#also i too would like to push ron into a bank of snow but only bc i love him so much

[ickle-ronniekins]

home for the holidays || christmas promises

A/N: hiii everyone! ya girls are here to provide a christmas collab entitled “home for the holidays” that we couldn’t stop freaking out about together like a bunch of dorks. we’ll each be writing two installments each for a four-part total series! alexa ( @harrysweasleys ) will be posting chapter two! super excited for this and thank yoooou to alexa for being just as excited about this collab and for being so patient with my wacky schedule!

desc: would it really be christmas at the burrow without a snowball fight just as the clock strikes midnight on christmas? fred’s happy to have you at his favorite place during his favorite time of year, and the excitement of the holidays seems to have him in a lovey-dovey mood.

pairing: fred x reader

word count: 1.4k

alexa and erica’s combined taglist(s): @mintlibri @seppys-return-to-madness @how-do-life-does @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @laneygthememequeen @snakesonaplane-7 @keoghans @acciotwinz @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @thoseofgreatambition @sleep-i-ness @shadychaoticcollection @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @kageyama-i-want-tobiors @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic @zreads @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hollands-weasley @andromedaa-tonks @cappsikle @mytreec @imseeinggred @idont-knowrn @auroraboringalis57 @godricsswords @annasofiaearlobe @alwaysasadaesthetic @starlightweasley @thisismysketchbook @izzytheninja @imboredandneedalife @hemmoporro @valwritesx @hannalannno @heavenlymidnight @msmimimerton @oh-for-merlins-sake @grierpilots @mikumana @pit-and-the-pen @diary-of-an-onliner @theweirdsideofstuff @vogueweasley @hufflrpuffforfred @phuvioqhile @marvelettesassemble @almostweepingbanana

“Fred! Y/N! Would you two get back out here! Ginny, blimey, can’t you wait a moment before sending another one my way? Bloody hell!”

George’s yelps echoed from outside the Burrow. His voice sounded very loud, because that’s how it always seemed during a snowfall, didn’t it? It always seemed especially quiet as the ground became covered in a blanket of sparkly white. It’s as if the falling snow could silence the entire atmosphere.

You tried to push Fred toward the snowball fight that was unfolding between his siblings, but he yanked you back to him and pressed you against the side of the house, hidden beneath the shadows of the night. The faint light of the moon highlighted his twisted features of hunger.

“Fred, they’ve called us five times now, I reckon we’ve got to get back out there, haven’t we? Besides, poor George is getting absolutely pummeled by your sister,” a laugh escaped you as you watched another snowball smack George right across the head. He groaned in frustration and shoved Ron into a nearby snowbank for laughing at him.

“Don’t care, that game’s for children anyway,” Fred told you. You could see his breath in the air and it was becoming increasingly difficult to not pull him into the nearby garden shed.

You snorted. “Says the boy who suggested it in the first place.”

“It was only so I could get you alone out here, actually.”

Fred revelled in the sneakiness of your actions. His parents were just inside, his siblings a few mere feet away, and yet he was about two bloody seconds away from pulling your jacket right off --

“Freddie!”

He hummed against your lips and listened intently for that moan he knew all too well, the one that sent him into a dizzying spiral each and every time he heard it. “Can’t help it, love,” he cooed as you pushed playfully against his chest. He secretly loved it, you fighting your own overwhelming instincts and trying to shove him away from you, despite yourself, because he knew how much you wanted it too. Your eyes glistened with obvious yearning.

Against your better judgement, you decided to indulge your own hunger and yanked him closer by the collar of his jacket. “What’s the matter, Freddie? Didn’t get enough last night?”

A slight sigh escaped him and he was immediately transported to your final evening in the castle before returning home for the Christmas holidays. The copious amounts of firewhisky had earned him a night full of heated kisses and a morning filled with a throbbing headache. But here he was, just hours later, and it was nothing that the feeling of your lips on his couldn’t cure. Though, as his mouth moved against yours, he began to feel drunk all over again.

He trailed his hands across your hip bones and underneath your shirt a bit, his fingertips grazing your exposed skin. It’s as though every part of him that touched you was setting you on fire. “No, darling, I definitely did not get enough.”

“Okay, then let me make you a promise.”

You piqued his interest. Fred pulled away but kept close as he waited for your proposition. He couldn’t help but notice the sparkle of the snowflakes that had fallen onto your eyelashes, and how the tip of your nose and cheeks were so rosy from the cold weather. If he didn’t get you alone, and really alone, quick enough, he felt like he was going to spontaneously combust.

“If you behave, and help me obliterate Ron for getting me square in the gut with a snowball, then maybe we can pick up where we left off last night sometime later.”

He wiggled his eyebrows at you as he raked his teeth through his bottom lip, eager for later to be right bloody now.

He nearly growled before pushing you back up against the side of the house, his mouth eagerly finding yours again, before a rogue snowball (definitely charmed by one of his siblings) smacked him right in the side of the head. He heard Ron, George, and Ginny fall into a fit of raucous laughter before running out of sight yet again.

He rolled his eyes and turned back toward you, nearly melting at the sight of your sparkly eyes and rosy cheeks. You sniffled a bit -- the cold always did make your nose a little sniffly -- and you pulled gently on the collar of his jacket. He felt heat rise up in his legs, into his stomach and his arms, and finally felt his face flush a crimson red, all because of how absolutely bloody adorable you looked into your little pompom hat and scarf that was far too large it looked like it was swallowing you whole. And yet, you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“What?” you asked, raking your bottom lip through your teeth at the sight of him going googly-eyed.

“Nothing,” he said quietly before tightening his grip around your waist and resting comfortably against you, his breathing finding synchronization with yours. “You know mum’s been absolutely dying to have you here, and for Christmas, no less.. I reckon she’ll even make you a sweater.”

You arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Well that’s kind of her,” you replied, the rosy colour of your lips resembling that of your cheeks, and Fred found himself internally whining and desperately trying to suppress his feelings of eager want down into the depths of his soul. Later. You were making it bloody difficult though, especially when you said, “I’d love my own sweater knitted by your mum. But there’s nothing quite like wearing yours.”

It sent his heart soaring. He honestly felt himself dropping to his knees with weakness, and he swore to himself that if he had a ring, he’d ask you to be his wife right then and there -- no script, no plan, just unwavering love. He leaned himself further against you to hold himself upright and you giggled teasingly at the weight of him on top of you.

He knew how much you loved wearing his sweater. Or any of his clothing, really, but especially the cozy sweater. You wore it more than he did, actually, but he didn’t mind. Looked way better on you than it did him, didn’t it? He loved how the sleeves were so long it went past your hands, how the oversized material hung loosely over your body, but in that adorable type of way he loved to see each and every time you two would wake up from a nap in the school dormitories. But if there was one thing he loved more than seeing you in it, it was taking it off of you.

Bloody hell, mate, pull it together.

He bit down on his lip and jokingly pulled your hat further down your head so it was almost covering your eyebrows, and you scrunched your nose and giggled, once again making the butterflies in his stomach dance around in delight. “I’m really happy you’re here.”

You batted your eyelashes at him, “Freddie boy, how can you go from being so incredibly alluring to so sweet and sincere in mere seconds?”

“Dunno,” he replied, ignoring the calls from his siblings again, “but I reckon it’s one of the reasons you fell in love with me, right?”

He meant it as a joke, as he did mostly everything. He expected you to laugh, or to playfully punch him in the gut, but was pleasantly surprised when all you did was blink as the gentlest of smiles tug at your lips. “Of course it is.”

Just then, in the quiet stillness of the night, you both heard the church bells in the village begin to ring, signaling midnight and the official start of the holiday.

Cheers from the front yard erupted, and by the look in your eye, Fred could tell that you figured you should both get back out there and celebrate with the rest of them. He agreed, but he forced just a few more seconds, testing fate or destiny or whatever it was, and as you began to walk out toward them, he gently spun you around and caught your lips with his. There was nothing hungry or wild about it; it was, if anything, one of the purest exchanges you’d both ever shared.

When you both pulled away, you hovered close to one another, your breath visible in the cold winter air, and Fred made sure to keep his hands wrapped around your neck and entangled in the strands of your hair. He caressed your cheek with his thumb, gently, tenderly. His voice was so soft, so quiet, his words gently landed in your ears like the snowflakes soundlessly melting into the ground. “I love you, beautiful. Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Freddie.”

[impracticaldemon]

Laughing at the Rain ~ Hakuouki Vignettes ~

by ImpracticalOni 4th Entry in Hakuouki Vignettes

Words ~ 1700 | AO3 Link | Fanfiction Link

Author's Note:

For @thesweateristoobig ~ Happy Birthday! ~ I hope you enjoy this!

Prompt: "can you give me a little Heichi fluff... based around this song: Fireflies by Ron Pope"

Quote (verse 1 & chorus):

"Fireflies"

When the street lights come on and the fireflies flicker I am walking her home Making plans

With her shoes in her hands I am watching her dance As the hem of her dress gently kisses the grass

It suddenly rains on us She is laughing and turns up her hands

Like autumn turns leaves Winter will breathe cold on our necks Snow in our paths Wherever she goes All that I know about us is that beautiful things never last That's why fireflies flash

Laughing at the Rain

It had been a strange afternoon. Shinpachi had come to see them, and at first Heisuke hadn't been sure quite how to behave or what to say. After all, he was still a fury—more or less, although it seemed to be rather less than more these days—and Shinpat had been against the furies, even against Heisuke's taking the ochimizu to save his life. But without the ochimizu, Heisuke could not have defeated Sannan-san. He couldn't have sat in a sun-dappled garden with his friend drinking sake almost a year after the war had ended. He wouldn't have Chizuru.

Chizuru had put things right, as she so often did. She had cried when Shinpachi had arrived, looking curiously about him as though unsure that he had arrived in the right place. When the two men had greeted each other awkwardly and traded cautious smiles she had laughed at them and scolded them and dropped everything to make Nagakura-san ("please, just Shinpachi is fine!") comfortable so that he could talk with Heisuke. She had cried again, of course, when Shinpachi had told them that Saitō was alive. They had heard the news of Hijikata-san's death, but not the news that Hajime-kun had somehow, miraculously, survived the slaughterhouse of Aizu. Heisuke had wanted to cry as well—it was such an indescribable relief to know that they weren't all dead.

They had invited Shinpachi to stay the night, but he had declined.

"I have other business in the area," he'd told them, although it was unlikely to be true. "I'll come back another time, though."

Chizuru had believed the last part; Heisuke wasn't so sure. He'd walked quite a ways down the path toward the road with Shinpachi when he'd left. Away from Chizuru, they were less at ease, but they could drop the pretence. They could discuss the fact that Shinpachi had been a fugitive for over a year, although he was likely to be pardoned shortly, along with Hajime-kun. And Shinpachi could ask him directly how he was finding life as a fury. The question had been hovering between them all afternoon, really.

"Not so bad, I guess," Heisuke had told him, shrugging. "I don't mind the sun now, which is great, but I get tired pretty easily during the day still, which kind of sucks. Also… I'm not sure how long I'll be around, you know? So I worry about Chizuru."

"Do you want me to keep an eye on her?" Shinpachi had asked, accepting the truth of Heisuke's situation without wasting time on exclamations. His tone had been sympathetic, and as genuine as Heisuke had ever heard it.

For a moment, Heisuke had wrestled with unexpected jealousy—he didn't want anyone to look after Chizuru but him. But he'd overcome it quickly.

"Yeah… I'd appreciate that. She'll probably be okay though. And who knows? We may still have a lot of years ahead of us. You know me—I like to venture into the unknown kind of thing."

"Still Master Forerunner?"

"Yeah, kind of. We have a good life, though. Don't really need to chase stuff much these days."

"Yeah, I don't know how you've stayed so scrawny, really, with Chizuru-chan feeding you up like that and nothing to do but loaf around!"

The rest of the conversation had deteriorated into inconsequentialities. Important inconsequentialities though, if there were such a thing. It was still a little weird. Those last two years had changed everything—their lives, their livelihoods, their goals… Japan itself. Only after Heisuke had said his final goodbyes and turned to go back to Chizuru had Shinpachi stopped him and told him, haltingly, that at some point in the future he thought he'd like to at least dedicate proper monuments to Kondō-san and Hijikata-san.

"We didn't always agree," Shinpachi had muttered, as though dedicating monuments was somehow shameful, "but they were damn good warriors. They… they deserve to be honored like the samurai they wanted to be, you know? It's too bad that they—Kondō-san mostly, I guess, but Hijikata-san was his man through and through—well, it's too bad that they kind of got to be a little bit too much like the old samurai if you know what I mean."

Heisuke had just nodded. His own time with the Shinsengumi hadn't exactly been without its difficulties and differences of opinion. But he had grieved over Kondō-san's merciless beheading and Hijikata-san's death in the far north on the isle of Ezo. They had been titans, and they had also been men that Heisuke had known personally, had obeyed loyally and had admired deeply.

He returned to find Chizuru waiting for him, her face calm, but her eyes a little worried. He'd wound his arms around her and they'd stood like that for several minutes, enjoying the very last rays of sunlight and the touch of a cool evening breeze.

"Let's walk, Heisuke."

"Yes." He leaned his forehead against hers. "How do you feel?"

Chizuru smiled at him and pushed a stray piece of hair behind one ear, a futile gesture, as she well knew. He was happy that she cared; so very happy that she wanted to be with him. He straightened and pretended to frown, which only made her laugh.

"I'm fine, just fine. I even managed a short rest once you and Nagakura—I mean Shinpachi-san—got to talking in earnest."

"I'm glad," Heisuke murmured, trying not to feel guilty that they'd ignored Chizuru for long stretches of time over the afternoon. Not that she would have minded; if anything, she was probably pleased that they'd managed to relax together for a while—he and Shinpat-san, that is. However… "I can't help but worry."

"I know. But I feel perfectly well, and quite rested, and I want to see the fireflies down by the river." Seeing that he still looked a little uncertain, she tucked her hand into his. "I expect the baby would like to see the fireflies too…"

That made him laugh, even though the idea of Chizuru being pregnant still scared him whenever he thought about it too closely. Especially since if anything went wrong—and things did go wrong, sometimes—it would be his fault. Well, his fault that she was pregnant in the first place. Involuntarily, he glanced sideways at the girl beside him. Even now, she looked too young and too innocent to be living with him like this and especially too young to be a mother.

Chizuru tugged at his hand. "I know what you're thinking. But you know, Shinpachi-san didn't call you a 'kid' once this afternoon. That's pretty amazing, really."

"Well I'm not a kid!" Heisuke replied reflexively. He grinned ruefully. "Yeah, I get it. Even old Shinpachi-san could tell that we've grown up a bit. Alright, let's walk. But it's not a river. A creek at most!"

It was a long-standing and entirely amiable argument. They held hands the whole time, picking their way along the now-familiar path to the river-creek that provided Heisuke with the water that seemed to have partially reversed at least some of the effects of the ochimizu. When they got to the water, they walked along the bank, greeting their favourite trees, admiring the way that the flowers grew especially well in one particular place, pointing out the birds heading home to their nests for the night. Fish leapt into the air from time to time, feeding on softly buzzing clouds of insects.

Eventually, they saw the fireflies, dancing around one particularly gnarled white willow. With a quiet hum of delight—as though she hadn't seen them many times before!—Chizuru started to hurry forward. Heisuke caught her up short and put his arms around her waist, pulling her close.

"A kiss for good luck first." He'd gotten better at telling her what he wanted, and it had worked out well for them. An unexpected flicker of desire made him blush when she tilted her face up towards him without hesitation.

Soft lips, soft skin… the scent of the day's warmth in silky dark hair. The mood shifted as his kiss became more passionate and less playful. They'd learned each other's needs and wants over the past two years, and Chizuru obviously sensed his unsettled state. Her fingers stroked his neck and wound themselves in his brown hair. After several minutes, they broke apart slightly.

"Ah… the fireflies will be here another night," Heisuke suggested tentatively.

"Impatient?" Her teasing was always very gentle, and he loved the fact that he was the only person that she teased.

"A little." He was about to say more, when the breeze suddenly carried the scent of rain to him and he noticed that the fireflies had disappeared. "I think we'd better hurry—because of the rain, of course."

Chizuru looked puzzled for a moment and then she blinked as a drop hit her cheek. "Oh!" With a laughing glance back at her lover she darted away toward the house. He caught up to her with ease, thanks to her rather confining kimono, and swung her up into his arms.

"Now then. Home!"

Chizuru laughed up at him. She was so much more open with her smiles now that it was just the two of them. He loved it. He loved her. He wished that they could be together forever and then set that thought ruthlessly aside. Right now he had everything he wanted. Why waste time demanding more?

[END]

A/Note: All comments here or on FF or AO3 are much appreciated! ~ImpracticalOni

@shell-senji @fury-ous @queen-mizera @kazama-hime @hakusaitosan@tealdeertamer @very-x-vice @sabinasanfanfic @walk-tall-my-fr1ends@hakuokifirst @annahakuouki @eliz1369 @canadiangaap

[davidastbury]

Mr Crow

I am trying to tame a magpie. Each day I go into the garden and look for him, peering behind bushes, calling - ‘Where’s Mr. Crow?’ - and making clicking noises; a weak imitation of magpie language. Suddenly, with a clatter of wings, he swoops down and glares at me. I step towards him and he backs away; I retreat and he moves forward; all the time watching me with a flickering eye.

Yesterday I flooded a hollow in the lawn and left him to splash about. He was like a human singing in the bath. Dunking his head, slapping the water with his wings, shaking and preening. And cocking his head to what I was saying - ‘Who’s a beautiful crow?’ Who’s the most handsome crow for half a mile? Who’s a big softie?’ He glared back at me and stamped his feet, beak wide open, a choking,inarticulate outpouring of aggression.

I didn’t mind at all, I know he loves me.

Manchester

Perhaps she is actually Anglo-Saxon - someone whose ancestors squelched through the bogs of ancient, wooded England. All those centuries of being taxed by the bastard barons, of wars civil and uncivil, of battles on the moorland in Yorkshire, of debtor’s prison, of the slums of Manchester’s Ancoates and Gorton.

Or perhaps her family, led by a great, great, great grandfather, came and set up home here - fleeing pogroms in Poland, or potato famine, or pestilence - desperately seeking safety and survival.

Whatever ... throughout it all the mums and dads kept having babies, and here she is to prove it - this wonderful girl swinging three carrier bags, coming out of Selfridges.

After He’d Gone

The office door was locked but someone let me in; she shouldn’t have, but she knew me. His desk had been pushed to the side of the room - you could see where it used to be, the carpet tiles were darker in that place. It had been his desk and now it stood alone with the silent patience of a tethered animal. Drawer one, drawer two, drawer three - empty; drawer four jammed, and I didn’t want to force it. Phone on a wire on the window-ledge, some arch-lever box-files with springs like mouse traps, an open packet of rusting staples.

And his swivel chair with the dicky armrest - it snapped downwards if you pressed on it. He’d reported it to maintenance, but it was never fixed.

I didn’t stay - there was nothing left and there would be no goodbyes - not now, not ever.

King Street

A sense of place. A location - city centre; the same street between two more important streets. And together we walked along this street to buy something - something that was important to her - at her age - it was actually very important to her. So we walked quickly because she was afraid the shop might sell out and she wouldn’t get what she wanted - what her best friend already had and what she felt she must have too.

And we were lucky; she got what she wanted. We were back on the street and she walked on air; she smiled at everyone, couldn’t stop smiling - and I was happy too.

Catchup

We were a mixed bunch; clever and silly at the same time. Frank studied rocks and fossils - Ian was going to be a star on TV - George was starting a blues band - Geraldine who wanted to marry David (although it took forty years to achieve this ambition) - Geoffrey who was in love with a lady who was (fortunately) happily married - Kevin who was so charming but seethed with hidden anger - Elizabeth who habitually feigned outrage, genius at the ‘meaningful’ glance - Mary, aggressive and coquettish, very sharp insults - Kath, mysterious but pleasant, couldn’t take her eyes off Mary - Ronald, nice, withdrawn, haggard from self-abuse - Don, crackling with financial ambitions - Brian who got drunk and wrote like Joyce - John the antiquarian with his tweed suits and bow ties - Michael the anarchist, wiping his glasses and talking revolution - Lynne who never stopped smiling, the only person liked by everyone - Jim the bearded pharmacist - Chadwick (who would call a child Chadwick?) budding tycoon from the council flats - Hugh, meter-reader and philosopher.

Missed a lot out of course.

Just a bunch of people.

No harm in us.

No real harm.

No harm.

Teacher Training College ... 1965

Lecture over and boyfriend waiting for her outside!

And the Manchester streets - so sombre, industrial and soot stained - telling the history of triumphant capitalism and the deprivation and poverty endured by the masses. You could see it in the opulent Victorian hotels, the confident banks, the warehouses and sewing factories, the back alleys and dirty pubs with opaque windows.

But the Unions had become tough; they protected people.

She looked forward to the coming revolution in schools - class sizes would be reduced, bright new schools would be built with swimming pools, libraries and language laboratories. Elitism in education would be ended and the old ways would be swept aside and a new future would dawn.

Of course this didn’t happen. Class sizes haven’t changed much, most schools are in disrepair. Unions have been emasculated and seduced by sly government tricks; teachers stressed to breaking point by box-ticking, inspections, parental interference, policy u turns, and so on, and so on.

She married the boyfriend who waited outside - they had a few good years, but he did rather well in his career and went off with a girl from the office. She got out of teaching as early as she could, grabbed the reduced pension - and happy to settle, neatly divorced, with her kitchen garden, book club, and black Labradoodle.

An Afternoon ... 1965

Her lecture was cancelled and she never knew why. Her boyfriend was also free and was spending the day at a friend’s, helping him repair faulty audio equipment - so she phoned him and they arranged to meet up outside the Medical Library. It occurred to them both, instantly, that his house would be empty. Normally it was crowded with other students who shared the place - officially and unofficially. They could have it all to themselves; do what they wanted; make as much noise as they wanted.

They met; a flurry of kisses and hugs and without mentioning it, they set off towards his house. It was settled without saying any words. They walked quickly. He was animated, chatting and joking; nervous, as if it was a first date, as if he had to impress her - as if his life depended upon it.

She loved him when he was like this. She would have enjoyed keeping up the anticipation - perhaps stop at one of the bars for a quick drink - perhaps call in at the bookshop - something like that - something that would have kept the atmosphere at boiling point - prolonging the enjoyment of seeing his thin concealment.

They turned off the main road and came to the house. He moved ahead, fumbling an assortment of keys, and she looked at the back of his neck - planning to bite it. He kicked away the pile of mail and held the door open. She noticed his slight breathlessness and smiled up at him - basking in the pleasure of causing all this disturbance without even raising her little finger.

Janet ... (Mary Notnice’s friend) 1965

She lived on the outskirts of the town - in the countryside. Her home had once been the tied cottage of a farm labourer, but had been sold at auction when the farm went bankrupt. Her mother used the sheds and enclosures, keeping all sorts of animals - goats, sheep, rabbits, poultry and so on The mother was nice; a sincere, decent woman who seemed to be always busy, always cheerful.

There was no dad around; I never found out why. I once hinted at the subject - not wishing to bluntly ask - but she didn’t take it up. Something in the way she deflected my hint told me that it wasn’t a fully tragic story, instead she showed an amused, forgiving tolerance. As if his absence was the result of ancient, masculine folly, described in every song, book, film in human history. No doubt an amorous misdemeanour; a betrayal with one of her friends possibly, where the uncompromising truth would stand as plainly as the nose on her face. And so they lived their little lives in their little house, more in disappointment than sorrow - as if the missing husband and father wasn’t held entirely to blame - because he hadn’t been able to help himself.

Janet had a beautiful, tranquil disposition - she could have written this ...

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,

For such as we are made of, such we be.

(Twelfth Night)

The Room

The house is still there - and the trees. Most of the front garden has been lost to car parking; the area where the stone fountain used to dribble in the sharp sunshine has now become a turning circle for the resident’s vehicles.

But he’s not interested in the front - he would like to go ‘round the back’ and peer at the upper windows - at one particular upper window. This had been their room - many years ago - not for long, just one winter, their only room, their only winter. He would like to see what he saw then, when in the mornings he had looked out at the snow in the garden, the trail of a fox or dog, the dripping moss on the brick walls.

And yet he isn’t fooling himself; his motive isn’t totally prosaic. There had been so much joy in that room - remembering how in the cold light her silhouette frazzled like a Bonnard and their laughter rebounded from the stark white walls, and there was nothing in the world that could equal their happiness or their unconquerable belief in each other.

Surely all that joy must have sunk into the bricks and wood and plaster of that room. Would it be asking too much, so many years later, for just a little of it to be given back to him?

Conversation between the Kray twins.

‘Fancy a cuppa’ Ron?’

‘Yea - thanks Reg. Four sugars’

‘Fancy a biscuit Ron’

‘Yea - I could murder a McVitie’