#To have loved and lost

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

To Have Loved and Lost Part Nine

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Pairing: George Russell x Reader

Rating: M

Notes: It's been EIGHTY FOUR YEARS I am so sorry. Maybe two more chapters on this one.

Warnings: ANGSTY But also fluffy :D ; there's a time shift, it doesn't completely align with the show's timeline. Bear with me. Also this is not a story with a traditional happy ending!

Summary: In the last year, you had been made incredibly aware of the ways in which you were not Bertha Russell.

“It’s coming along well.” 

“As well as it can, I suppose,” You conceded. Mrs. Russell’s lips pursed with a smile as she plied,

“Even you must admit that there has been great progress.” 

You grimaced, tipping your head to the side a touch. “Not as much as there should’ve been at this rate.” It had been a long, difficult winter. There had been so many delays as a result of high winds and heavy snow.

“There’s only so much that you can do to control the weather.” 

“As much as I can do, yes. Something tells me that you wouldn’t have allowed a blizzard to come between you and your home.” 

“Perhaps, but you and I are not the same.” 

She said it with such flippancy that it made you laugh and shake your head. But as she climbed out of the carriage ahead of you, you had to fight away a latent wave of bitterness. 

In the last year, you had been made incredibly aware of the ways in which you were not Bertha Russell.

George truly had done well, choosing a fellow strategist. In your quiet moments, you couldn’t help but wonder, had things been different—had you joined him in New York when you were meant to—might you have been in the public eye, as she was? Might you have pushed yourself into the social scene with the same vigor? When you were young, you may have had the ambition. You’d been ready enough to forsake your family for what had once believed to be a great love. Maybe you could have made the strides…No. 

For George, you would have made the strides. 

“Do you intend to admire Mr. White’s handiwork from the safety of your carriage?” 

Bertha’s taunt broke you from your regretful reverie, and you took hold of the footman’s hand, allowing him to let you help him down. You strode to Bertha’s side, matching her pace as you neared the bright façade of the house. 

“I wonder where your head is sometimes,” Bertha commented. 

“I’ve a number of matters that I’m engaged with at present. My mind wanders.” 

“I’m fully aware. I’ve seen you drift off into fairyland in the midst of countless dinners.” 

“I’m always listening,” You insisted, leading the way into the house.

“That I believe.” 

You hummed softly, looking around the foyer. It was large, though not nearly as large as the Russell’s. It couldn’t be, given the city lot that Franklin had bought. But, you were more than pleased with what had been accomplished. Your two-floor compact mansion had all of the trimmings expected of the great families of New York, and was only a block from the Russell’s. 

“Have you much left to do?” Bertha asked. 

You shook your head a little, leading the way toward the sitting room. 

“The ballroom is left to be completed and the bedrooms are to be painted and papered, but that is the most of it, I believe.” 

“What’s stopped the work?...Budgeting concerns?” 

You cast her a sidelong glance, fully aware of the barbed, couched curiosity in her question. 

“No. The materials for the floor were backordered and it’s been too humid to paint.” 

“I see.” 

“I hope that you do. My cousin may not be as wealthy as your husband, but he’s hardly pinching pennies.” 

“I’m well aware. George says that the sales have far exceeded what your cousin promised.” 

“Franklin doesn’t like to make promises that he can’t keep. Nor do I.” 

“Speaking of promises, are you still expecting to come to Newport for this next week?” 

You gave Bertha a grimacing smile, bracing for her disappointment. 

“Franklin and Eleanor will join you for Friday, but I’m sorry to say I will not be able to join you until Monday.” 

“You’ll miss half the fun. May I ask why?” 

“I’ve been neglecting my sorting of Franklin’s work at the office—” 

“He has assistants for that, doesn’t he?” 

“He does, but the new girl hasn’t been trained up properly yet and the receipts have gone to hell.” It flew out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you lifted a gloved hand to cover your mouth as your face went hot. But Bertha ignored the profanity, waving off your comment as she demanded: “What else?” 

“Mr. White is having materials delivered that I will need to sign off on.” 

“On the weekend?” 

“On Saturday, yes. I want eyes on them the moment that they arrive, so that I may correct any disparities right away. I don’t want the work delayed any further.” 

“I understand.” 

“But I will join as soon as I’m able.” 

“I am glad to hear it.” 

“As am I. And Eleanor is incredibly excited.”

“Is she?” 

“She’s heard a fair amount about Newport from Gladys, of course. She’s felt terribly left out.” 

“She is young.” 

“I know,” You nodded, looking around the sitting room. “But…It wears on you more, I think. When you are young.” 

“I can hardly remember that feeling. Can you?” 

“...All too well.” 

--  

“Will you be able to join us at all?” 

George took up his glass of wine, taking a deep pull as he mulled over his answer. He’d known for a few days that he would have to disappoint his wife. He had no doubt of her annoyance in this regard. She’d planned on entertaining on Saturday evening, and while she could shoulder it with Larry, it was far more advantageous if they were both there. 

“I should be able to get away for a couple of days,” He admitted, “But I’d arrive on the Monday.”

Bertha hummed in thought, but George could sense the soft, disappointed note in his wife’s voice. 

“I would join sooner if I could,” He added, lips tipped in an apologetic smile. 

She shook her head: “I understand. Perhaps you could escort Mr. Hughes’ sad cousin when you do travel.” 

Sad cousin. It struck a chord in him that he had nearly forgotten. They had made such great strides that the last year had been so terribly cordial between the two of them. If he was pressed for the truth of their relationship—or some form of the truth of it, as it was now—he would go so far as to say that they were friends. George was almost certain that she and Bertha were in good standing with one another; they joined one another frequently for events, teas, balls, dinners. 

Perhaps that was why the use of sad caught him so off-guard, and seemed to hit him in the vicinity of below the belt. 

His hesitation went unnoticed as Bertha beckoned a servant closer to top off her glass of wine. 

“Her house is coming along,” She added. 

“Oh?” 

“Mm. There’s been a back up on building materials, but she’s managing. Mr. Hughes and Eleanor will arrive in Newport on the Friday, and they’ll attend at least the tea, though I’m certain Eleanor will have to remain behind on Saturday evening, poor thing.” 

“Perhaps she’ll be able to visit with Gladys. I know that they enjoy their time together.” 

“They do. I daresay Eleanor has had a good effect on her.” 

“Really.” His brow wrinkled, intrigued. “What makes you say that?” 

“I think having Eleanor around and remembering the way it was before has made her grateful for the freedom she’s afforded.” Bertha leaned back a touch as the servants stepped in to clear the plates. “I’ve heard far less belly-aching about the events that we’ve allowed her to attend lately.” 

George nodded a touch, considering. It was true—Gladys had seemed to be in fine fettle for the last few months, and it was in no doubt in part due to the time that she spent with Eleanor. 

“I do want to hold a dinner on Monday when you’ve arrived, and with the cousin as well. Can I count on you to extend the invitation?” Bertha asked. “I’m certain she’ll be more likely to accept if you show her the attention. She receives it so rarely.” 

George’s hands twisted in his napkin before he lifted it from his lap, setting it on the table as he gave Bertha a small, reassuring smile. 

“I’d be happy to.”

-- 

The rented Hughes home that they had procured had a dark, foreboding façade, but George knew well enough that the inside was light and airy. He had been there for a few drop-ins, meetings, and dinners as needed for the last year. He’d seen her run a tight ship. 

Despite his promise, George had lagged in presenting her with the invitation that he had promised Bertha he would impart. He wished that he could excuse that his week had gotten away from him, and it had, some—but he had felt some block, some resistance to running the invitation over. By all rules and conventions, it was wholly unnecessary. It made far more sense for Bertha to send the invitation directly. But, there he was, knocking on the Hughes’ door, and smiling blithely as the butler opened the door. 

“I’m here to speak with the mistress of the house.” 

“I’m afraid the mistress of the house is not seeing anyone this evening, sir.”

“I see…Thank you.”

George walked down the front steps calmly and slowly, turning his cane in his hand. He would have to send it by mail, as soon as he was able. He was set to climb back into his carriage, and then a breeze pushed across his face. It brought a familiar scent with it—one that drew him back to his youth, when his beard was merely peach fuzz coating his work-blushed cheeks. He glanced back toward the side passageway, likely the servants’ entrance, then turned back to his coachman.

“Return to the house,” He ordered. “I’ll make my own way back.”

The coachman tipped his hat to George before urging the carriage on. George glanced around the street to ensure no one was watching before he dipped into the side passageway, descending the stairs. He peered in through the window into the kitchen, eyes narrowed a touch. He took a cursory glance toward the alley before he raised his cane, rapping it twice on the window.

 --

You jumped about a sound at the knock, your head twitching toward the window. You drew in a stunned, nervous breath as you hurriedly rounded the table, drying your hands on your apron before pulling the door open.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve an invitation to give you.”

“You couldn’t have left it upstairs?” You peered around the doorway before you reached out, grasping his arm and pulling him inside. You cast one more look about for nosy neighbors before shutting the door. You turned to find George wandering more deeply into the kitchen, his hat in hand as he peered around.

“Well?” You tacked on. George didn’t turn to meet your eye or answer you. He just walked over to the stove, lowering his head to take a whiff at the bubbling pot there.

“It’s a little hot for stew, isn’t it?” He asked, glancing back at you.

“…Perhaps,” You agreed, “But it was the only thing I wanted.”

George’s lips pulled with a small smile as he turned his head, lowering it to take another sniff. You ought to extract the invitation and go. If anyone found you with George, you’d catch hell for it. Worse—Franklin and Ellie would catch hell for it. But—

“…Have you eaten yet?”

--

It was odd to see George in a state that you now considered so terribly dressed down. He’d hung his hat, coat, and suit jacket by the door, and rolled his sleeves up. The windows by the kitchen and down the hall had been opened, allowing a warm breeze to push through the room.

“Your butler told me you weren’t seeing anyone.”

“I’m not.” You glanced up at George to find him giving you a smug little smile. “This doesn’t count. You just—Barged in.”

“I may’ve been uninvited, but you offered me dinner.”

“I suppose that’ll teach me.”

It probably wouldn’t. George smiled nonetheless, dipping his spoon into the bowl and drawing out the red broth, along with bits of bean, celery, and chicken.

“Did you give your chef conjure the recipe of this based on your old notes?”

“No. I made it myself. I sent almost everyone else up to Newport with Eleanor and Franklin.”

George’s brows rose in surprise as he lowered the spoon again.

“All?” He repeated, eyes darting toward the stairs. 

“Robinson wouldn’t go. He insisted on staying, on the off-chance something happened, or I needed help.”

“And the chef left you nothing?”

“He offered, but…” You shook your head, eyes lowering to your food. “It’s strange. There were so many things I swore I’d never do again once I left Stevensville. But now that I have the choice of not doing them, I…Miss them.”

“Including the washing up?”

“Not that. Never that.”

“Leave it for them.”

“I can’t do that,” You groaned, laughing. “I told the chef I would go to Del Monico’s.”

“Robinson is a witness to the opposite.” 

“He’ll cover for me.” 

“Why send them with the others?”

“Franklin and Eleanor are in Newport, less of a household to care for. And it’s hard to get some alone time in a household full of people.”

George nodded a touch, eyes wandering your face. You turned your head after a moment, unable to bear the force of his focus.

“I take it your family is waiting for you at home?”

“…No,” George said. “They’re similarly occupied in Newport.”

“Ah, that’s right. It’s a popular destination these days.”

“Indeed.”

“And surely cooler than it is in the city now.”

“Almost certainly.”

“Your son mentioned your intention of buying a home there.”

“Yes. I expect Bertha will return with news and a price tag.”

You smiled a little bit.

“If that’s the trend, I’m certain Franklin will want one for himself as well. I cannot imagine how Ellie’s head must be spinning.”

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the sound of creaking on the stairs. You sprang up from your chair, waving George up hurriedly and toward the back doorway, his hat, coat, and suit jacket in hand. You shushed him softly before rushing back to the table, taking up George’s bowl, spoon, and wine glass and hurrying to the empty wash bin. You lowered them in quickly, then turned toward the door, smoothing your expression and raising your brows as Robinson rounded into the room.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, miss.”

“Not at all, Robinson. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No—No. Simply…”

You arched a brow at Robinson twisting, nervous expression.

“Yes?” You pressed.

“I thought I heard someone else’s voice, ma’am.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, your cheeks heating as you fought to keep a calm countenance, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the wash bin.

“Perhaps it was merely sound that came in from outside. This house does carry noise so oddly.”

Robinson’s lips twitched nervously before he gave a nod.

“Of course, ma’am. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Not a disturbance at all. Thank you for coming to look in on me. I do appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

He gave the kitchen one more cursory look before walking back up the stairs. You glanced after him, hearing the stair creaking again. You hurried over to the door, pushing it closed before you turned back. You found George peering curiously around the corner, and your stomach lurched at the sight. It was so similar to once he’d given you so many times, so long ago.

“Is it clear?” He murmured.

“I believe so, yes.”

You glanced up through the door again, even as George stepped out from his hiding place again.

“Your food in the bin—It’s empty,” You insisted, taking in his disappointed moue. George walked over to the bin and reached in, only retrieving his wine glass.

“Are you so worried about someone finding us together?”

“It would be unwise,” You pointed out, walking back to the table to retrieve your wine. “And it’s not for the sake of my reputation.”

“Mine?”

“I suppose, in some respect—but you would recover well enough in society. It’s mostly for the sake of this household.”

“I was under the impression that you bore very little love for Franklin.”

“Franklin and I have…An understanding. And I worry more for Eleanor. She has yet to make her debut, and I won’t have her make it in a house with a cloud of scandal over it.”

“…You care deeply for her.”

“I do.”

“You act as though she was your own daughter.”

It wasn’t an accusation by any means, but it still made your gut twist with discomfort. You lowered your gaze to your hands, picking absently at your neatly manicured nails. There were a few flecks beneath them—bits of spice from when you’d cooked, mess where there hadn’t been for a long time. 

“…She’s the only chance I’ll have at arranging something of this sort,” You reminded him.” I want it to be perfect.”

George smiled a touch, lowering his eyes to his wine.

“Bertha was quite insistent on the importance of Gladys’ coming out.”

“They are very important. It lays the foundation for their season. A rocky path could either mean a dangerous ascent or a speedy descent. I don’t want that for her.”

You heard George hum thoughtfully before the light thud of his glass being set down. 

“On that note—or rather, an analogous one,” His footsteps grew closer. “I’ve an invitation for you.” 

“An invitation?” Your brow furrowed. “Have I missed something?” 

“Not at all. Bertha asked me to deliver it personally, and to accompany you on our mutual trip to Newport on Monday.” 

Your brows rose again at the sight of the invitation, and you reached out, plucking the envelope from your fingers. 

“Unorthodox,” You muttered. 

“My wife isn’t known for walking the straight and narrow.” 

His wife. The reminder had ceased to sting in the way that it had when you first arrived in New York, but it always lodged a lump in your throat. 

“I’ve noticed,” You chuckled softly, forcing past the discomfort. 

“I will pick you up on Monday. Will three be alright?” 

“Yes. Thank you for taking the pains to come and deliver this,” You added, drawing the invitation out of the envelope and scanning Bertha’s familiar handwriting. 

“Of course. Thank you for dinner.” 

You huffed humourlessly, humming as you heard him make for the door.

“It’s better,” He commented. You frowned, looking up. 

“Pardon?” 

“The stew,” George nodded to the washbin. “It’s better than I remember.” He tipped his hat to you before setting it fully on his head. Your smile widened as he melted from your sight, the sound of the door closing behind him, and his footsteps fading. 

Tag list: @foxilayde ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ;

@nominalnebula ; @missredherring

[deathsplaything]

Location: Sugar Pot backroom Timing: Current, midday then at nightfall Parties: Alistair (Ft. Melody and Tommy) Summary: Something unthinkable happens, and Alistair must do something even worse. A necromantic ritual to bring back the dead is performed. Choices are made. Content Warnings: Child death tw, parental death tw, ritual sacrifice

“Mo ghaol cha'n fhaigh thu bàs.”

It was supposed to be a normal day at the Sugar Pot. Melody had left to go pick up Tommy from school, and Alistair could handle the slower end of the day with little trouble. There were no customers at the moment, so they were simply reorganizing the jars around the store so labels were facing outward for their ease. That’s when the door rang and they heard ragged breathing. “Alistair, he’s… you have to help him.” It was Melody, she was sobbing and could barely get her words out. Their heart sank, knowing that could only mean one thing. “Please, it was a drowngr,” Melody spoke through racked sobs, already heading for the back room. “Mels…” Alistair was at a loss, quickly waving their hand for Brutus to follow them into the back room. “What’s the damage?” They finally asked after closing themselves into the back room with Melody, Tommy, and Brutus. It was cramped, but Alistair couldn’t think about that. All they could think about was how the closest thing they’d ever had to a son was dying. 

Melody was beside herself, putting Tommy down in the center of the spell circle and letting out a sob. He wasn’t conscious, he wasn’t breathing. Her baby was dying or already dead and there was nothing she could do. That’s when she stilled. There was something that Alistair could do. “Alistair, you have to bring him back. You have to.” Melody pleaded, grasping at the necromancer’s hands as realization dawned on their face. “Mels, I… you know what you’re asking me to do, here,” Alistair spoke, voice pleading. 

Melody was asking to take Tommy’s place. She was begging him to sacrifice her to bring their child back. While Tommy wasn’t his biologically, he was in every other way that counted. Alistair would sooner sacrifice himself than let Melody do it. Melody was their everything. When they had nothing, Melody had come along and saved them from themselves. When they’d lost Mikael, she was right there to help pick up the pieces that had left Alistair shattered. Now she was asking them to say goodbye to her, say goodbye to the life they had built. 

“Mels, I… you can’t ask that of me.” Their voice cracked as they spoke, tears threatening to fall as they dealt with the implications of her request. “If Tommy’s gone, then I’m already gone.” She whimpered, pressing her forehead to Alistair’s. “You have to do this for me. I… he’s my boy. He needs to live. He’s only twelve. He’s… Alistair, you have to.” Alistair closed their eyes, then slowly nodded their head. Melody would never forgive herself if her son died and she did nothing, knowing that she could bring him back. “You have to, Al.” Melody pleaded once more time as she watched them nod their head. 

Alistair knelt over Tommy’s body and felt for a pulse. Nothing. A sob wracked their body as they realized what was happening. Tommy had been killed by a drowngr, and now Melody would sacrifice herself to take her son’s place. They were losing someone important to them all over again. When they needed her most, she was there for them. But now, she needed them. And they knew that they needed to do this. “Mels, I… know that I love you, okay?” Alistair spoke, turning their head in the direction of Melody.

Melody let out another sob, knelt beside Alistair, and pulled him into her arms, letting them both cry in each other’s arms as they cried for what was to come, and what could never be. “I love you too, Al.” She spoke between sobs, squeezing them tightly. “You’ve been everything to me. But Tommy is more. He’s… he’s our son.” She spoke, pressing her forehead to Alistair’s and pressing a kiss to their lips. A sob escaped Alistair’s lips as Melody pulled away. Alistair rubbed their hands together, letting out a frustrated cry before turning to their ingredients cabinet. Lycoris Radiata petals, also known as a corpse flower. “We have to wait until sundown,” Alistair told her, voice hollow and far away. “You need to get something important to him, really important to him.” They walked back over to Melody, squeezing her hands tightly. Alistair had never talked about the necromantic ritual to Melody before, and they’d not practiced it in so long. But it had to go perfectly. Any small mess-up could ruin everything, leaving them without Tommy and Melody for the rest of their days. “I need to prepare.” That was all they said as they continued to gather ingredients for each point of the pentacle that Tommy was laid on.

Melody knew better than to interrupt Alistair when they got like this, but she also knew that this was going to be the last time that she’d be with them. So she took their hands again and then hugged them tightly. “Thank you.” She murmured into their ear, which earned her a shuddered sob from Alistair in return. “I know this is hard for you, but he matters more than anything else in this world.” She spoke, pulling away so she could look at Alistair, who looked shattered all over again. “I know.” They spoke in reply, squeezing her hands just as hard as she was squeezing theirs. “I know, but it still hurts. It always will.” 

Melody gave a sad smile, then nodded her head, her mind was made up. “I’ll be back soon. I have to get his baby blanket, it was his father’s.” She frowned, thinking deeper. There was something else she had to get, and that was her will. She’d had it written knowing the danger of this town, and the will left Alistair as Tommy’s legal guardian, she had no other family to take him in, and Alistair was family. She pressed one last kiss to Alistair’s cheek before departing, leaving Alistair alone to care for Tommy and prepare the ingredients. 

Corpse flower petals on the top point, grave dirt on the right point, black copal incense burning on the bottom right point, full moon-charged water on the bottom left point, and coal to represent fire on the left point. A spell taught to them by his mother to open their senses to magick and promote success. It was different for every practitioner, though their spells of this magnitude, in their mind, needed offerings to the death gods they practiced under. They sat in front of the spell circle until sundown in a meditative state, only breaking from it when Melody returned at sundown. It was time to prepare for the ritual. 

Pulled from the cabinet was an obsidian dagger, ornate in design, yet simple. Sharp. Deadly. This was the very tool Alistair would use to end Melody’s life, and in turn, bring back Tommy. There was only one chance to get this right. Alistair took the blanket and set it ablaze, letting the ashes scatter around in a circle around Tommy’s prone form and spell ingredients. 

Melody watched somberly, hugging herself tightly as Alistair flitted around the room like a specter. Ingredients here, words spoken there. By the time they were done, the sun had set. Alistair spoke a few words in a language that Melody couldn’t understand, and then a hand reached out toward her. It was time. Alistair held her hand tightly for a moment, lost in their own world of spellcraft and ritual sacrifice. “Mo ghaol cha'n fhaigh thu bàs.” My love for you will not die. Alistair spoke to her before bringing her to the center of the spell circle, a powerful green smoke coming from the incense that burned on the right point of the star. “I will never forget what you’ve done for me, for Tommy. For us.” And with that, they pressed a kiss to her lips and dragged the obsidian blade across Melody’s throat Melody tried to gasp for breath, legs giving out under her, and Alistair held her aloft as the blood poured from the wound and onto Tommy’s body. A sacrifice, like for like. One spellcaster to save another. A mother sacrificing herself to save her son.

Standing for a long moment with Melody firm in their arms, a weak hand stretched out and touched Alistair’s cheek, smiled weakly, then fell down to her side. Melody was gone. Alistair set her down gently and began to pull from the ether, the tether between father and son forming to bring Tommy back from death. Tommy’s chest began to rise and fall, but Alistair didn’t stop, not there. The tether was pulled from their very essence, feeling a bit of life drain from their very being before cutting their palm with the blade and drew a sigil onto Tommy’s chest, then onto their own. A seal that would bind them together. Alistair could not see the sigil turn from blood to black, but could only trust that it was there. That it had been done correctly. They needed this to be done correctly. Any emotions they felt for the situation would be dealt with afterward, but they couldn’t let it interrupt the ritual now. 

They knelt beside Tommy, waiting. After what felt like a lifetime, a small hand reached out toward Alistair. “Al?” The boy croaked, and Alistair instantly fell apart at the sound of Tommy’s voice, pulling him close to him and hugging him tightly. “It’s alright, you’re back now.” He murmured to the boy, who clung to the necromancer with all his might. “Where’s… where’s Mom?” He asked, looking around and letting out a cry of agony at the form of his mother’s body on the ground, throat slit. “No, you… she couldn’t. You didn’t.” Tommy shook his head fiercely. “A mother’s love knows no limits,” Alistair spoke softly, and Brutus who had waited in the corner of the room finally walked over to Tommy and plopped himself into his lap, and the boy hugged the dog tight and cried. 

Alistair felt a tear run down their cheek, but that was all they allowed to flow. They took the discarded rag and tied it around their hand to stop the bleeding. They had to tend to Melody’s body. They couldn’t rest until it was over. With the ritual complete, they rose to their feet. There was much to do, and now they had the most important person in their life to take care of, their son. They would do anything to keep Tommy safe.

“Tommy, I’m so sorry,” Alistair murmured, kneeling next to the boy and wrapping his arms tightly around the boy he’d come to love as if he were his own. Tommy continued to sob, eyes peering out to look at his mother’s lifeless body, then quickly squeezed them shut again. “I’ve got you,” Alistair promised as Tommy once again clung to them. “I’m going to give you the world and then some.” They promised, squeezing the boy as tight as they could. “I swear to you, I won’t let anything separate us.” They pulled themselves away enough to look the boy in the eyes, and Tommy nodded his head, eyes filled with tears. “I loved your mother,” Alistair told him, carding a hand through the young boy’s curly blonde hair. He looked so much like his mother. “I will always love your mother, just as you will.” Tommy let out a choked sob and pushed his head into Alistair’s chest. 

There was no undoing what had been done. There was no convincing a drowngr to stop in its tracks just as much as there was no convincing the knife that had cut across Melody’s throat to undo itself. Slowly, Alistair held Tommy tight in their arms and rose to their feet, walking out of the back room. Away from Melody, away from the sugar pot. Away from the dastardly deed they had to perform. It was late, the streets were barren as the necromancer walked with Tommy in their arms, Brutus by their side.

[creekfiend]

what's my biggest pet peeve well it's when someone makes a text post on tumblr dot com in which they are trying to romanticize the notion of the livestock guardian dog but they don't know the distinction between a livestock guardian dog and a herding dog and also they've never met a livestock guardian dog and do not realize what their attitudes towards the sheep that they protect actually are

[hinamie]

post-graduation trip airport looks

[egophiliac]

buckle up lads we're going BACK INTO THE BOOK

[numetaljackdog]

shout the fuck out to bald girls btw. let it be known that i will show the fuck up for bald/balding girls any hour of the day, any day of the week, any week of the year. you could call me up at 3 in the morning and tell me that you happened upon some receding hairline queens who need hyping up and i would tell you i'll be there in five. i love you bald girls

[thatswhatsushesaid]

jiang cheng says "son of a prostitute" within earshot of jin guangyao, 20 dead, 44 wounded

[desultory-suggestions]

On this Valentine’s Day please don’t forget about the Palestinian people. Candy is being bought in droves while innocent people are starving. While people are planning romantic dinners for their lovers, Palestinian people are losing their lovers to bombs and snipers. There is no rest for the Palestinian people today. Don’t let them mask what’s really happening behind pink ribbon. Fight for love, find empowerment in your love for others. We will not stop fighting, not for a single day. Palestine will be free.

[kedreeva]

as a reminder to literally anyone and everyone who even so much as considers this: AO3 has NO autosave ability when you're making drafts, so PLEASE do not use it instead of a writing program.

If their server goes down, if you hit a wrong button and refresh the page or go back to the previous page, if you accidentally close the browser, if your browser or device crashes, etc etc etc you are shit out of luck. Your work is gone forever, it didn't backup to anywhere and there is NO recovery option. Even TUMBLR's drafting ability is supposed to autosave and often does.

If you want to avoid gdocs that's fine- there's other text editors with simple autosave options, like Online Notepad or Digital Scholar's notepad, or there's still local-drive writing programs that are free and open source, like LibreOffice. PLEASE do not use AO3 to write your stories into directly. It has NOTHING.

[chloesimaginationthings]

The death of Vanessa and the birth of Vanny in FNAF

(Inspired by this art by Yuto Sano)

[supine-ly]

this is my first time drawing Piper is it obvious

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

To Have Loved and Lost Part Eight

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

Pairing: George Russell x Reader

Rating: M

Notes: Hiiiii welcome baaaaaack thank you for reaaaaadiiiiiiiing this chapter is hecking looooooooong

Warnings: Still slightly angsty but not nearly as angsty as the one that i wrote, what, 87 years ago; Gilded Age Manners™; pining; The One That Got Away; not a traditional happy ending

Bonus points if you catch the Gone with the Wind reference in this chapter

Summary: It was as if his entire world had been tipped on its head. He’d squared facts away with himself years ago. His affections had been mislaid; his hopes were dashed, and he’d been thrown over for a far richer man. In his youth, he had put the letters that he had received away rather than burn them, and for what? To someday rub her face in them? To tutor Larry in false hopes, in the often fickle affections of the female sex? 

The ball at Mrs. Fane’s was where Larry began to put the pieces together. 

The two of them had each given him individual pieces of the puzzle—one, an edge, the other, a middle. One by one, a picture built clearly in his mind. 

It had started with his father’s remembrance—a bitter little smile as Gladys fretted over a dress. 

“The pout reminds me of a girl I once knew,” He’d admitted, watching Gladys turn to and fro, eyeing herself in the mirror. “She used to say that fineries made her uncomfortable, that she looked awful in them. As if she was,” He chuckled, “‘A mule in a horse’s harness’.” 

“A girl?” Larry asked. “The one before mother?” 

Discomfort had flashed across George’s face so quickly that if Larry had so much as blinked, he might’ve missed it. His father's typically calm demeanor had replaced the upset just a moment later, and he’d given a short nod. 

“Yes.” 

The admission had been a surprise—and the phrase that his father had uttered had been so unusual that it had stayed in Larry's mind. 

Hearing it again was jarring. Larry had only been trying to pay a compliment to the latest family to be drawn into their orbit. His mother had implored him to take a turn or two with a spinster cousin—just a couple of dances, Bertha had insisted, something to flatter the poor woman.

They’d made easy enough small talk during the following two waltzes, and Larry hadn’t excused himself the once the songs had ended. Instead, he kept his hold on her arm, steering the two of them toward the refreshments table. She seemed a quick woman, smart, and clever, with none of the spirit that he’d expect of a spinster. 

“Your dress is lovely.” 

He had meant it sincerely. But she’d chuckled, and his own smile had faltered.

“There’s no need for exaggeration, Mr. Russell.” 

“Exaggeration?” 

“I look like a mule in a horse’s harness.” 

It was as if another puzzle piece clicked into place. Larry couldn’t help but stare, his face going hot with realization as his gaze darted between her, and where his parents were conversing on the other side of the room. As soon as he saw his father begin to glance in his direction, he guiltily turned away, plucking up a glass of lemonade and taking so hasty a swig that he nearly choked on it. 

She regarded him with confusion then, brow furrowing. 

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Russell?” 

“I am,” He plastered on a smile. “I apologize, I thought I…Where was it you said that you were from?” 

Her face twisted with slight confusion. “All over,” She shrugged, “But, most recently, our family settled up in Albany.” 

“They’re not from Albany, then.” 

“No, no,” She chuckled, casting her gaze around. “Nothing as grand as all that. Franklin and I were raised in a very small town out West. Of course, it boomed when oil was found.” 

“Of course. Whereabouts? I’m sure my mother mentioned, but I seem to have forgotten.” 

Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the glass, raising it to her lips as she admitted, “Stevensville.” 

And then she took a long sip, as if she needed to wash the taste of the town’s name from her mouth. 

--  

“Did you enjoy yourself?” 

“Very much,” Gladys smiled gratefully, “But I’m awfully tired.” 

“You ought to get up to bed,” Bertha urged, “We have a meeting with Miss Barton in the morning.” 

“Of course. Goodnight, father. Goodnight, Larry. Goodnight, mother.” 

George watched as Gladys ascended the stairs. Larry followed not far behind, and Bertha excused herself to speak with Mrs. Bruce about tweaking arrangements for the following day. That was more than alright with George. He made his way to his study, recalling his evening of stolen glances.

She had looked lovely. The dress had suited her, though she had seemed a touch uncomfortable. He smiled at the thought. She always hated fineries. George hadn’t meant to watch, and he was certain that every look had gone entirely unnoticed by her—especially when she’d taken a turn with Larry. She certainly danced better than she used to. George had taught her—or, tried to—when they’d been together in Stevensville. It had started as a friendly endeavor, before their feelings for one another had flourished. She’d asked him, and he couldn’t help but oblige. 

He’d taken her hand, unable to help noting the dry roughness of her palm from her hours of work, and led her out to the field of high grass behind the boarding house. He’d shown her the steps one by one, encouraging her as she tripped over her feet, and urging her on as her steps became more smooth. He’d seen a spark of joy in her eyes, a wide smile turning her lips up. It was a look that he’d quickly become addicted to. 

George opened the door to his office, glancing down the hall before shutting the door behind himself. He’d received a small parcel from Clay before they’d left for the ball, and hadn’t had a chance to open it before they’d gone. Now, he crossed to his desk, opening the drawer where he’d left the bundle of papers. Clay’s note was on the top in his neat scrawl. George couldn’t help but smile a little. He hoped that Clay was home getting some rest, the poor devil. He’d been in Stevensville for nearly a week chasing down the answers that George had sought. 

George took up his letter opener, slicing open the top of Clay’s note and drawing it from the envelope. His eyes skimmed the contents, catching on mother’s death certificate, boarding house, post office, and unsent letters. 

Unsent letters…

George’s eyes dropped to the remaining stack of letters. He set down Clay’s note, reaching for the first time-aged envelope. He skimmed her familiar handwriting, eyeing the address—the first boarding house that he’d stayed in once he’d arrived in New York. He opened it gingerly, unfolding it as though it may disintegrate in his hands if he wasn't careful.

Darling George—

I trust that you have, by now, safely arrived in New York. I do hope that I’ve written this to the correct address. I did check it against the one that you gave me at least four times. If I’m wrong, I shall never live it down, and I hope that you won’t be upset with me. I am trying, love. 

Everything seems so much more difficult without you here. In truth, nothing has changed, but I feel your loss so greatly. Days seem to move far slower—evenings go at a snail’s pace. I find myself searching for you in the face of every stranger. Please send for me once you’re settled. I would be there now if only you’d let me leave with you.

George couldn’t finish it. His heart had begun to pound in his chest. He dropped the letter on his desk, taking up the next and opening it with far less care than he had the first. 

My dear, George,

It’s been three weeks since I’ve heard from you. I can only hope that it’s because you’ve been terribly busy, and not because you’ve forgotten about me. I have my bag packed, and I’ve saved enough fare for the train. I will come the moment you call. I hope that New York is treating you well. 

He dropped that one without finishing it as well, fumbling fingers reaching for the next one as his blood ran hot. He tore the next one open with such vehemence that the letter itself wound up with a small tear in the middle as he opened it, the crinkling of the paper clogging his ears—

George—

Are you hurt? Are you unwell? I find myself wondering if you’re perhaps laying in a gutter somewhere, unable to ask for help. Perhaps your fingers have been crushed and you’re unable to write, or you’ve caught some deathly cold and your throat is too raw to dictate a letter. Or perhaps you’ve changed your mind about our life together. 

I implore you to send me any signal that you’re well, even if it is to cut ties. I’ve been losing sleep for worrying

He dropped it atop the other unfolded letters, opening the next, and the next, and the next. As he reached the bottom of the pile, he dropped into his chair, his hand raising to undo his bow tie and yank open his collar as his face flared with heat. God’s teeth, when did the room become so hot? When did his hands begin to shake? 

He wanted a drink. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to find some way to go back to Stevensville, to take her with him when he’d first left. It could’ve meant scandal of her family, but they could’ve found a way—a rushed, courthouse wedding to appease propriety. George pushed a harsh breath out through his nose, his hand raking through his hair. 

It was as if his entire world had been tipped on its head. He’d squared facts away with himself years ago. His affections had been mislaid; his hopes were dashed, and he’d been thrown over for a far richer man. In his youth, he had put the letters that he had received away rather than burn them, and for what? To someday rub her face in them? To tutor Larry in false hopes, in the often fickle affections of the female sex? 

George lowered himself into his seat, scrubbing his hand across his beard. He found his gaze drifting toward the clock. It was far too late, far too late, but—

For the first time in a long time, he was unable to control himself. He hopped up, snatching the letters and binding them up in twine again. He rounded his desk, yanking the rope to call downstairs. He wasn’t sure quite what his plan was—if he got the butler, or if he caught her in her night clothes—Poor thing, she’d likely feel the need to redress, and after the ball, too, but he couldn’t wait until morning. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“The carriage, Church.” 

He glanced up, just catching the sight of Church’s startled expression before he nodded, “Yes, sir.” 

He took a step back, nodding and closing the door behind himself. George reached down, fingers fumbling to do up his bow tie and rebutton his collar. If he was going to turn up at such an unfortunate hour, he could, at least, keep from seeming as though he was in his cups. 

--  

“Miss?” 

You turned in your vanity seat back toward the door with an expectant frown, brows raising. “Yes, Kate?” 

“There’s someone here to see you.” 

Your brow furrowed, eyes darting toward the clock. At this hour? It must be a very great emergency. 

“Who is it?” 

“It…” Kate glanced over her shoulder nervously before skulking deeper into the room, whispering, “It’s Mr. Russell. He’s waiting in his carriage.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, and your face twisted with confusion. Surely it couldn’t be the younger Mr. Russell; you hadn’t left anything at the Fane’s, and you knew better than to expect that you’d somehow aroused the passions of a young man with two waltzes. You cleared your throat, turning back to your vanity as heat rose in your face. 

“I see,” You nodded. You needed a plan of attack. You needed to dress, see him inside and make this as quick and painless as possible. You cleared your throat, leaping up. “Help me dress.” 

“Should I wake Mr. Hughes?” 

“Thank you, no. If Mr. Russell wanted to speak with Mr. Hughes, he would’ve asked for him. Have Barker invite Mr. Russell inside.” 

--  

It was a herculean labor, but you were hurrying down the steps of the rented house within fifteen minutes. You tightened your coat around yourself, glancing warily up and down the block before you poked your head into the carriage. You could just make him out in the low light of the evening. 

“May I invite you inside?” 

“Your man already tried,” George nodded over your shoulder. “Please get in.” 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Mr. Russell.” 

“What causes your concern? Your reputation?” George’s brows rose. “We won’t move from this spot, but I need to speak with you in private.” 

“We could speak privately inside. No one else is awake.” 

“Your servants are, and servants talk.” 

“But footmen don’t?” You arched a brow. George’s lips twitched before he opened the door, forcing you to step back. 

“Please,” He urged, holding a hand out. Your stomach flipped as you glanced toward it. You suddenly had a flash to your past—to the fields of high grass behind the boarding house in Stevensville, and the low hum of his voice marking out the pace of a waltz. You hesitated a moment more before you took hold of his hand, letting him help you up and inside. 

You settled back in the seat opposite his hesitantly, glancing around the plush interior. You would have to get Franklin one of these. You froze, realizing that you’d been staring—and that Mr. Russell was watching you, still. You forced yourself to sit up straighter, flattening your expression and clasping your hands in your lap. 

“You can hardly expect me to stay out here in this way for long, Mr. Russell. This is highly irregular and incredibly improper.” 

For a moment, Mr. Russell said nothing, and it was a fight to keep from wringing your hands. Then, you watched him reach into his inner coat pocket, fishing around for a moment. You heard the rustle of papers, and you frowned. 

“Surely any contracts you’re entering into with Franklin can be handled by—” You fell silent once you saw the parcel in his hand. Your brow furrowed. He held it out before you could ask for clarification. You reached for it, careful to keep your gloved fingertips from brushing his as you took hold of them. You looked down, brow furrowing more deeply at the sight of the letters, your heart skipping in your chest. You knew that handwriting—you knew that address. 

“...Where did you get these?” You breathed. You tipped the stack toward yourself, throat drying. “You’ve opened them.” 

“I did, but only tonight.” 

“Tonight?” 

“An associate of mine recently recovered them.” 

The fact made your stomach churn. George pushed on: 

“They were at the post office in Stevensville. It seems that your mother paid and ordered any communications between the two of us stopped and held.”

You couldn’t help it, then. You slouched back in your seat. 

“I thought you’d always had them,” You admitted quietly. 

“I thought you’d abandoned me.” 

“I thought the same of you.” Your eyes flitted toward George, then away again as you cleared your throat. “Have you anything else that you came here for?” 

“None.” 

“Well.” You set the letters aside, and stood, climbing down from the carriage. “Then I’ll thank you to come back when the sun is up, and at a regular time, Mr. Russell.” 

“And what would you like me to do with these?” He leaned forward, taking up the letters and holding them out. 

“Read them, burn them, line a birdcage with them. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“You’ve nothing to say?” 

“On this matter, no. I am resigned.” 

Mr. Russell’s hand landed on yours the moment you closed the carriage door. You hurriedly yanked your hand back from the door, face flaring with indignant heat. 

“I could never imagine you as resigned.” 

“No?” Your brows raised. “Not as resigned, but you could imagine me as a fickle, unfaithful, uncaring shrew? Perhaps you could imagine some way for the two of us to turn the hands of time back and keep my mother from filling your head with lies. But I know better than to believe in miracles, and I think I’ve had quite enough of your imagination for one evening, Mr. Russell. Goodnight.” 

You turned without waiting for an answer, striding back toward the house. You fought to keep your composure in front of Kate, thanking her for her help and service, and—

“Please do not mention this to Mr. Hughes.” 

“No, ma’am.” Kate took a step back toward the door, froze, then took a step forward again. “But if he should ask?” 

“Tell him that he can take the matter up with me directly.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Thank you again, Kate. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” 

She smiled on her way out, and you did your best to find it genuine—but you could only imagine the way the staff tongues would be wagging. You could practically see the way they’d eye you at breakfast, the smug sidelong glances and nudges as you gave the day’s orders. Of course, you hadn’t been in the carriage long enough for anything of substance to happen, but that didn’t matter. In future, you’d have to ask Mr. Russell to refrain from taking any actions that would put you in a compromising position. 

Well, in future, you were certain that your interactions with Mr. Russell would be fairly limited. 

-- 

“Of course, my theory is rather far-fetched—“

“On the contrary!” Marian insisted. “The prospect is intriguing.” 

Larry ducked his head bashfully, turning to face the park’s path. Gladys and her ladies maid were not too far ahead of them. He couldn’t help but wonder at the way they were taking turns, glancing back toward him and Marian every few moments before leaning in and giggling with one another. 

“Do you really think that she and your father knew one another in Stevensville?” Marian pressed on, seemingly unaware of the intermittent attention that they were receiving from out ahead of them. 

“It’s certainly a possibility. Of course, the phrase that my father mentioned may simply be a local colloquialism, and I may have the wrong end of the stick in this matter.” 

“There must be a way to approach the matter delicately.” 

“Approach?” Larry’s brow furrowed as his steps slowed. “You don’t really mean to bring this matter to her?” 

“Why not? Perhaps she and your father could be friends again. Strengthening their bond could strengthen the business between your families.” 

Larry’s lips pursed as he considered. 

“Perhaps,” He conceded. He glanced down to find Marian watching him curiously. He chuckled nervously, brow furrowing. “What is it?” 

“Mrs. Fish mentioned a production of Romeo & Juliet coming to the city. It will be performed at one of the more reputable theaters. Aunt Agnes is not a fan of theater, but she considers Shakespeare’s works significant. Perhaps we could go, and invite Eleanor. We would need chaperones, of course,” She leaned in, lowering her voice a touch. Larry couldn’t help his smile widening at the sight of the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. 

“Of course,” He conceded. “But if we’re wrong?” 

“Then we've all simply spent a pleasant evening at the theater without consequence. But if we’re right?” 

Larry thought for a moment, his stomach twisting with nerves. If they were right…Perhaps all hell would break loose. 

--  

The theater was a grand space. The box’s interior was plush, with cushioned red velvet seats. You’d perhaps unfairly expected it to be something of a squeeze with your evening gowns, as well as Eleanor and Marian’s, but the seats were spaced well enough. You sat in the middle of the three seats in the back row of the box, seated somewhat awkwardly between the two Mr. Russell’s; Larry sat on your left, closer to the stage, and George on your right, further from it. Eleanor sat just in front of you, in the very front box seat, and Marian was to her right, in front of Mr. Russell. 

You never attended much theater. It was considered obscene by your mother, and Franklin had only had a single occasion to take you to while you were in Chicago. That play had been dreadful—long, and boring. It had been a battle to stay awake.

This invitation had taken you by surprise, but you’d been glad for it. It had become increasingly difficult for Eleanor to be left out of social events, and she’d been growing antsy and moody, having to spend so much time at home. She seemed bright and eager now, unable to keep still or contain her giddiness.  She was peering around the theater in wonder, pointing the various features out to Marian—the gold filigree decorating the walls and ceiling; the fineries of other theater patrons; the grandness of the stage. For your nerves and discomfort, you couldn’t help but smile at Eleanor’s joy. 

“Are you familiar with the play?” Larry asked softly as he leaned toward. 

“Not particularly,” You admitted, shaking your head. 

“It’s a tragedy. A tale of star-crossed lovers.” 

The words made your stomach flip. You swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to shift in your seat. It sounded familiar. You fought the urge to glance toward Mr. Russell, to see if it pricked the same memory, the same interest. You saw the flash of his cuff link out of the corner of your eye, and your hands tightened around your fan. You could push the feeling away—you would push the feeling away. The evening was certain to be a long one if you couldn’t manage it. 

--  

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.”

It was as though a spector had sprung your past and put a scare into you. The utterance of that line made your heart leap into your throat, your face going hot. Your grip grew so tight on the fan that you were certain you would break it. You felt faint, almost—as if you were set to swoon back in the chair, only to be awakened by a dose of smelling salts. A cold sweat broke on your brow, and you raised your glove to dab at the few beads. You fought to keep your breathing steady, and even, biting the inside of your cheek and forcing your eyes to remain on the stage, even as the play moved on and simply washed over you. 

“Are you quite alright?” 

It would be an innocent enough question from anyone else, but coming from George Russell, it felt like a targeted barb. You could see Marian and Larry tipping their heads to glance at you in your periphery; you were grateful that Eleanor is so immersed in the play that she didn’t catch on Mr. Russell’s query at all. 

Your stiff nod was your only reply. You didn’t trust your voice in this moment, certain that opening your mouth would let out the wail building up behind your lips. 

It was in the past. 

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.” 

It was a time that you had known once, and would not know again. 

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.”

The presence of the man who had once murmured those words, who had once pressed a cuff link into your palm as you’d given him your best ribbon, was purely and painfully coincidental. 

You managed to hold completely still and keep silent throughout the remainder of the first half, but as soon as the curtain closed for intermission, you were out of your chair, murmuring, “Excuse me,” and leaving the box before either man had a chance to rise to their feet. You hurried to step into the hall, walking at double the polite pace, desperate to find some air or quiet as the theater began to fill with chatter, and the hall flooded with people. 

-- 

You were almost certain that the small side balcony that you found was not meant for you. For the stagehands, perhaps. It was littered with cigarette butts, overlooking an alley that reeked of piss and garbage. Still, it was quiet, and secluded, and it gave you the space that you needed to quietly shake apart. 

You shed far fewer tears than you thought you would, your hands grasping so tightly to the railing that you were certain the skin would become irritated beneath your gloves. You were unsure how long you had been out there, but you were certain it was well past intermission. 

“There you are.” 

The interruption nearly scared you out of your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, tightening your hold on the railing. 

“You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“Neither should you,” Mr. Russell argued. 

“Who is watching the children?” 

“Mrs. Fane is looking after them.” 

Well. That was a small relief—but it was certain to get back to Mrs. Russell, and Mrs. Van Rhijn.  

“Are you well?” Mr. Russell plied, and a strangled laugh escaped your throat. 

“I will be fine in a moment.” 

“The second half of the play has started.” 

“I will return presently.” 

You expected and hoped to hear the retreat of George’s feet. Instead, you heard a soft sigh, and the gentle thump of his dress shoes against the balcony’s wooden slats as he grew closer. 

“You ought to go back inside, Mr. Russell.” 

“Not until I am certain that you’re well.” 

“My wellbeing no longer any concern of yours.” 

You nearly flinched away from his hand as he rested it on your shoulder. Rather than draw it away, he slid it down a touch, turning you to face him. You kept your gaze set stalwartly on his bow tie, even as you longed to meet his eye, to try and ascertain what he may be thinking. 

“You’ve been crying,” He murmured. 

“I haven’t,” You grumbled petulantly. 

“You have. I’ve seen that look before.” He raised his hand, gently curling his gloved fingers under your chin and tipping it up. You glanced away still, stubborn in your upset. 

“For the sake of our families,” He said softly, “Might we put this quarrel behind us?” 

“I have no quarrel with you.” 

He sighed again, tipping his head into your gaze. You were desperate to look away, but his dark, knowing eyes held to yours, and you were powerless to draw yourself from it. 

“We were young,” He insisted, “And we were lied to. I am sorry my reception of you was so cold when we first met in New York. I did not know any better.” 

The words made your lower lip tremble, a fresh wave of tears springing up in your eyes. He let you pry your chin from his grip and turn your head then, reaching into his pocket and proffering his handkerchief. You took it with mumbled thanks, dabbing at your eyes. 

“And I am sorry that my mother acted as she did,” You managed after a few moments. 

“You’ve nothing to apologize for. You couldn’t know.” 

“I should’ve suspected,” You shook your head. “I should’ve known. I should’ve tried harder to find you.” 

He made no argument, simply watched as you dried your eyes before you held the handkerchief back out to him. He waved you off lightly, and you drew it back to yourself, balling the fabric up in your hands. 

“Would you like for me to call for your carriage?” He offered. 

“No! No,” You shook your head. “Eleanor would insist on coming with me—She’d be devastated if we left before the play ended.” You sniffled softly, rolling your shoulders back and forcing a neutral expression. “Go on back inside. I’ll be there in a moment.” 

“If you’re not, I’ll come and get you myself.” 

The warning was a teased one, and you were stunned to find Mr. Russell smiling at you, just a little. You were stunned that it made you smile, too. 

“Go on,” You urged again, nodding him back toward the door. He turned, giving you one last look before leaving. You took the chance and the quiet to raise the handkerchief, blowing your nose properly. Lord above, could it truly be that simple? Things between yourself and Mr. Russell would never be the same, but perhaps you could step forward together in this way, with mutual respect, mutual understanding, and a true mutual want for the well being of one another, and your families. 

It seemed almost too good to be true. 

--  

“Did you enjoy the play?” Marian plied.

“I did,” You nod before nodding toward where Eleanor had fallen asleep on you with the swaying of the carriage, “And Eleanor did as well. Thank you again for extending the invitation.” 

“Not at all,” Marian smiled. It was a moment before she offered, “Mr. Russell said that you had a slight headache at intermission.” 

A good cover. You would have to thank him for that later. “I did,” You fibbed, “The excitement of the theater overwhelmed me, I think.” 

“And you’re quite well now?” 

“I am. Mr. Russell was kind to check on me.” 

Marian nodded, but in the low light of the carriage, there was a look in her eye that you just couldn’t place. Whatever it was, it disappeared as the carriage hit a rough patch in the road, jolting Eleanor awake. 

“Are we home yet?” She mumbled, and you smiled. 

“Nearly, darling.”

“Oh…Wake me when we are?” 

“No. I’ll leave you to sleep in the carriage.” 

“Auntie,” She groaned, burrowing more deeply into your shoulder, and raising a hand to plug her ear as you and Marian laughed. 

--  

“Father?” 

“Mm?” George turned back to look at Larry as he passed his hat off to Church. 

“You’re certain she was quite well?” 

“Yes,” George said firmly. Larry had asked him twice before in the carriage, and he was beginning to grow weary of his prodding. “She merely had a headache from the excitement.” 

“It seems rather a small thing to incite such a reaction.” 

“There are some things, Larry, that you and I are used to that she is not.” 

“I suppose,” Larry conceded, looking down as he removed his gloves. “She seemed in far better a mood when she returned.” 

“I had an attendant fetch her some water. The headache abated.”��

“That’s a relief. I was certain she would want to leave.” 

“She said that she didn’t want Eleanor to miss the play.” 

“She is quite kind.” 

“...She is,” George nodded, lowering his hand to absently pat the pocket that was now missing its handkerchief. “Thank you for joining us, of course.” 

“I was happy to.” 

“I hope Miss Brook enjoyed herself?” George tacked on with a knowing smile. It widened as Larry cleared his throat and turned his head briefly, his ears going red with embarrassment. 

“I believe she did. Excuse me—Goodnight, father.” 

“Goodnight, Larry,” George chuckled softly. He turned away, not making it a point to watch his son go. As he headed for his room, he couldn’t help but pat the pocket where his handkerchief had been. She still had it. That was hardly a crime, but the monogrammed piece of cloth could draw questions. It was a folly to leave it with her. If she was seen with it—

No, of course she wouldn’t be. She was surely too careful, too wise and world-weary to allow herself to be seen with it. Her first instinct when he’d appeared to comfort her had only been for the children, not for her own well-being. He admired that about her. He could see it now—where she had lost or chosen to give up her chance, she was trying to give Eleanor every opportunity, every comfort. 

It was commendable. She’d grown into a kind, beautiful, clever woman. 

He sighed softly as Watson helped him to ready for bed. 

“Is something on your mind, sir?” Watson plied carefully. George shook his head a touch. 

“I suppose my mind is still on the play,” He admitted. “And how one’s heart and mind can change.”

Tag list: @foxilayde ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @amneris21 ; @nominalnebula ; @missredherring

[dizzybizz]

i drew them,, with some mixed results

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Fic Idea where Fiddleford helps Stan rebuild the portal, but Stan finds out that Fiddleford has a wife and he's like

"You have a WIFE?? That DIDN'T marry you to steal your car and money???? What are you DOING here???"

"Yeah, well.... She's better off thinking I'm dead somewhere....."

"A WIFE. That LOVES you. Get outta here and go explain yourself, Idiot!!"

"She and our son shouldn't have to deal with--"

"YOUR SON???!!?!!??"

Anyways, so Stan helps Fiddleford reach out and explain himself to his wife, but expresses that he wants to keep being in Gravity Falls, so his wife and kid go to live with them in The Shack instead.

Blah blah blah, bonding happens, Stan bags Fiddleford AND his wife and becomes a step dad, God bless 🙏

[silkenrat]

Jennifer’s Body (2009) Dir. Karyn Kusama

Helter Skelter (2012) Dir. Mika Ninagawa

I, Tonya (2017) Dir. Craig Gillespie

The Substance (2024) Dir. Coralie Fargeat

[egophiliac]

everyone out of the way, this is the only thing I'm going to be thinking about from now on.

(okay, there is one more thing)