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theawkwardterrier · 4 years

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Blossoms Every Day

Summary: When you work at a flower shop requests for elaborate bouquets are just part of the job. Requests for bouquets this specific, on the other hand...

The other of my rejected Steggy Secret Santa stories. I was looking for AU tropes to play around with, thought of flower shop...and immediately began to write it in the weirdest way possible.

Read on AO3

After three years of being the only employee of Asters to Zinnias other than Michaela, the owner, you are fairly familiar with the peaks and valleys of the business. Valentine’s Day is big, of course (and the day or two afterward are even bigger for more elaborate apology arrangements) but considering the shop’s proximity to the university campus, there’s also an uptick in sales around graduation time and about a month after the fall semester starts each year, when the kids who’d met and fallen for each other at orientation have their first tiny anniversary.

Summer and winter breaks, though, are generally...well, you don’t want to call them dry spells because it would give Michaela an onset of migraine face, but they’re certainly less busy. That’s why on a drizzly Wednesday morning at the beginning of January, you feel certain enough about having the shop to yourself that, while you dust the vases behind the counter, you have your earbuds in playing an episode of the soothingly-voiced serial murder podcast you love.

The volume is turned up pretty loud, so you don’t hear the bell over the door (don’t tell Michaela) or the approaching customer’s footsteps, or your own shocked squeak when you turn to water the spider plant on the counter and find someone standing there.

“Sorry,” you gasp, pausing mid-murder description and hastily shoving your earbuds into your pocket. “How can I help you?”

There’s something of a stunned look on the man’s face, and he stares for a moment as if he doesn’t quite know how to answer the question and would have preferred you stay oblivious to him for another few moments while he gathered his thoughts.

Finally he says, “I—I think I need a recommendation. Can you think of what flowers would say ‘welcome to campus’ to a really smart visiting professor in the history department who specializes in European women's and gender history in the mid-nineteenth to mid-twentieth centuries?” And then, as if he wants to make sure you have every bit of information which might be helpful, he adds, “Her last book was an amazing collection of oral histories about women in the UK during World War II.”

You’ve picked out plenty of arrangements for people who didn’t know daffodil from a delphinium, for students who’ve walked in asking simply for “something pretty,” and you consider yourself pretty quick on your feet at this point. After a moment of staring, you offer weakly, “A nice plant always brightens up a new office. Maybe bamboo, for good luck?”

He walks out with his potted bamboo twenty minutes later. You spent two minutes wrapping the pot. He spent eighteen writing and rewriting cards. Hopefully the professor really likes bamboo.

Two days later, a woman walks in, comes right over to where you’re finishing up a new baby bouquet to send over to the hospital, and asks for “something to show gratitude for making me feel welcome. An arrangement expressing appreciation for brightening up my office.”

“Oh,” she adds, “and his eyes are a lovely shade of blue, if you have something that might suit.”

Holding back a groan, you start to offer some options. Apparently she liked the bamboo well enough.

You don’t see either of them for three weeks, long enough for you to have told the story to Michaela then to a couple of friends over beers, long enough that the pair of them are fading into a slightly amusing anecdote.

The man shows up just after you’ve come back from lunch break. You’re still wiping a few tricky crumbs off your sweater as he tells you that he’s looking for something that says “sorry about that horrible meeting, and here’s hoping for less exposure to jerks in the future - although since too many of them are tenured, I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Sunflowers are cheerful?” you suggest. “Maybe mixed with some tulips or snapdragons, plus white poppies - they symbolize consolation - and some greenery?”

He’s pretty young, probably too young for tenure or a significant salary, and you can see that his dark, tidy dress pants are getting a bit soft around the hems, but he doesn’t back down when you quote the price.

That evening, when it’s dark and the wind is blowing chill outside and you sit at the counter with your face in your hand dreaming of getting out of here and going home to hot soup and a blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak, there’s a call on the store’s phone. You hadn’t talked to the woman long enough in person for her voice to be familiar, but you have no doubt as to the identity of the person requesting a “thank you for speaking up to our terrible colleagues” bouquet.

The thing is that they never seem to show up or call when Michaela or any of the regular customers are around, or when any of the neighboring shopkeepers are popping in for a break and to share some gossip. You’re the only one who ever sees or speaks with them. Every month that the receipts tally with the inventory, you have a flash of relief at this small proof that they actually exist.

But this means that it’s up to you to suggest red tulips to represent “those journal reviewers were idiots to turn your paper down” and yellow poppies for “congratulations on the high average on your students’ last exam.” You’re the one charged with making arrangements in honor of “I had a great time at trivia last night,” and “best wishes on your sports team making the championship, even though I’m sorry you can’t be at the game,” and “you looked like you were a bit down yesterday,” and “that book you recommended was so great that I’ve already started on the sequel,” and “sorry I was short with you in the hall this morning, my neighbors threw a raging party last night even though it was 2:30 on a Wednesday.” In April, you help choose the three most perfect crimson roses in the shop to add to a birthday bouquet of calla lilies and orchids, and you don’t say anything about how the shade reminds you of a certain hue of lipstick or about what everyone knows red roses mean.

You’ve kept up with your schoolwork through it all, acquitted yourself nicely. Graduation day is approaching quickly now. But somehow, between helping Michaela find your replacement among the newer students and saying a slow goodbye to all your campus haunts, you can’t help but wonder how things will end for your two most politely irritating regular customers. Visiting professors aren’t meant to stay, after all.

The arrangement you put together in early May, tiger lilies and sweet peas and irises, is the largest yet. You’ve been told that it’s meant to say “I’m sorry that you can’t stay, but I know that there’s something amazing waiting for you,” although the sadness is obvious in his eyes as you hand it over. Nevertheless, he thanks you sincerely for all your help.

“I’m sure you’re glad not to have to see me anymore,” he jokes. You shake your head. Once, maybe, you would have secretly agreed, but in a certain way you’ve come to look forward to the challenge that only these two seem to give you. More than that, you’ve enjoyed seeing two people so eager to demonstrate their affection for each other. They seem to have said more with flowers over these last months than most people say with words in a lifetime; sometimes you wonder if they even have to speak when they encounter each other.

With a last smile, he turns to go, just as the bell above the door jingles, and she steps through.

“Peggy,” comes the surprised exhalation. You can’t see his face, although you can imagine the widened eyes, the parting of his mouth. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” The enormous bouquet in its vase lowers just a bit, so they can look each other in the face over your handiwork.

“Steve. Hello,” she says, surprised too but covering it better. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before our schedules overlapped here.”

You’ve seen people grin and shriek and tear up when presented with flowers before, but there’s something entirely new about the particular quiet tenderness with which they are regarding each other. It sort of makes you want to just stand quietly and perhaps hold the hand of someone you love.

“Your order is ready,” you say instead, hefting her vase forward onto the counter, filled with primroses, violets, and camellias. And before you can think better of it, before you can imagine what Michaela would say, you add, “One ‘Thank you for everything. If you ask me, I’ll find a way to stay’ bouquet, as requested.”

For a minute, nothing moves, and in the drowning silence you wonder if your last memory of this job is going to be filled with shouting and humiliation and demands to speak to your manager. But instead their eyes seem to shift into deeper focus on each other, as if you aren’t even there.

“Do you really—” he swallows, voice somehow even softer as he continues. “You don’t usually say things you don’t mean.”

“No,” she responds. “And I’m not now. They offered to have me stay on, if I want to.”

“But Cambridge—You can’t just tell Cambridge to go screw themselves.” The vase in his hands seems to be preventing him from gesturing the way he wants to, but he holds himself very still and her eyes don’t leave his.

She laughs a bit. “Of course not, but I can tell them that there are greater opportunities available to me here.” She places a hand on his arm. “And Steve? To be clear, I don’t simply mean academic ones.”

And suddenly the spotlight turns back onto you as he turns abruptly and says, “Can you send these over to the hospital instead? I don’t know that I need them anymore.” As you give a quick nod, somewhat shocked by the rapid turn of events, he strides over to set the vase gently back onto the counter beside hers.

“You can deliver mine there as well,” she tells you. “I think this is the sort of conversation you have in words rather than plants.” She steps forward and extends her hand. He glances at it, at her face, then intertwines his fingers with hers. The bell jingles behind them as they step out the door together.

A year later, you’re waiting for your lunch order at the specialty salad place near your new job when your phone vibrates with a text. You’d given your number to your replacement just in case you were needed to shed light on the location of the fancy twine or what to get Michaela at Starbucks when she was groaning over the January billing, after the holiday sales had dropped off and before the Valentine’s orders had started coming in. This is the first time it’s been used.

What in the world do I put in a proposal bouquet that’s meant to symbolize “You are the best, most brilliant woman in the world, someone who knows herself better than anyone I’ve ever met. I can’t fully describe when you are to me and I’d wait for you forever, but if you’re ready, I would love to be married to you”???????

You give a shout of a laugh, right there in the crowd, not caring about the glances thrown your way or the call of your name at the pickup area. You’re too busy typing back: Okay, you’re going to want to have orange blossoms in there…

#Steggy fic #Steggy #Steve Rogers #Peggy Carter #why am I like this???

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the-crows-typist · 4 years

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I’d like to request Sebek x female Mc ficlet with the random word as quiet. Btw I love your blog and all your writings! 🥰

Oh my, anon. It seems I have written so much. I must say that this prompt was extremely fun to write. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did. And thank you so much for the kind words, please enjoy this lovely piece.

This is a sort of AU. Sebek and his darling MC are explorers (loosely based on urban explorers) looking to solve the mystery of an abandoned villa. But Sebel knows more that he lets on.

I'm currently experimenting with writing styles and wish to extend the length of my word count. Some feedback would be highly appreciated.

CW for potential OOC from Sebek and angst towards the end.

The Possibilities are Endless

"Through the entrance covered in thorns, through the river separating worlds, up the cliff of the dragon’s demise..."

Deep inside a forest covered with black thorns lies a villa once belonging to the late reigning monarch of the Kingdom of the Fae. Though belonging to the King himself, he lived in it with three of his closest companions: His advisor and his loyal guards. There they stayed until the king suddenly vanished off the face of the earth and soon his companions followed suit, disappearing from existence and leaving their belongings inside the once warm and lively villa.

The story has since sparked many explorers to find the villa of the king but none so far had the pleasure of finding it.

But article after article, guide after guide, discussion after discussion; a path was laid from the failed attempts and a single sentence formed guiding those who were curious enough to go look for it.

Through the entrance covered in thorns, through the river separating worlds, up the cliff of the dragon’s demise.

Soon, multiple exploration groups took the challenge and it became a race to see who finds the villa first and find answers to why the king disappeared, where his companions went. It was a challenge that was accepted almost immediately by Sebek Zigvolt and his partner, his confidant; a woman who was just as eager and as curious to explore the unexplored.

“The forest we’re entering is actually part of a valley.” Sebek explained as his companion manoeuvred past the black thorns. “So the thorns actually stretch that far?” She asked, the cold air of dawn dusted her cheeks a bright red and her thick, warm clothes warming her body. Behind her was a large camping back, a style Sebek mirrored. “Yes. One of the guides said that once you reach the river, the thorns should look bigger. That’s the indicator that we’re going the right way.”

She took his hand in hers, smiling at him. “I’m excited. Let’s go.”

The hours walk was silent between them but they knew better than to let go of each other’s hand. The forest was quiet and sun covered by the clouds overhead, the trees were silent and the chirping of birds that one should hear when in a forest never came. All there was to hear was the heavy, deafening silence. “You noticed it too?” Sebek asked, his voice soft and whispery. “The grandmother of the king was responsible for this growth of thorns, you know? After she cursed the humans who tried to drive her people away.”

“She was alive during the war?”

“She saw it begin and end.” Sebek shook his head at this. “At the time, magic...had odd standards.” A pat on his back and the two of them shared a soft smile. “But those days are over. The history books tell of its end.” He blinked his eyes and stopped in his tracks, looking over to her in concern. “A tinge of her magic still exists here even after her passing millennia ago. It was designed to keep humans out but...If we stay close and if we stay quiet, I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

She leaned a little closer to whisper into his ear, their fingers intertwining. “Sounds like a plan.”

The walk continued, reaching a stream of water. The two exchanged looks. “Through the river that separates worlds...Does that mean the magic is different here?” she wondered and took a tentative step forward. Next to the water were clumps and groups of zinnia blossoms amongst the black thorns. Sebek’s hand tightened for a moment before letting out a breath, a puff of hot air against the cold air.

“There’s only one way to find out.” The two of them hopped over the stream and welcoming warmth washed over them, providing them with a moment of comfort. “It seems the influence of the king’s grandmother ends here.” Sebek says and lets go of her hand. “This magic feels more different, it’s more welcoming.”

“The king was a far cry from what his grandmother was since he was born after the war ended.” He kneeled, taking a Zinnia blossom from the ground. “He focused on peace between worlds and wanted nothing more than for the world to feel peace.” The flower slipped on to her ear and her hair tucked behind it. The two stared at each other, his eyes crinkling into an emotion that was hard to read.

One of nostalgia and sadness; of happiness and bitterness.

“He sounds like a nice person.” She took his gloved hand when it held her cheek and somehow, that smile he had became even more broken. “...That’s what the books say.”

More and more flowers began appearing down the path, fireflies and butterflies floating about them, life poked through the large thorns that spread through the ground. A different world was in front of them, one that was kind, a world that was striving to break through the pain of the past.

“I read somewhere that the king fell in love with a human.” Sebek turned to her, eyes wide in surprise. “They met during his studies and they were inseparable. That is, until the human was cursed with an eternal slumber.” There was silence between them for a moment, a heavy silence. “It’s just speculation but...I think that was what drove the king to disappear, he couldn’t wake his lover up.”

A sigh then a chuckle, the green haired explorer bumped shoulders with her. “Despite the sombre tone, the sleeping spell reminds me of one of the king’s loyal guards. A swordsman so sleepy that he would sleep in the most darn places you could ever imagine.”

“Oh, he was the one who was raised to be the king’s guard since birth right?” Sebek nodded his head and looked on ahead. “No one could really explain why he would suddenly fall asleep but he was an expert with the sword. He even became the second swordsman’s mentor for a time.”

“I never heard much about the second guard.”

“He was the last to live in the villa before his majesty’s disappearance. Information about him is small as far as the books and articles say.”

“Sebek—”

They reached the cliff, the thorns large enough to step on. “Up the cliff of the dragon’s demise. We should be close to the castle. We can probably set up camp when we reach the top.” His partner looked up the cliff. The exhaustion she once felt suddenly disappeared. “It doesn’t look so bad. I think we can climb this in an hour!”

“Shhh!!!”

“Sorry.”

The climb to the top was indeed short, only taking a good hour to get to the top. The tent was set and fire was soon made as night began to creep in. Sebek poked the flame, adding more wood to keep the fire alive. “We should get some rest here...I know that you’re excited to find the villa but we should have enough energy to—”

Behind him, the woman was asleep and cuddled into her sleeping bag. The trek had taken a lot of her it seemed. Shaking his head, Sebek stood up and moved the sleeping back into the tent and for a moment, leaned down to nuzzle his nose to her forehead, making her stir. “Goodnight.”

Exiting the tent, he walked in the silence of the night to a place he knew he would find. A weathered tombstone came up in sight and wrapped around were the calcified remains of a sleeping dragon, the remains of his family, his master and his beloved bathed in the light of the moon.

“Master Malleus, I’m back.” He said, kneeling down in front of the stone, his eyes downcast at the silence that greeted him. “I have lost track of the centuries that have passed after you joined your beloved, my classmate, my very first friend in their eternal slumber.”

A sniffle and a sob left his quivering lips. “I remembered the day I yelled at you in anger. The day you said you wanted to do it out of love for them. Love. You felt such a fickle emotion, Master.”

The tears came, wetting the grass under him; flowers blooming in his state of mourning. “Master Lilia and Silver followed in your steps soon after. Both of them leaving for the world ahead never to be found again...And now,” He sniffled, rubbing his cheek “I’m the only one left.”

He closed his eyes. “You said that it was a wonderful feeling. Love. I never understood why a noble such as yourself would dwell on such things…But I understand now.” He remembers his partner, her laugh, the smile he always loved to see, the many adventures he’s spent with her.

He loved her. Very much.

“I understand what it means to feel love.” His swallowed another oncoming sob. “But alas, I was too late to tell you that you were right all this time.”

The stone did not move. Sebek sobbed, hunching over. It was only now that he felt the feeling of loneliness weigh down on his heart. “Please forgive me for my ignorance, Master Malleus.”

In the quiet castle, the second swordsman remained, his cries swallowed by the night and covered by looming clouds. There he mourned the passing of his companions, his family in the silence of the ruins he once called home.

#requests #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #sebek zigvolt #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek x reader #sebek ficlets #twst sebek

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largethingslargerthings · 4 years

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Meditative Week of Poetry: Daniel Schonning

And when the storm subsides, the catchbasin coos; the sky exhales; the dead rosebush withers; the bright kingfisher paces in the sand.

And all night, the lemon tree remembers sun. And the bathhouse cradles the salt spring, casts its bodies in white steam. And the earth

opens for the spade. And the moon jar sings from its dark womb, holds its breath. And the crow turns and turns in the blue air. And the sickle brings

the meadow back to earth; the meadow mourns its shadow. And the aspen shakes green, red, gold. And all morning, the ghosts

low from the crooks of oaks; the nightjar wakes to listen. And the father brings his children to the shore. And the aging clockmaker

thinks, as she must, about entropy. And the kindling crackles in the marble hearth. And the octopus sleeps like a stone, changes

color while he dreams. And the lone train car splits the fog across its nose. And the belfry shutters its windows, hides its brass heart.

And in the East’s deep ocean, sand lifts—briefly— as if to carry on to somewhere new; there, in pools of shadow, so do the

drowned ones lift—too briefly—as if to bear north, retake the beachhead, wander blindly into some fresh havoc or wonder or

neighbor at the fair. And the xiphoid spines of prickly pears erupt in pods of seven. And the green blackberries dot the green vines.

And the orb weavers have built an open curtain through which the yellow porchlight spills. And the icicle falls from the eave like an

apricot. And the coyotes keep their kills in earthen dens, catch snowflakes in the cold. And the shoots of blue gramma, of purple

aster, of little bluestem, shiver so gently in the West’s bare wind. And the moon’s dull humming makes ripples in the pond.

And the white marble busts of the dead bloom from their pitch-dark hall. And the willow leaves brush against barbed-wire fences. And the loon

dives into the lake. And the deep well sees Lyra, even at midday. And the warbler parts the lemon of its rind. And the marquis

keeps its eyes in a bronze bin. And the North’s soft heather cranes to see the morning sun. And the cube of sugar forgets its form

for the warm black tea. And the mother runs upon the metal bridge. And when the light returns to the valley, the kestrel drums

along the bough; the red cedars blush white; the mu’addhin sings, his voice like a drawn bow. And the cherry blossoms cut through the night.

And the fishing trawler, arms akimbo, teeters to shore like an infant. And the cliff swallows have built their nests of mud below

the chimney’s tin crown. And the South’s cold mist pours down the rain-wet hill. And the water bear purrs. And the child leans into the wind,

makes his body large. And the lighthouse keeper cannot help but imagine. And the skies above the mountain’s peak are brighter

than the snow. And the temple roof curls wide to catch the summer rain. And the glassblower turns the white-hot sphere. And the wet clay shakes alive.

And, yes, the wild zinnia open their eyes.

#alpeh with all all with aleph #mwp #meditative week of poetry #crazyhorse #daniel schonning #poetry

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7deadlycinderellas · 6 years

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Keep on smilin’

(in which I see a movie, and manage to barf out a fic within a week)

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/17404283)

Michael Banks was eternally grateful for the six extra years they all got in the old house. Six years that could have been stolen from them.

For it was 1940 and Cherry Tree Lane, nay, the whole of London, had transformed.

Jane had been the first to feel the wind changing. She’d been out of work for the first two years after Winnie had been born, and when everything had settled, she found that someone with her organizational experience was suddenly in great demand, and the position of helping coordinate the ambulance services for local hospitals had become one of great importance. Many of her coworkers were from families who were high up in politics, and they talked.

She had been nervous about going back to work with Winnie still so young, the question of her mother’s life niggling in the back of her head. Money was still tight, nothing to pay for a true nanny. What her and Jack would have given for Mary Poppins to return to them again at that time.

It ended up being almost a non issue. Winnie was a self possessed child even as a toddler, and turned out Ellen’s sister (who had moved in with the Banks following the scare at the bank) was a former school teacher who could spare an eye during the day. Ellen herself tutted at the arrangement, at least before slipping Winnie a sweet.

“I hate leaving here all the time, it feels like taking advantage of poor Ellen, you know how she always reacted when Father and Mother tried to convince her to watch us.”

“I’m home half the time as is Jane, working on my art, it’s no trouble at all. It’s the least I can do to repay you for all you did to help out after Kate passed.” Michael assures her.

The true answer appeared in Georgie, who adored his young cousin, and when out of school spent much of his spare time reading to her from storybooks and pushing her down Cherry Tree Lane and in the park in her little wagon, later tied to the rear of his bike.

Michael had been the next. The handful of pieces of art he’d completed and sold through newspapers and magazines had earned him a name, and a man visiting the bank one day had given him a business card and told him that if the wind kept blowing the way it did, he might be in touch.

In his office years later, drawing barrage balloons and Spitfires, he mused that no one had ever told him war could be a boon for an artist in need of a job.

Before Winnie was born, Jack had taken a job as a tram driver. Though he really missed the routine of lighting the lamps, most positions had been eliminated when the city changed over to electric lights. He chose to revel in the ability to still lead people home at the end of the night. One night at the flat, he told Jane about a supervisor at work who had inquired about his age.

“He said something about positions being reserved after a certain age.”

“Conscription? We’re not at war yet- why would they even be talking about it?”

Jack’s age ended up keeping him out of the forces, but he told Jane that most of his former fellow lamplighters joined up. For some, it was a god’s send.

“Nothing quite like a war for opportunity, it seems.”

John and Annabel had studiously read the newspapers and listened to the newscasts, still retaining a bit of the tiny adults they had spent far too much of their lives being. Annabel, in particular had decided it was her life’s goal to become a journalist.

A few days before the big news, Annabel heard the announcement that the government was evacuating children to the countryside.

“If there doing this they must have a reason….oh but John, we can’t leave everyone!”

“They do seem to be being overly cautious, it’s not like Germany’s declared war or anything….”

The twins shared a look.

“We should remember this. It might end up being safer. For Georgie and Winnie at least. But we musn’t worry Father and Aunt Jane”.

When 1939 had come, and the first air raid sirens blared after Chamberlin’s words on the wireless, only Georgie and Winnie seemed truly unawares. While they cowered in the cellar until the all-clear, Michael was so grateful that Jane and Jack had come over for breakfast. At least they were all here.

Winnie was frightened by the noise, so Georgie pulled her into his lap.

“Don’t cry Winnie, just pretend we’re on an adventure. This isn’t a cellar- it’s a cave! And on the other side is a magical valley! Where elves live, and fairies,”

“And unicorns?” Winnie wants to know, sniffing.

“Of course!” He adds enthusiastically.

“And animals that talk!” Annabel adds. “Just be careful of the wolf, he might not be trustworthy”.

Michael raised an eyebrow. The children had of course told them all about their adventures that awful year, but they hadn’t spoken of it often. Whereas him and Jane had seemed to forget Mary Poppins, these three had seemed to simply move on.

Eventually the all-clear comes, and they leave the cellar and go on. They put up blackout curtains, carry gas masks and line the house with sandbags. The young men in the neighborhood were called up for military service. Even Admiral Boon abandoned his cannon. Him and Mr. Binnacle even did their part by joining the Home Guard.

But still, no bombs fall. And for a time all seems well.

“Some of my schoolmates who left have already returned”, John comments around Christmas.

“It does seem like it was a bit of an overreaction,” Annabel admits. “Maybe this will be over soon.”

1940 comes. Ellen despairing at the state of her meals now that rationing had taken hold.

“Can’t bake hardly anything with the butter and sugar they give us, and feeding you lot was hard enough as it was.”

Annabel had dug up the zinnias and planted some potatoes and carrots, but Ellen still insisted that if the ones’ who had hired her were still around could see what she put on the table now, they would have thrown her out on the street.

“What do you think Mother and Father would have thought of all of this?” Michael asks one day.

“Mother and Father both saw the Great War. That was the world they left when the flu came. To think they lived in a time of prosperity when they were our age. It’s completely changed. I don’t know what they would think of where we are now.” Jane admits.

“I could hardly blame them. We’re all on tenterhooks.”

The unspoken between them was the fact that the family was still together. The children being at home and Michael’s work for the War Office precluded him from being conscripted. Jack, it turned out, had been correct in his assumptions about his supervisors questions- bus and tram drivers over 25 were considered too important to draft. Though Jane admitted that she still had a niggling fear that that might one day change.

One night he told Jane what hurt him most was that they took away the light on the fro of the tram. Complete blackouts all night, even a tiny gas lamp could be a risk.

“Can hardly see a thing at night. Always afraid I’m going to hit someone. As if the crowds on my tram weren’t ashen faced enough as it is.“

Jane held tightly to his hand. Always a leery at heart, and here trapped in darkness.

The older children march down the street with Winnie a number of times. They map out every single house with an Anderson shelter, and every tube station, between the schools and home. Georgie, again, tries to get the girl to see it as an adventure, like the marches were the world’s biggest game of hide and seek. Michael just feared that one day, Georgie’s own childlike resolve would break.

Once during a raid, Michael sees the older children showing Winnie the bowl they used to keep in the nursery (how it never broke during the Admiral’s cannon fires he will never know), and over hear them telling her.

“There’s magic everywhere, you just have to remember to look up and find it. Even when things are hard. Especially then some might say.”

Annabel keeps tight to her radio. Despite the quiet, Germany invades Norway, then the Netherlands, and then France.

And just when the rest of England seems to practically have become compliant, summer comes and the first bombs fall.

The church down the road is destroyed. The park is burnt to a crisp. Jane biggest challenge at work becomes guiding people around fire and debris to help the ones they can. She suddenly has all the work she could ever want, and never enough vehicles or doctors.

Some nights the older children don’t return from school until late, stuck in the shelters waiting for the all-clear, hoping that they continue to be alive to hear the explosions.

One night Jack doesn’t return until sunrise. Jane cuddles Winnie in one of the apartment buildings four underground shelters fearing for the worst.

When sun comes along with the all-clear, he finally emerges from the dark, eyes bright when he sees the two of them, alight.

“I was about to clock out when the sirens started.” He says, breathy, barely able to stop embracing Jane and Winnie long enough to speak. “We all had to dash for the tube station. There must have been two hundred of us in there overnight. So many of us it seemed we might suffocate.”

“I’m so glad,” Jane implores, voice wavering. When they settle Winnie down over breakfast, so adds.

“I never thought I would have this. I always thought I had to pick, that I couldn’t live in the world my mother wanted for us and be a wife and mother. Then you came along.”

“I showed you the light, you might say?”

Jane nods. She spares another glance at Winnie.

“Mother always said ‘our daughters daughters will adore us’. It’s so strange to say, that admits a war, that it’s nice to be needed, for my work to be valued. It feels selfish, but it’s all we can try to do, for them as well as us.”

She reaches over and smooths Winnie’s hair, and dreadfully misses the other children, even as they’re just across town.

There’s no more hiding it. John and Annabel go to their father with the paperwork. Three more days of terror, and all four children are hastily packed and taken to the train station to be evacuated.

Jack had had to go to work early and couldn’t them seeing them off. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to let go of Winnie in the morning. She doesn’t stop tearing until they meet up with the others, bags in hand, signs around their necks.

“Keep good care of her will you all?” Jane says, tearing up herself.

Georgie takes Winnie hand tightly, and Annabel wipes her face with a handkerchief.

“Wouldn’t imagine doing anything else.” Georgie assures her. His other hand is holding his carpet bag, a copy sticking out of Peter Pan.

“Do they know where you’re going?” Michael asks, anxiously. They always managed to act so big but right now his three children seemed so very small.

“Australia,” Annabel says.

Australia, both Jane and Michael thought, that’s a whole half a world away.

“I thought most of the children were being sent to Canada?” Michael asked, shocked.

“Anywhere that will take us. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see a kangaroo,” Annabel adds, trying to sound light, to steady her father’s nerves and her own.

“We’ll be fine Father. There are no bombs in Australia. As far away as we’ll be from you, Germany will be even further.” John assures him.

No bombs. Such a small wish it would seem.

“Fly a kite for us will you?” Michael asks, embracing John and Annabel in turn, Jane following him after.

“We’ll fly one every day we can.” Georgie promises.

The train whistle sounds, and the four children grab hands and turn away from Michael and Jane. The siblings hold onto each other, and Georgie tight to Winnie, as they fade from view.

That image won’t leave Michael. The next time he has a moment to himself, he pulls out his sketchbook and draws them, in middle of a crowd of faceless children. And as an afterthought, he adds balloons into the distance, and a barely recognizable figure holding an umbrella, leading them towards the balloons through the sky.

Maybe he could use it for an evacuation poster.

After that, the days turn into weeks, and autumn comes. The day raids slow, but the night’s are still hellish. The sights of smoke and fire are every day, and everyday, more of the familiar city disappears.

Michael’s at work when it happens. He never thought he’d be grateful for a day raid.

When he returns, all that’s left of Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane is a pile of wreckage.

Head swimming, Michael barely as time to think before he’s joined by Ellen and her sister, who had been at the grocer’s, and are now by his side, cursing the Germans.

“We’ll all be flattened, and they still won’t be satisfied will they?” She insists. Her voice is enraged, but her eyes are wet. Number 17 was as much her home as theirs.

They all crowd into Jack and Jane’s tiny flat, so empty now without Winnie. Jane has a night shift at the hospital, and the others have already tried to get some sleep before the nights raids could start. In the dim light of the single gas lamp they keep lit, Michael wallows.

Everything lost say the clothes on his back and briefcase. So many things. The dishware passed from their parents, the knick knacks Kate had brought to their marriage. And the photographs…

Michael feels his eyes stinging again with tears. Memories could fade all too easily, compared to pictures.

Pictures.

Removing his sketchbook from his briefcase, Michael commits it to paper. Number 17 Lane as it was in full bloom. It’s spring in his drawing, the cherry trees are in bloom, and the Banks family stand in front.

In his drawing, Kate is still there, her face as clear as in his mind’s eye. His parents are on the steps, in the flush of their lives. The children are as grown as they are now, Georgie flying his kite, while John and Annabel look on Jack and Jane stand off to one side, a little in their own world. Michael thinks, and adds two more small figures to the roof of the house beside them, twirling amidst what must be the soot.

He would draw it as it was, as it had been, as it would always be for them, no matter where the rest of the world took them.

His spirits are lifted a few days later, when the post comes in. Jane hands him the envelope.

“They don’t know. I’m amazed this even got through.”

Number 17 is written in John’s neat script, but the drawings inside are Georgie’s and Annabel’s. They both had inherited Michael’s artistic skills, but Annabel was far too sensible to indulge them much.

Her drawings are of the trains, the ship, the farmhouse where they have been billeted. Georgie draws the kite in the sky, the chickens and sheep, and yes the kangaroos, though they look far more ordinary to Michael’s eye than what the children had probably thought. John’s letter inside is equally reassuring. They are safe, and together. Winnie swears she saw a mermaid on the trip, and all four speak of having never seen the sun so much in their lives.

“Don’t worry too much of us Father,” Georgie adds as a post-script, his handwriting far shakier than his siblings, “we could never have imagined such an adventure. “

Michael tucks the drawings in his jacket pocket. When he goes to work the next day, he sees a poster someone has put up from the US.

“Keep em’ smiling with letters!” It says, with a drawing of a smiling serviceman accompanying.

And for the first time, in a long time, Michael feels like he might be able to.

#mary poppins #mary poppins returns #fic

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tk-duveraun · 6 years

Text

Title: The Enchanted Florist Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: T Genre: Friendship & Romance Summary: Amrita Llanamara, despite her family’s place in the peerage, works at The Enchanted Florist - the branch attached to the Tethras Medical Research Hospital. There, she meets a young doctor and watches as he lives a true fairy tale romance. Notes: Power Couple Future Thedas AU, featuring Companion Amrita from Blood and Magic. Glossary of flower meanings at the end of the story.

Amrita was content with her job as a florist. She hadn’t liked it at first, making gaudy arrangements for her parents’ rich friends and their endless, meaningless parties. She was almost happy when her boss used her as a scapegoat for a spoiled debutante ball. Her family had been disappointed, of course, ashamed of her claimed failure, but she had been transferred to the hospital branch of The Enchanted Florist. And she loved it.

Most of her new clients trusted her to make whatever bouquets and arrangements she saw fit, as long as they were the specified price. Amrita took care to pick blooms without too much pollen when making arrangements for delivery in the hospital. Chrysanthemums were a staple, of course, with crocus in spring and white and red zinnias in summer. The rest depended on the client’s relations with the recipient, any tidbits they’d let slip during the order and whatever simply felt right.

When she could, Amrita delivered the flowers to the patients herself, partially to spare the overworked nurses and partially to give her own, sincere wishes for improving health. The small joy she brought to their faces eased the ever-present ache in Amrita’s heart. She didn’t know why the small sadness clung to her, but the relief was lovely nonetheless.

Two years into her employment at the hospital branch, she met Dr. Sa’alle. She hadn’t known he was a doctor at the time. He was just a kind young man in a tailored suit - Amrita knew the difference; Laurel had delighted in teaching her how to spot quality dress when they were resting their voices. Even though she never wanted to spend any time in Society, Amrita loved spending time with her brother. But this young man’s handsome looks weren’t what caught in Amrita’s mind. Dr. Sa’alle had paid for a ‘thank you’ arrangement to be sent anonymously to the nurses’ station in the pediatric ward.

While she put the vase together, Amrita invented an elaborate explanation for the gift; it lead to better arrangements. In her imagination, the finely dressed man had suffered a severe childhood illness, treatable only by the excellent staff at Kirkwall’s esteemed Tethras Medical Research Hospital. He’d survived and gone on to be a successful businessman, always remembering the staff that saved his life. The nurses tittered excitedly and tossed out wild speculations as to the sender’s identity, but Amrita just smiled and walked the long way back through the hospital complex to the shop.

Two months later, Dr. Sa’alle returned, that time in medical scrubs. “Oh, hello again. You took my order last time. Amrita, wasn’t it?”

Amrita blinked at him. None of her customers had ever remembered her name before. “Yes, you’re correct.”

He smiled at her, wide enough his dimples showed and wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. “Fantastic. The nurses are still talking about your arrangement. If I could trouble you for another, I need a smaller arrangement.”

Amrita dutifully wrote down his order, but internally she was confused. He was a paying customer, of course it wasn’t troublesome to do her job. And it was so unfamiliar to be the target of such… pure pleasantness. It made her a little uncomfortable and almost made her miss that this order was also to be anonymous.

She had no idea what possessed her to be so rude, but Amrita asked, “Please pardon my candor, but won’t your grandmother be happier knowing it’s from you?”

Dr. Sa’alle laughed. “She’s not my grandmother. I passed by her room on my break and she didn’t have any flowers. I thought I’d rectify the situation. Happiness is my favorite treatment to give.”

Embarrassed by her rude outburst, Amrita finished the transaction in shamed silence. After handing him his receipt, Amrita looked down at the counter and said, “Thank you and have a good day, Dr. Sa’alle.”

He laughed again. “Please, call me Dr. Fox. I’m not really part of the Society Sa’alles.”

Amrita nodded, even though she had no intention of using such a casual nickname.

“Lovely. You have a good day yourself, Amrita.”

He left then, leaving Amrita confused and embarrassed. Surely if he ever needed another bouquet he’d request one of her coworkers, but it wasn’t as if she was paid commissions and she’d really rather not shame herself again.

However, the next week proved her wrong. Dr. Sa’alle returned again and politely declined her coworker’s offer of help. He browsed the seeds and fancy vases until Amrita finished wrapping the bouquet she was working on when he entered. The moment her hands were free, Dr. Sa’alle approached her with a wide smile, warm hello and a compliment on the last arrangement. He ordered another bouquet to be anonymously delivered to a patient in the geriatrics ward.

It was his weekly ritual. When he finished his shift on Wednesday afternoon, he came to The Enchanted Florist and ordered flowers to be sent to one of the hospital’s patients. They mostly went to the geriatrics ward, but every now and then he entered with sad eyes and quietly ordered a small package with a soft, white teddy bear. As the weeks passed, he revealed bits and pieces of himself beyond his generosity and profession.

Like her, Faust Sa’alle was technically a member of the peerage - him Tevinter and her Free Marches. He had even less interest than her in participating in Society. He loved small animals and was in his first year of residency with the hospital. She nearly changed her schedule to avoid him when he revealed he was… he was a mage. All Amrita knew of mages were her family’s stories of the cruel, evil tyrants that destroyed everything in their path. They celebrated the Solidification with a feast day for the entire bannorn every year.

But Dr. Sa’alle wasn’t evil. He was one of the kindest people Amrita ever met. He could use magic, yes, but he used it to heal. It was the reason he was such a good doctor. Amrita heard the nurses gossiping about how wonderful he was and debating whether or not it would be worth their jobs to date him.

In the privacy of her mind, Amrita scoffed at the last. All of the kindness in Thedas wouldn’t make sex any less painful, or sinful, since the nurses certainly didn’t mention wanting to marry the doctor. Even at the height of her infatuation with Ema’an, she’d never- Amrita cut off the painful thoughts by pressing her eyes tightly shut and singing the Chant in her head. Ema’an was in the past and she could only keep moving forward and serving the Maker. They were barking up the wrong tree, anyway. Fox frequently mentioned barely having time for his friends; he didn’t have time for significant other.

At least, that’s what Amrita thought.

Six months after meeting Dr. Sa’alle he changed his regular routine. After purchasing his usual, he pulled out a well-folded piece of paper. He opened the paper and skimmed over his writing. “Alright, I need one in the small vase with the silver heart. I was thinking,” he looked back at the paper, “red and white carnations, crocus, lily of the valley, forsythia, red tulips…”

A twinge of excitement bubbled in Amrita’s chest. The dreamy tone and faraway look in the doctor’s eyes was unmistakable, even to someone as inexperienced with love as Amrita. “I think I have a good idea of what you want, but I think it would be better to space some of these out. You won’t want any yellow in the first arrangement, even if it is forsythia. I can make you a lovely mix of forsythia and crocus for the next bouquet. If there is one.”

The doctor looked up from the paper, desperate joy in his eyes. “I certainly hope so. I don’t have enough words for how striking her personality is.”

“I think something simple with the carnations and roseleaf to start. Forsythia and crocus for the second and if that’s well-received, I can order in some lily of the valley to mix with tulips - you’ll want red and variegated.”

Without warning, Dr. Sa’alle leaned across the counter and gave Amrita a one-armed hug. “Oh, Amrita, you’re a treasure. Thank you. I spent all night looking up flowers.”

“It-It’s my pleasure. Really.”

Over the next few weeks, Amrita made bouquets for Dr. Sa’alle’s new girlfriend. He let her have full creative control over the flower choices and simply spent ten minutes gushing about how wonderful she was. Her name was Ela and she was a primary school teacher. She was Dalish and clever and got along great with her students. Amrita could only assume Ela was pretty, given how handsome Dr. Sa’alle was, but he never commented on her appearance.

Now that she thought about it, Dr. Sa’alle never commented on her own appearance, either, except to say that she looked well after recovering from a cold. Actually, given how much time he spent talking about how wonderful and amazing everyone he knew was, Amrita couldn’t think of a single instance of him mentioning their appearance. She was still musing on it one Saturday morning when Dr. Sa’alle came on.

“Amrita! Perfect! Thank the Maker I remembered your schedule correctly,” Dr. Sa’alle said. His clothing was rumpled and stained and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Amrita blinked at him, thrown equal parts by his appearance and the fact that he remembered she worked Saturday mornings. She’d only mentioned it once and that some months ago. “Are you alright, Doctor?”

“What? Me? Yes, fine, thank you. I need an apology bouquet, but not too large. We had a date last and- Well, I don’t want it to be… intrusive.”

The bottom dropped out of Amrita’s stomach and she nodded dumbly. She started with purple hyacinth and tried to swallow past the dryness in her throat. There weren’t too many things that came to mind that the handsome young doctor could have needed to apologize for after a date and each of them made Amrita feel ill. Especially given the state of his clothes. She didn’t want to help him apologize. She wanted to throw him out of the shop and never see him again. I knew mages were evil. I never should have-

“What time is it? Half six? She shouldn’t be awake yet, should she? Not on a weekend.” Dr. Sa’alle said, mostly to himself. “She knew I was on call, but still. To be called away in the middle of- Well, I’m sure you don’t want details. Sorry. I haven’t slept. Terrible accident at a college party. All hands on deck for most of the night.”

Amrita felt the knot in her chest untie in an instant. She sighed loudly in relief, but the sound was masked by the doctor’s yawn. She grabbed her best irises to add to the bouquet and wrapped them up in ivy with some blue statice. Dr. Sa’alle had never mentioned whether or not Ela understand flower language, but it was important to him and important to Amrita’s professionalism that every bouquet had the appropriate meaning.

The ivy was a bit strong, but if he was so upset that he needed to give her a gift before even sleeping after an entire night of work in the emergency room, he was dedicated enough to warrant ivy. She wrapped it all in silver-heart patterned cellophane and tied it together with purple silk ribbon. “To what address do you want it delivered? And what time? You’re in no state to take it yourself, Doctor.”

“Thank you. You’re a charm. I’m having breakfast delivered at half nine, so around then would be best,” Dr. Sa’alle said. He had his smartphone in hand, presumably ordering that breakfast. After a minute he lowered the phone and blinked at her. “Oh! The address! Sorry.”

After he rattled it off, he gave her a one-armed hug over the counter and left the shop.

It wasn’t until the delivery driver came for the pick up that Amrita realized he’d forgotten to pay. After laughing in dismay, Amrita paid for it herself and passed the bouquet to the driver. She knew he’d make it right on Wednesday, if he didn’t realize his mistake and come in before then.

He did settle his bill on Wednesday, but because he was Dr. Sa’alle, he didn’t leave it at that. On Friday, her next work day, he came by with two small cakes, claiming it was because she might not like one flavor. She knew he was lying; they’d spent two weeks discussing cake flavors right before Dawn’s 35th birthday party and she clearly remembered telling him those were her two favorite flavors. But she let the lie stand and even walked around the counter to give him a full hug, which just made him beam at her, his smile nearly as bright as the sun.

After that, Dr. Sa’alle began inviting her to the weekly get-togethers his friends had. She protested, claiming family obligations, but the was that she knew she’d be uncomfortable. He was just a regular customer. He was offering to be polite. Just like how he politely asked questions about her family and interests outside of the shop. Nevertheless, she answered those honestly, telling him about her siblings and her old dreams of being a nurse.

When he finished his residency and moved into a regular position at the hospital, Amrita expected the visits the stop, but instead Dr. Sa’alle simply placed his regular orders on Fridays: one to a patient and one to his Ela. He even let her practiced new techniques from her magazines and articles she found online. Ela’s bouquets always ended up picked over by the children anyway, so it wasn’t terribly important that they were perfect.

Two months into his new position, Dr. Sa’alle finally wore Amrita down enough that she agreed to let him take her out for Saturday lunch. The maitre’d eyed Amrita skeptically in the foyer, but his demeanor transformed for the better when Dr. Sa’alle introduced her as his sister. The words left a heavy warmth in Amrita’s chest that she didn’t know what to do with. Even Laurel calling her “little sister” didn’t garner such a reaction. Amrita decided to do nothing and simply took the seat Dr. Sa’alle held out for her.

“I meant it, you know. You’re like a little sister to me. If you ever need anything: money, somewhere to stay, a hug, anything you have my personal number. I’ll come help you, any time, day or night.”

Amrita was about to protest that she didn’t have his personal number when she remembered that she did. She had it memorized from filling out at least two order forms for him every week for more than a year. Clueless as to how she was supposed to feel or react to that, Amrita simply nodded and put all of her attention on the menu.

Long after he’d left her back at the shop, Amrita dwelled over what he could possibly have meant. She had her family; they loved her and she had her place in their home and wanted for nothing. Though she tried not to think about it, as the days passed his words were never far from her mind.

Two weeks later, a beautiful, blonde, Dalish elf entered the The Enchanted Florist. Her vallaslin framed her soft features and though her clothes were modest, the gentle style and soft colors did nothing to detract from her appearance. Amrita recognized her at once, though she’d never seen so much as a picture.

“You must be Ela,” Amrita said. She fervently hoped Ela hadn’t come in on a jealous tear, but the elf’s face was so beautifully serene… Well, Amrita couldn’t imagine anyone else at Dr. Fox’s side.

“I am; you must be Amrita,” Ela said, holding out her hand to shake. “Fox thought you might have assumed he was just being polite, but no, really, we’d love to have you come hang out this weekend. It’s just a few close friends - the quiet ones. And we have plenty of drinks - non-alcoholic ones, that is. He doesn’t really drink since he’s on call so much.”

Denying Dr. Fox was easy, Amrita had practice at refusing his dimples and bright smile, but his pretty girlfriend was a completely different story. Meek and blushing in the face of such radiance, Amrita mumbled her acceptance and dutifully wrote down the address, even though she had it memorized from weeks and weeks of filling out Dr. Fox’s details on the order forms.

No one in Amrita’s family asked why she wouldn’t attend dinner on Saturday, they just silently accepted it, returning to their own conversations before she’d even left the room. It wasn’t a new interaction by any means, but it did leave a cold ache in her chest.

Neither Ela nor Fox had told her what to wear, so Amrita agonized in front of her closet for an hour before pulling on a dress she normally only wore to the Chantry. It matched the lovely necklace Ema’an left her, though she took care not to put that on until she was parked outside of Dr. Fox’s flat.

She took several deep breaths before finally unbuckling her seatbelt and tentatively walking up to Dr. Fox’s flat. The large number three on his door had a large, vinyl sticker of a cartoon cat, so she knew she was in the right place, but she couldn’t bring herself to ring the bell. Just as she was considering going back to her car, the door opened to reveal a qunari with horns so large there was no way he’d make it through the door straight on.

“Oh! Sorry if I startled you,” he said. He turned his head to call back into the flat, but knocked one of his horns on the door frame. “Ouch! Hey, Boss! Your friend Amrita’s here! Nice to meet you, Amrita, I’m The Iron Bull, but I’ve gotta grab something out of my truck, so I’ll be right back.”

Amrita backed up to let him pass and then stared through the open door, wishing the ground would swallow her up and teleport her back to her room. But the ground refused to cooperate and Amrita finally braced herself and stepped inside. The flat was full of modern-style furniture and artwork, though there were macaroni and crayon pieces hung up in places, undoubtedly works gifted to them by Ela’s students. Seeing them warmed Amrita’s heart and ensured that the smile on her face was genuine when Dr. Fox came to greet her.

As promised, it was a small gathering with quiet conversation over fruit and cheese platters. Dr. Fox and Ela’s friends seemed genuinely interested in Amrita, though they moved the conversation to other topics when Amrita started squirming under the attention. The Iron Bull was a youth counselor at Ela’s school, while Leliana and Josephine were both lawyers. The last guest was Cassandra, a Seeker focused on preserving the history of the Chantry.

Amrita thought she should feel woefully undereducated in their company, but somehow they had enough combined social grace to make her feel included without being stifled. It was foreign and nice and comfortable and overwhelming and Amrita thought she might be sick when Ela asked for her help in the kitchen. With mounting terror, Amrita nodded and followed Ela. She knew how to boil water for a nice tisane, but little else. It was unseemly for someone of her station to be seen helping in the kitchen.

However, once Ela closed the shuttered door into the living room, the dalish woman sighed in relief and leaned against one of the counters. She met Amrita’s eyes and gave her a wane smile. “Thanks for coming with me. It’s all a little much sometimes. Even Bull has a masters. I feel so out of my depth sometimes.”

“Oh. You just… Wanted a break?” Amrita asked, hardly able to believe it.

“Absolutely. Usually my friend Sera’s here to breakup all of the intellectual talk, but she had a meeting with the Jennys and couldn’t make it.”

Amrita didn’t know what the Jennys were, so she just nodded.

“Oh, here, let me get you some more juice,” Ela said as she turned to Dr. Fox’s fridge.

Actually, Amrita wasn’t quite certain it was Dr. Fox’s flat. Despite the cat sticker on the door, Ela’s personal effects were clearly spread all throughout the flat, but at the same time, so were Dr. Fox’s. It must have been difficult for them to keep track of what was at which home unless- Oh. Right. Of course. He had a few orders sent to his home. I’d thought he just wanted to deliver them himself. And it has to be his flat. This has been his address since before he met her.

Unsure what to think of her newest revelation, Amrita just took the glass of juice silently. She didn’t need to say anything, since Ela was still rambling about how intense and overwhelming Leliana and Cassandra got when talking about the meanings behind different passages in the Chant. Amrita was actually a little sad they hadn’t gotten into one of those discussion with her present because she would have been able to keep up with the conversation for once. Well, hopefully they’ll talk about it next time.

Amrita felt alternating flashes of hot and cold. Next time? Would she even be invited? Surely not. Now that they knew there was nothing special or interesting about her, Dr. Fox would stop casually inviting her and- But Ela was thanking her again and giving her a sincere smile that made wrinkles form next to her eyes. Amrita’s heart was fit to burst. She couldn’t process anything else for the last half hour she spent at the warm flat, but she remembered smiling so much her cheeks hurt.

She left promptly at 9:30PM after warm hugs from both Dr. Fox and Ela and friendly handshakes from the others. No one pressured her to stay later and everyone expressed their hope that she’d join them again some time. The moment she buckled her seatbelt, Amrita bent over the steering wheel in sudden, inexplicable tears. She was happy. She’d had a wonderful time. Everyone had been so kind and welcoming, she shouldn’t have been crying.

Amrita allowed herself a minute to be hysterical before she wiped her eyes with her monogrammed handkerchief and started her car. Her family’s Kirkwall house was only ten minutes away and she still had twenty-five left before her self-imposed curfew of 10PM. Even though most of her attention was on the road, Amrita allowed a small part of her brain to think about how nice the gathering made her feel. She was still glowing with quiet joy when the steward let her into the house.

Grace stood on the first landing of the grand staircase, her arms crossed over her chest. “I see you’ve finally deigned us with your presence, sister.”

The last word was spoken like a curse and slapped Amrita across the face, freezing her heart mid-beat. The shock was so complete Amrita could only stare dumbly at her sister. She glanced at their mother, but she averted her eyes and raised her chin.

“Nothing to say for yourself? I suppose you don’t need to, it’s clear enough where you were, wearing that slut’s necklace.”

Amrita gasped and clutched the delicate pendant Ema’an left her. Her mouth quivered and her eyes were hot, but this time she knew exactly why she was going to cry.

“So are you done whoring yourself to this new knife-ear, or can we expect an extended shame on our family?”

“Mother!” Amrita protested, even as tears fell from her eyes.

But she may as well have not spoken because her mother simply turned her back before walking with precise, elegant steps up the stairs.

“Don’t you dare speak to her. Not when you’re still covered in his filth. And in one of your Chantry dresses. How dare you?”

Amrita choked out a single, loud sob before fleeing back the way she’d come. She didn’t remember getting in her car, let alone starting it. She didn’t come back to herself until she drove up on a curb a few blocks from the townhouse. There was no crunch of impact, but the shock from hitting the curb shocked her enough that she shut down her car and sobbed into her hands. When she was a horrible, soggy mess, Amrita fumbled with her handbag until she had her smartphone.

With shaking fingers, she punched in Fox’s number and waited for it to connect. He sounded so terribly worried she nearly hung up, but she managed to answer his questions. No, she wasn’t injured. No, she wasn’t in immediate physical danger. Yes, she did know where she was, yes, she would love it if he came to pick her up.

Before she knew it, Fox was opening her car door and pulling her into a warm hug. He rubbed her back while hashing out a plan for Amrita’s car. She couldn’t have cared less about her car. She just cried into her friend’s chest and held onto him, trusting he would take care of her. After a few minutes, Amrita’s sobbing abated and she was left with just silent tears. She sniffed and rubbed her face with her handkerchief, but it was still wet from earlier and the material felt coarse on her damp face despite being silk. She pulled her face back and looked around, but Ela and Amrita’s car were gone.

“Don’t worry, she just took it back to the flat. We couldn’t exactly leave your car up on the curb overnight,” Fox said. “When you’re ready, we’ll go home. Ela’s setting up the spare room for you right now.”

We’ll go home, such a tiny, simple phrase, but it sent Amrita into another round of hiccuping sobs. She hugged him tightly. She wanted to protest and say he didn’t need to do this, she wasn’t worth it, it was fine, she should just go to her parents’ house, but she couldn’t get any words out, so she just clung to him.

Once her crying abated again, Fox gently guided her into the passenger seat, even going so far as to buckle her in and kiss her forehead before walking around the car and getting into the driver’s seat. The ride itself was a blur of haloed street lights and Fox saying things that were probably comforting and reassuring, though only his soft tone penetrated the haze in Amrita’s mind. Back in Fox’s flat, Ela handed Amrita some warm pajamas and a warm hand towel to clean her face.

“Get some sleep, little sister. We’ll wake you up for Chantry services in the morning,” Fox said.

Without really thinking about it, Amrita went through her usual nighttime routine before curling up in the too-big pajamas and falling asleep with her hand closed around Ema’an’s pendant.

When morning came, Ela helped Amrita back into her dress and pulled a lovely, grey sweater over Amrita’s head. Even though it was such a small addition, it changed Amrita’s appearance enough that she didn’t look like she was wearing last night’s clothes. Words were still too much for her, so Amrita just hugged the other woman and let herself be bundled into Fox’s car. They didn’t go to her usual parish, but Amrita didn’t think she could handle seeing her family, and the service was lovely regardless. She managed to sing a few verses of the Chant, but otherwise just sat in the comfortable space between Fox and Ela.

When it came time to spread the Eternal Flame, Amrita rose mechanically and joined the line of regular parishioners. The statue of Andraste was humble and welcoming and singing the few short verses before it warmed away some of Amrita’s numbness. She let herself be pulled along with the flow of people leaving the Chantry. It wasn’t until she was outside that Amrita realized she was alone. Just as the panic was setting in, Fox touched her shoulder before giving her a hug.

Amrita pulled away and blinked at her friends, as if seeing them for the first time. Ela couldn’t have been more Dalish if she tried, with her clear vallaslin and green clothes with only a facsimile of sandals. And then there was Fox, Tevinter in accent and mindset, if not appearance. He was a very polite atheist, but an atheist nonetheless. Neither of them would ever come to a Chantry service on their own. They went for her and no other reason. She clutched Fox’s arm and tried to hold back her tears.

“This is too much,” Amrita said, her voice quavering.

“It’s the very least you deserve. And we’ll see to it that you get everything you deserve.”

chrysanthemum - You're A Wonderful Friend; Cheerfulness and Rest crocus - Cheerfulness zinnia (red) - Constancy zinnia (white) - Goodness carnation (red) - My Heart Aches for You; Admiration carnation (white) - Sweet and Lovely; Innocence; Pure Love lily of the valley - Sweetness; Humility; You've Made My Life Complete forsythia - Anticipation tulip (red) - Believe Me; Declaration of Love tulip (variegated) - Beautiful Eyes roseleaf - You May Hope hyacinth (purple) - I Am Sorry; Please Forgive Me: Sorrow iris - Your Friendship Means So Much to Me; Faith; Hope; Wisdom and Valour statice (blue) - Intimacy, Deep Trust, Peacefulness ivy - Wedded Love; Fidelity; Friendship; Affection Link 1 Link 2 Link 3

#power couple AU #fox companion AU #amrita trevelyan #my writing #modern thedas au #so cute your teeth will hurt

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