Lin and grabs her hand.) JOHN: Come here. (He pulls her across the room towards another room, or possibly a cupboard – it’s not clear which.) JOHN: Get in. Get in! (Sherlock races across a large open foyer with a staircase at each end and a balcony surrounding the floor above. He stops in the middle of the foyer and looks around. From his right, a figure runs across the balcony and fires a pistol at him. Sherlock turns and runs in the opposite direction, flinging himself to the floor and sliding along it to take shelter behind a statue on a low plinth. The figure fires a couple more times as Sherlock scrambles behind the plinth. In the restoration room, John looks up at the sound of gunfire, then turns to Soo Lin.) JOHN: I have to go and help. Bolt the door after me. (He hurries off. Soo Lin’s face fills with dread. John makes his way cautiously out into the foyer, then ducks and runs for cover as more gunshots ring out. The figure runs back across the balcony and disappears from view. Sherlock comes out from behind the plinth and hares across the foyer and up the stairs. John peers out from behind a column at the other end of the foyer as Sherlock reaches the top of the stairs and tears around the corner. He pelts into another display room and the gunman runs out of cover behind him and fires towards him again. Sherlock ducks behind a display cabinet displaying some ancient skulls as the figure fires again.) SHERLOCK (calling out): Careful! (The gunman fires again.) SHERLOCK (calling out): Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old! Have a bit of respect! (He pauses for a couple of seconds, breathing heavily. There are no more gunshots.) SHERLOCK: Thank you(!) 

The skulls keep changing...

“sore spot”

Drugs and governmental figures, during a conversation with a man that has a partially removed tattoo from his past love affair with an Asian woman. (Yes, this part is more than a bit not-good about racial stereotypes, and I would argue so was TBB).

TLD and Coffee

FAITH: I have no-one else to turn to. SHERLOCK: Yes, but I’m very busy at the moment.  I have to drink a cup of tea. (He half closes the doors, goes to the kitchen table and picks up a teacup with two syringes in it.  Liquid can be heard bubbling nearby.  Sitting at the left of the table in front of a complicated contraption of pipes clamped together, a gas tank and what looks like a plastic drugs drip bag clipped to one pipe with a large clothes peg, Bill looks at him.) WIGGINS: Is “cup of tea” code? (A clear plastic tent has been hung from the ceiling around the sink.   Sherlock reaches through the opening to empty the syringes from the teacup onto the draining board.) SHERLOCK: It’s a cup of tea. WIGGINS: Because you might prefer some ... (he makes air-quotes with the fingers of his right hand) ... “coffee.” (Walking back across the kitchen, Sherlock throws him a dark look.  Faith is still standing in the living room.) FAITH: You’re my last hope. SHERLOCK (turning to her and taking hold of the handles on both of the sliding doors): Really?  That’s bad luck, isn’t it?  Goodnight.  Go away.

Sherlock is turning Faith/Eurus away, because he needs tea. That will have repercussions for John, Sherlock’s cup of tea, by TFP.

Fast forward...

In flashback in 221B’s kitchen, the teacup and saucer are dropping in ultra-slow motion from Mrs Hudson’s hands.  Instinctively – and also in ultra-slow motion – Sherlock reaches forward to drop his pistol onto the kitchen table and then his hand continues its downward motion as he bends his knees and gets his hand under the falling saucer.  He catches it and the tea splashes noisily in the cup as its fall is halted.   Before he can start to straighten up again, Mrs Hudson reaches across to the table and picks up the gun by its muzzle with her right hand, pulling it towards her and reaching for the other end with her left.   Sherlock starts to come up again, some of the tea splashing out of the cup and falling towards the floor.  As his knees straighten and his hand shakes, rattling the cup in the saucer, Mrs H turns and points the gun at him, cocking it.  He jumps at the sight and stares at it, his hand still trembling. MRS HUDSON: Right, then, mister.  Now I need your handcuffs.  I happen to know there’s a pair in the salad drawer.  (She shrugs.)  I’ve borrowed them before. (He looks at her in startled indignation.) MRS HUDSON (crossly): Oh, get over yourself.  You’re not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes.

TFP...Ten Minutes...Drugs, Wiggins, Money, Eurus...Being confined...

SHERLOCK: Experiment complete.  Conclusion: I have a sister. MYCROFT (raising his head to him and speaking angrily): This was you?  All of this was you? SHERLOCK: Conclusion two: my sister – Eurus, apparently – has been incarcerated from an early age in a secure institution controlled by my brother. (Mycroft raises his hands and presses the palms against his eyes.  Unseen by him, Sherlock waves cheerfully at him.) SHERLOCK: Hey, bro! MYCROFT (tiredly): Why would you do this ... (he lowers his hands and speaks through gritted teeth) ... this pantomime?  Why? SHERLOCK: Conclusion three: you are terrified of her! MYCROFT (sternly): You have no idea what you’re dealing with.  (Angrily) None at all. JOHN (coming out of a corridor on the ground floor): New information: she’s out. (So, she didn’t need tea...and when they get to Sherrinford, there is the whole conversation about Eurus, Sherlock, and messy sexual encounters...) MYCROFT: That’s not possible. SHERLOCK: It’s more than possible.  She was John’s therapist. JOHN: Shot me during a session. SHERLOCK: Only with a tranquilliser. JOHN: Mm.  *We still had ten minutes to go. SHERLOCK: Well, we’ll see about a refund. (Do chip-and-PIN-machines normally offer those, Sherlock? Oh, but this isn’t real...) (John smiles.  Sherlock starts coming down the stairs and addresses his actors.) SHERLOCK: Right, you two.  Wiggins has got your money by the gate. (The man in the child’s clothes gives him a double thumbs-up and turns and scampers away.) SHERLOCK: Don’t spend it all in one crack den.

Rewind...

ASiB

SHERLOCK: Merry Christmas, Mycroft. MYCROFT: And a happy New Year. (As his brother continues down the corridor, flicking the ash from his cigarette onto the floor, Mycroft gets out his phone and hits a speed dial.) MYCROFT (into phone): He’s on his way. (He’s talking to John who is still back at the flat.) MYCROFT: Have you found anything? JOHN: No. Did he take the cigarette? MYCROFT: Yes. JOHN: Shit. (He looks round to Mrs Hudson.) He’s coming. *Ten minutes.

TEH

TLD

Intentional use of Mary dressed like Sherlock to have us think Sherlock is putting his arm around John. Coffee pot prominently displayed. At that point in TLD, John still needed a little more time for tea, and cake entered into the equation--again.

JOHN: Who you thought I was ... (she nods at him) ... is the man who I want to be. (He swallows, fighting off his tears.  She smiles gently back at him.) MARY (softly): Well, then ... John Watson ... (She raises her head and smiles widely and fondly at him.  He stares back at her.  She looks at him for a long moment.) MARY: Get the hell on with it. (She nods at him and smiles through her tears.  The perspective changes and she has gone.  John stares ahead of himself for a long moment, then gradually lowers his head into his left hand and starts to cry.   Sherlock quietly puts his mug onto the table beside him, then stands up.  John sobs, tears pouring from his face and falling to the floor.   Slowly Sherlock walks across to him.) SHERLOCK (softly): It’s okay. (He tentatively raises his arms, perhaps hesitating momentarily for fear of being rejected again, then slowly puts his left hand onto John’s arm and his right hand onto his back before sliding it upwards to gently cradle his neck.  He moves closer, sliding his left arm up to hold John’s shoulder.) JOHN (tearfully): It’s not okay. SHERLOCK (softly): No. (He lowers his cheek onto the top of John’s head.) SHERLOCK (softly): But it is what it is. (Blinking against his own tears, he continues to hold his sobbing best friend.)

Later, after your transcriber has had a bloody good cry and can finally see the screen of her laptop again, the camera pans down from the view over the houses of Baker Street and descends down towards the street. SHERLOCK (offscreen): So Molly’s going to meet us at this ‘cake place.’ JOHN (offscreen): Well, it’s your birthday.  Cake is obligatory. (In the living room, Sherlock is putting on his coat.) SHERLOCK: Oh, well.  Suppose a sugar high’s some sort of substitute. JOHN: Behave. (Odd remark, if Sherlock only meant a substitute for drugs, and Sherlock never said it was his birthday--which is on Epiphany, btw. Also, this is after the missing footage from above, but the outside of 221B was shown in the way normally used to show us time has passed. It’s not just an edit to cut to a new scene.) (He walks across the room towards the door.  He has already put on his jacket.) SHERLOCK: Right then.  You know ... (John stops and turns to him.) SHERLOCK: ... it’s not my place to say but ... it was just texting. (John looks away.) SHERLOCK: People text. (John heaves an unhappy sigh as Sherlock continues.) SHERLOCK: Even I text.  Her, I mean, The Woman.  Bad idea; try not to, but, you know, sometimes. (He pulls in a breath.) SHERLOCK: It’s not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling, from time to time, that we might all just be human. JOHN: Even you? SHERLOCK: No. (John blinks at him.) SHERLOCK: Even you. (John looks at him silently for a long moment while he takes that in, then turns towards the door.) JOHN: Cake? SHERLOCK (nodding): Cake. (John starts to walk out the door but stops when Sherlock speaks again.) SHERLOCK: Oh, um ... (He walks across the room to the cabinet to the right of the dining table. It’s the same cabinet he put Irene’s phone into at the end of “Scandal.”) JOHN: What?  What is it? (Sherlock pulls open a drawer and starts rummaging in it.) JOHN: What’s wrong? (Sherlock straightens up and turns, simultaneously putting on his deerstalker.  John laughs.) JOHN: Seriously?! SHERLOCK: I’m Sherlock Holmes.  I wear the damn hat. (Lifting one leg behind him and kicking the drawer closed, he walks across the room and out of the door.) SHERLOCK (not slowing or turning around): Isn’t that right, Mary? (Startled, John stops and turns back into the room and looks around before blinking and then turning to follow his friend.  The camera pans slowly across the room to show that there’s nobody there.)

Transcripts ( x )

Related:

Burning Up = To Start A Cipher ( x )

Molly’s Blog Gave Us Clues ( x )

When is Richard Brook, Not Richard Brook? / Molly Matters ( x )

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