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theladyofdeath · 3 years ago

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Life As We Know It {Chapter Four}

Summary: After the sudden deaths of Nesta’s sister and Cassian’s best friend, they gain guardianship of their nephew, Nyx.

Based on Life As We Know It (2010) and a prompt sent in by anonymous for our Nessian fanfic contest. This is a modern au.

Instead of doing a tag list for this story, we have decided to have a set posting schedule. Chapters will be posted weekly on Mondays and Thursdays. Chapters will be posted on both my and Tara’s blogs! >> @tacmc.

Life As We Know It Masterlist

Shelby’s Masterlist

Tara’s Masterlist

Getting out of the lease on her townhouse proved to be easier than Nesta had expected. Her landlord was extremely understanding, especially under the conditions. She’d lived in the same place since she was in college, had never given him any trouble. She took care of her own problems, called her own plumbers and electricians, and had always taken it upon herself to fix anything that was wrong, rather than on his dime.

He’d even gotten her a parting gift on the day she moved everything out. A beautiful bouquet of flowers, and his condolences on her family’s loss.

As it was, mostly everything was moved into a storage unit, thanks to the furniture Rhys and Feyre already had in their home. But her clothes and some select important things came with her.

It felt strange, at first, the moment Nesta carried Nyx through the door. She had just slept there, of course, but it was different this time.

This time, Nesta was moving in to stay.

This was no longer Feyre and Rhysand’s house, but Nesta and Cassian’s…and it felt strange, surreal.

A thump came from upstairs that nearly had Nesta yelping. Nyx looked up at her and her startled expression and blew a raspberry. “What was that, hmm?” Nesta asked, quietly, setting her bag down as she closed the front door with her foot. She carried Nyx up the stairs and rounded the corner to the master bedroom to find Cassian staring at the mostly empty closet with his hands on his hips. “Find something interesting in there?”

“Shit!” he cursed, spinning around to find the pair in the doorway. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that.”

“I can do whatever I want,” Nesta said, plainly. “Especially when it’s in my room.”

Cassian’s brows shot into his hairline. “I’m sorry…your room?”

“Yes,” she said, swapping Nyx from one hip to the other. “I’ve been staying here for nearly three weeks at this point. I’ve been the one here taking care of him.”

“So that entitles you to the master bedroom?” He asked.

“It does,” she replied and Nyx began squirming. She put him down and he began crawling towards Cassian, tugging on the strings of his boots.

Cassian stooped down to pick the baby up, who instantly began patting Cassian’s face, a habit he’d picked up just before Rhys and Feyre’s accident. Cassian grinned down at him, but then he looked back to Nesta. The smile fell as he beheld Nesta watching him with her arms crossed.

Cassian sighed. “Look-.”

“No, no,” Nesta interrupted. “I’m taking this room. I need the space, and I’m a woman, so I would prefer the private bathroom.”

Cassian watched her for a long moment. “Fine.” Nesta was about to turn on her heels to get the rest of her belongings, but then Cassian continued, “But, you have to say please.”

Nesta tensed in the doorway. “What?”

“Say please and it’s yours,” he said, shrugging.

Nyx looked back and forth between Cassian and Nesta.

She blinked, staring at him.

“You heard me,” he said, leaning down to grab his backpack from where he’d dropped it on the floor. He hefted it onto his other shoulder, Nyx still staring between them. “Say please and the room is yours. And make it genuine, I want to believe you.”

“And if I don’t?” She asked, bracing herself for a fight.

He shrugged and tossed his backpack onto the bed. “Then it looks like we’re sharing. Just so you know, I’m a blanket hog.”

She narrowed her eyes, watching as he sat down on the edge of the bed, plopping Nyx down on the mattress next to him. He crawled up to the top of the bed, plopping down atop one of the pillows.

Cassian could have sworn her teeth were grinding as she said, “May I please have the bedroom?”

He smirked, asking, “Was that so hard?” and stood, grabbing his bag again, before brushing past her as he headed down the hall, taking the room across from Nyx’s nursery.

Nesta groaned, closing her eyes and sighing, before she heard the door opening downstairs.

“Hello, hello!”

She scooped Nyx up off the bed, and made her way downstairs, finding Elain, Azriel, Gwyn, Mor and Emerie in the entryway. Mor was wiggling her fingers at Nyx, and Nesta handed him over to her. He giggled as she lifted him in the air and Nesta hugged her friends. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Emerie said, taking a look around. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”

Nesta nodded and another thump came from upstairs. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

“Cassian’s here already, then?” Azriel asked.

“He’s here and he’s driving me mad,” Nesta muttered.

Azriel chuckled as he hurried up the stairs, leaving the women alone.

“Okay,” Gwyn said, propping her hands on her hips and looking around. “What do you need us to do?”

Nesta hesitated. There was so much already in this house that felt like it belonged there, so much of Rhys and Feyre that Nesta didn’t feel like she should touch.

As if she was reading her thoughts, Elain stepped forward, slipping her arm through hers. “This is your home now, too. Part of them will always be here, but you have to make it yours now.” Nesta nodded, wiping away the damn tears that kept making an appearance, but jumped slightly when a loud bang came from upstairs and Azriel and Cassian both laughed. Elain added, with a laugh of her own, “Yours and Cassian’s, I guess.”

“I wish I would stop being reminded of that fact,” Nesta said, attempting a joke as she continued to wipe at her damp cheeks.

“Ignore Cassian?” Emerie chuckled. “That’s impossible. He likes to make himself known too much for that.”

After a chorus of laughter, Nesta was giving everyone a role. It was all just so surreal, too surreal. It was a position that Nesta would have never imagined herself to be in, especially as she opened Feyre’s closet and stared.

Nesta had always admired Feyre’s style, even though most of her jeans had paint splatters on them. She reached up to go through the series of band tees hanging on the top rod. She chuckled at one from the Jonas Brothers concert that they’d gotten back in 2011. Nesta had taken Elain and Feyre one weekend when their dad was out of town on business. She’d bought them both t-shirts and cds and overpriced sodas from the arena’s concession stand.

It had been a good night.

And Feyre had kept the t-shirt for ten years, even though there was a coffee stain on Nick Jonas’ face and a rip in the hem. Nesta took the shirt off the hanger and held it up. It was too small for her. It would never fit.

Nonetheless, Nesta folded the shirt neatly and put it on top of the dresser before taking down the rest of Feyre’s clothes and folding them into a bin.

She hadn’t realized the tears had returned until Emerie and Gwyn came in, the former holding a sleeping, drooling Nyx.

Feyre’s closet had been nearly emptied. Neither of Nesta’s closest friends said a word as they entered and sat next to Nesta on the bed, one of them on each side.

Silently, they pulled Nesta into their arms.

Cassian looked at the broken bed frame in the guest room.

He and Azriel started roughhousing the moment he’d come up the stairs, and it resulted in the old, rickety bed unable to hold two untamed Illyrians.

Does this mean I won?

You’ve never won in a wrestling match with me, Cass.

Looking at it now, however, Cassian was wondering how he’d take the rest apart without waking Nyx up from his afternoon nap.

“How many times have we slept in this room after a night of drinking too much?” Azriel asked.

Cassian chuckled from where he was putting his clothes in the small, empty dresser. “Too many. Feyre wouldn’t let us drive after even one drink at dinner.”

Azriel chuckled, quietly. “She always was a mother hen, long before Nyx.”

“She had to be,” Cassian said, “look at Rhys’s choice of friends.”

Azriel grinned. “Speak for yourself.”

He snorted. “Need I remind you of Spring Break, senior year?”

The grin fell slightly into a cringe. “Okay, maybe there are times that I fall into that category as well.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. He looked back at the bed, even the bedding somewhat in shambles. “Haven’t even lived in the house for an hour and we already broke something.”

Azriel chuckled, following his gaze. “Rhys would be proud.”

Grinning, Cassian nodded. “Feyre would have our asses.”

They worked in silence, for a while, listening to the women’s voices throughout the house.

At one point, Cassian could hear Nesta sobbing quietly from the room down the hall.

His shoulders tensed.

Azriel must have seen it, because he cleared his throat. “You know, Elain says Nesta’s not so bad.”

“And what do you think?” Cassian asked, tossing his empty duffle bag in the corner.

Azriel was quiet for a moment then shrugged. “I’ve never had an issue with her.” Cassian huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well, you never have issues with anyone.” He shook his head as he leaned back against the wall. “I feel like I’m living a dream right now. I have no idea what’s happening, and it’s all happening way too fast.”

It was happening far too quickly. Everything. All of it.

Cassian felt like he was in the middle of a hurricane, lost and alone and confused with no end in sight.

Everyone had left, and only the three of them remained.

Nesta, Cassian, and Nyx.

Nesta realized this is how it would be from now on, and that realization made her chuckle out of pure absurdity.

Cassian had asked to put Nyx to bed, and Nesta didn’t argue as he took him from her, from where Nyx had fallen asleep in Nesta’s arms on the couch.

She watched them disappear up the stairs, and she wasn’t really sure what to do after that, where to go. Should she just have gone back to her room, shut herself inside, and pretend that nothing else existed?

Cassian came back down the stairs just as Nesta stood up. As he reached the bottom, they acknowledged each other, uncomfortably.

“Well,” Nesta began, nodding slowly. “I guess I’ll be going to bed.”

Cassian didn’t say anything until she had brushed past him and gone halfway up the stairs. “Don’t you think that we should, you know, set some ground rules?”

She paused. “Like what?”

“Like who takes care of what?” He asked. “Who gets what nights off and-?”

“Nights off?” Nesta asked, blinking. “We have to take care of a child, Cassian. We don’t get nights off.”

“You know Az and Elain still go out once in a while. As long as one of us is here to watch him, he’s taken care of,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I would like to be able to go out on a Saturday night, with Az and Luce, so-.”

“Why would you get Saturday night?” She asked, her eyes widening. “I spend all day at the restaurant, all week long. If anyone gets Saturdays, it’s me. Besides, you’re a bartender, shouldn’t you be working those nights?”

“Friday nights are my money nights, so no, I’ll be off,” he said, crossing his arms. His legs widened slightly, and Nesta knew a fighting stance when she saw one.

“So I’m supposed to take Friday nights? How’s that going to work, if you’re at the bar, Cassian?” Cassian hesitated, and Nesta scoffed. “See? That won’t work.”

“You can take Sunday nights,” Cassian said, at last.

“The night before I have to wake up at five to be at the restaurant by six?” Nesta asked. “Oh, thank you so much for that kindness.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Your sarcasm isn’t necessary. And two minutes ago you thought the idea of a night off was ridiculous, anyway!”

“Well, if you get a night off, so do I!” Nesta yelled.

Cassian raked a frustrated hand through his hair. “Fine. How about we switch saturdays? You get two Saturday’s a month, and I get two Saturday’s a month.”

She clamped her mouth shut, fighting the urge to grind her teeth together. “Fine.”

He nodded. “Fine.”

They both stayed where they were, not moving or giving up an inch of ground.

“I’m going to go to bed then,” she said, the bite still in her voice.

“Goodnight then,” he said, and though the words were civil, they were still sharp. It was almost humorous.

“Goodnight.” With that, she turned and was stomping up the stairs.

She could feel Cassian’s eyes on her and she disappeared.

The audacity.

She was fully aware that Cassian was full of himself, but wanting every Saturday night off?

She knew it.

He wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready for the responsibility of raising a child. She couldn’t expect him to be, though. Shit, she wasn’t ready, either. The only difference was that she was starting to learn all that being a guardian entailed and he surely was not.

She shut the bedroom door behind her, and considered locking it, but decided not to and looked at the clock.

it was barely eight-thirty, but she was exhausted. That had been the past few weeks though, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been awake at ten o’clock. She leaned against the shut door, letting her head fall back.

If she listened hard enough, she could hear him moving downstairs. Heard the fridge open and knew he was pulling one of Rhysand’s beers out. Nesta sighed, wishing she had thought to get at least a glass of wine before she’d shut herself in here.

If she went back out now, she’d look stupid. And she’d have to talk to Cassian again.

Not over her dead body.

So she did the next best thing, filling the massive garden tub in the corner of the bathroom, and settled into it. She sighed, letting the hot water seep into her bones.

And then there was a knock on the bedroom door.

She sunk deeper in the tub. “What?” She called, eyeing the open bathroom door.

There was a pause. “Is it time for Nyx’s bedtime bottle?”

Nyx was cut down to two bottles a day: one in the morning and one at night. Although he had been getting breast milk before the accident, Nesta had already worked through the remaining breast milk that had been in the freezer.

That morning had been his first formula bottle.

He’d been confused at first. Surely there was a difference in taste. However, Nyx eventually realized he wasn’t getting anything else and drank it down, anyway.

“Was he fussing?” Nesta asked.

There was a thump against the door and Nesta assumed Cassian had fallen into it. “Yeah. Wasn’t crying, but he was about to.”

“Yeah. Formula is on the counter in the kitchen. Check his diaper first,” Nesta said.

She didn’t hear a response, so she assumed he’d gone to handle it, when a few minutes later another knock sounded. This time it was accompanied by a frantic crying.

She was out of the tub, grabbing a towel and digging through a box she’d packed the night before for her robe. Just as Cassian started talking, she got to the door, pulling it open.

He paused, taking in her attire, or lack thereof. Nyx was still crying, which knocked him back into motion. He raised his hand, holding up an empty bottle. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt-.”

She took the bottle, shaking her head, and brushing past him to head down the stairs. She didn’t snap at him, not when she knew he’d never had to prepare a bottle before. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t irritated.

“You couldn’t read the directions on the back of the box?” she asked, then muttered. “Just like a man.”

When she looked back over her shoulder, Cassian was close behind, Nyx tugging on the end of his shaggy hair as he wailed. If he heard Nesta, he didn’t deign to reply.

Nesta sighed, carrying the bottle over and filling it with water from a newly opened jug on the counter. “You don’t have to warm it up anymore. He can drink it with room temperature water. It’s pretty easy. Fill it up to the eight ounce mark on the bottle, measure four scoops of formula and dump them in.” She did just that, measuring out each scoop carefully but quickly. “Then shake.” She handed the bottle to Cassian, who started shaking the bottle.

“How long do I shake?” he asked.

Nesta almost wanted to laugh at how frantic, how wild-eyed he looked. Here was Cassian Nazari, shaking a bottle with a screaming baby on his hip. “That’s good. Just give it to the poor kid.”

Nyx snatched it from Cassian as he lowered it towards his face, holding it on his own. Cassian’s hand hovered close by and he looked up at her. “Can he do that? I mean, should I let him? Or should I hold it?”

Her face softened as she watched her nephew, his tears stopping almost immediately. “He’s fine. Maybe use a hand to support it just in case, but he can handle it.”

He nodded, looking down at the baby as well. His blue eyes were wide as he watched them, glancing from Nesta to Cassian, and back.

He said, softly, “I wonder if he realizes they aren’t coming back yet.”

The words nearly broke Nesta’s heart. Her words were as quiet as his. “ I don’t know… That’s not exactly something you can explain to a one-year-old.”

His nod was slow. “It doesn’t seem fair. They didn’t deserve this.”

Nesta’s throat was tight as she started back toward the stairs. “Life isn’t always fair, Cass. The Cauldron isn’t always fair.”

#collab #acotar #acosf #nessian #shacmc

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mostly-marvel-musings · 4 years ago

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A Mere Mortal - Chapter Five

A/N: This story is based on Landlord Vampire Fic Frenzy hosted by the amazing @just-the-hiddles. The second last chapter of this series! Yay Feedback’s appreciated as always! :))

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire! Bucky Barnes x Vampire! Loki x Human! Reader

Word count: 2043

Warnings: Foul language, murder description, mostly angst.

Tags: @buckybarnesplumwhore @ladyacrasia @tcc-gizmachine @alexakeyloveloki @rogerrhqpsody

Taglists open! Send me an ask if you wish to be tagged in future chapters.

...

You’d had enough. Bear was driving you insane with his persistent howling and barking. For such a small pup he was quite loud. Groaning, you turned on your side hoping to block the noise out.

Maybe it’s a phase. Don’t they start teething or something at this age?

You thought you’d ignore him and eventually he would keep quiet and go back to sleep, but something made you get out of the warmth of your bed, down the stairs and flick the light on in the living room. Bear was standing by the front door, staring it down as if it were an enemy. Huffing, you went closer.

“What is it buddy? Bad dream?” you leaned down to give him a scratch but he backed away; instead trotted up to the door and began scraping it with his front paws.

“You want to go for a walk now? Its 4:00 am and freezing cold. Come on now back to sleep.” You turned to switch the lights off again when Bear grabbed your pajama bottoms and tugged on them.

“What the hell Bear! We cannot go out now. Enough.” Irritated at this point, you picked him up and took him upstairs to let him sleep in your bed. Maybe he’d calm down then.

Once inside, you slid inside the still warm bed with the puppy and cuddled him close, he was surprisingly pacified at that time. He scrambled around a little bit before snuggling in, his rapid breathing gradually began lulling you back to sleep. Though it was short-lived.

Soon the quiet of the room was broken by Bear’s yapping right beside your ear. Angry at this point, you threatened to lock him in a room, though you could never do such a thing. He sat beside your bedroom window and looked out into the darkness. Following his gaze, you peered out to see what’s got him so riled up.

You saw a blurry dark figure laying on the ground on the far end of the street. The hairs on the back of your neck stood in alarm as you squinted to see clearly.

Were they unconscious? Or worse? Should you call the police?

Deciding the latter was the logical option, you got your phone and dialed 911 and waited for in your living room for a car alarm to be heard. You weren’t planning on standing in the dark out there alone.

Upon hearing cars in the distance, you pulled on a sweater and a hat, carried Bear in a little blanket and went out to the possible crime scene.

As you got closer, your heart rate picked up, Bear’s barking returned and you could sense something was horribly wrong. One of the officers saw you approaching and walked towards you.

“Do you live around here ma’am?” he asked looking at you warily.

“Yes, right down the street. I was the one that called you. My dog kept barking endlessly and I saw a figure on the ground. What happened?” you asked trying to peak behind him where the figure still laid, lifeless.

“I’m afraid it’s an animal attack. A brutal one. This woman was dead when we arrived. Her head was about ten feet away from her body.” He said matter-of-factly.

Your eyes went wide as he described the scene as if it were a routine weekday for him. You stepped around him, still in shock, to see who the woman was. To your horror, it was Jenny. Jenny who served you food at the grill on your very first day here; Jenny who was always so warm and kind towards you whenever you visited her.

She lay there on the cold ground, decapitated. Her mouth agape in shock, her eyes grey, lifeless, and what looked like scratch marks all over her severed neck and shoulder region. All this, and not an drop of blood was to be seen.

That was odd, to say the least. Judging by the intensity of the attack, there should’ve been a pool of blood right? Unless those freaky legends were all true. It couldn’t be, could it? Body drained completely of blood? What animal does that? Your detective alter ego was hard at work at this point.

“I can escort you home miss. We’ll do an inspection of the woods for any signs of animals. It’s not safe out here.” The officer broke you out of your mental investigation of the scene.

Agreeing, you let the officer walk you home, still in disbelief that you had just witnessed such a terrible yet odd scene. You were in shock.

Placing Bear down once you were inside, you walked in the kitchen, dazed, and got a glass of water. Bear following you closely, sat right at your feet as you leaned on the island counter, and looked up at you concerned.

“I forgive you for waking me up.”

…

You woke up that morning with a pounding headache and your hyper puppy dancing around the bed and licking your face.

Stepping under the shower, you recalled last night’s or rather, this morning’s events. The sight of Jenny’s lifeless body without a drop a spilled blood filled your mind with equal amounts of panic and curiosity. Mind immediately jumping to Bucky’s story from the other night.

Bucky! You could talk to him about the incident. You hadn’t spoken to him since the little make out session at his house. Sure not much time had passed, plus you had just witnessed a mysterious death.

Sam’s words echoed in your head at that moment. Creepy town.

After a heavy breakfast, you fed the dog and stepped out heading towards the library. The change in weather was quite evident as the leaves had started to fall and your breath was visible even during the day as well. You were sure you heard leaves crunch a few feet behind you but you didn’t stop to look, in fact you picked up your speed and jogged to the library.

“Ah (Y/N) my dear, how nice to see you again.” Frank’s kind voice came from his desk on your right as you entered the library.

“Good morning Frank. Did you hear about Jenny’s death?” you replied, immediately getting on the subject. You saw him get shifty-eyed for a little before a sympathetic smile donned his aging face.

“Ah yes. Terrible animal attack. You be careful when stepping out at night, my dear.” He replied hurriedly making you wonder if he’s memorized that response.

Not asking any further questions because he said he was busy looking at the logs, you made your way to the usual spot by the window and opened up a dusty copy of Dewsbury Legends & Myths.

You were lost in the book, not noticing a figure approach and sit right across from you, until he cleared his throat.

You looked up to find Loki peering at you intently with a slight smirk adorning his thin lips. As if a hunter would look at its prey who has absolutely no chance of escape.

“Hello love.” His smooth accented velvety voice enveloped your senses with intrigue and trepidation. He was leaning close, a bit too close for your liking. Your body automatically straightened back, going as far as away from the man without getting up.

“Loki. What brings you here?” keeping your tone polite yet unyielding you held his gaze.

“Oh you know me, Frank is a dear friend. And you are too.” He added with a full grin this time. Something about that grin sent a shiver down your spine. You wanted to get away from his presence, and yet you couldn’t get yourself to physically stand to leave; as if he had put you under a spell.

“How’s James? Haven’t seen him in a while. You two have gotten quite close it seems.” He interjected your train thoughts, his tone dripping with disdain.

You remained silent. Somehow you knew this wasn’t the end of his queries.

“Sad what happened with Jenny, you must’ve heard. Such a poor thing. Pathetic.” He said, gaze piercing at this point as if trying challenging you to speak the obvious at this point.

Your mouth went dry as your mind grasped the idea of what Loki had just implied. It was him. He did it. He killed her. He had bitten her, drained her body of blood.

Him.

Was he a-?

In flight-or-fight mode you scrambled to gather your things to get the hell away from him, of course he stopped you.

“Come on darling, it is only just getting interesting. I haven’t even told you the best part yet” His calm demeanor frightened you all the more.

“Since you’re so keen on knowing our town history, has James been telling you the real one or the one about Morwenna and Lucas?” Loki said sitting back on the armchair, knowing you wouldn’t run away now. Not until he spills the whole truth anyway.

Your voice came out feeble and shaky as you asked him what he meant by the real story.

“Has James ever mentioned of his deceased sister? My guess is he hasn’t. Well (Y/N), Evelyn was James’s sister who died tragically in the woods.”

“Evelyn was Lucas’s sister.” The words just blurted out without your approval.

“There is no Lucas darling. James made it up. He’s been telling that story for decades.”

Decades?

“You’re lying.”

“Perhaps you should ask him yourself. He should be here any minute, wanting to ‘protect’ you from me.” Loki sneered, leaning forward again. You swore you could see his eyes turn dark.

As if on cue, the library door swung open and Bucky came charging in towards you. Your body felt released from invisible chains as you scrambled to stand up and backed away from the two men.

“(Y/N) I’ve been calling you, why didn’t you pick up? What’s he doing here?” he looked concerned as he scanned you before staring daggers at Loki.

“Nice to see you James. I’ve just been updating our darling (Y/N) on real Dewsbury history.”

Before he could answer, you interjected,

“What happened to your sister?” your voice shaking with fear as you began plotting your escape from the small library. Would it really work? Probably not. Would you still try? Yes.

“Don’t believe a word he says doll, I was worried about you.” Bucky started stepping closer as you moved further away, not knowing who to trust.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Look, let me take you home, we can talk then.” He tried to reason with you as he saw fear in your eyes.

“That’s not an answer either.”

All the while Loki sat back in the armchair, observing the drama unfold. The one that began because of him.

“She died. In the woods.” Bucky finally said, head bowed.

You knew deep down Loki’s words were true, though Bucky’s admission shocked you nonetheless. It was true. The legends, the myths. And you needed to get away from them at once.

You made a run for it as you closely avoided Bucky who could’ve easily stopped you, but didn’t. As you reached the door, his hand interrupted your actions. You didn’t even hear his footsteps follow you.

“Please let me explain.” He pleaded.

“You stay the fuck away from me.” Yelling, you pushed his hand away and opened the door, bolting towards your house.

You kept glancing back as you ran, looking to see if either of them were following you, they didn’t.

“(Y/N) please, I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I was protecting you.”

Of course he was standing right behind you.

Angry tears blurred your vision as you turned to face him, “I think I told you to stay away from me. Leave me alone. Please.”

Bear’s barks filled your ears as you heard him scratching at the front door, to come to your aid. You turned and opened the door, immediately your dog began growling in Bucky’s direction without stepping out of the house. He could probably sense Bucky wasn’t a human.

“(Y/N).” he said as a last attempt to get you to listen.

You of course, slammed the door, locked it shut and sank to the floor, crying.

…

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ohmightydevviepuu · 5 years ago

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our little life (rounded with a sleep) / chapter 4

our little life (rounded with a sleep) chapter four

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful detective. She had blonde hair, green eyes, no family, and she was good at finding people; in fact, she proclaimed this on her office door. “Swan and Humbert,” it said. “Private investigations, missing persons, and bail bonds.”

Only lately, she’s been thinking that maybe it should say “Emma Swan: Loner, Loser, Complicated wreck.”

Her partner’s been killed on a case after she made a deal with her landlord to find what had been taken from him. But when she tracks a possible perp to a bar on the outskirts of town, Emma will find out exactly how deep the rabbit hole goes.

(a FULL rewrite of “the stuff that dreams are made of” completed as part of the 2020 Captain Swan Big Bang Rewrite-a-Thon)

–

always, always, always because of @thisonesatellite, @profdanglaisstuff and @katie-dub

thanks again to the amazing team at @captainswanbigbang and to the amazing, fun, clever, brilliant and supportive group of participants there who kept me going

–

CW: canonical character death (minor character) rating: T/M (mild implied violence, language) AO3

Jamie Hook insists Emma accompany him to meet Regina Mills. And then he tells her a story.

Neither of those things goes particularly well.

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three

I’m out on a case tonight, Emma texted Mary Margaret while she waited for Hook to catch her up. Enjoy having the place to yourself, she added before slipping the phone back into a pocket. The text was meant to give her something to do, provide some kind of quick break for her mind and her thoughts to settle, but Hook’s mere presence seemed to make that impossible. The man himself was impossible--impossibly beautiful, impossibly infuriating, impossibly insightful--and he was still, technically, at a minimum, a person of interest in an active homicide investigation even before Emma considered her own case.

Still. He said he hadn’t done it, and Emma believed him. She was attracted to him, too, like that was even news--undoubtedly Hook had admirers of all genders, between his dark good looks and his attitude and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Do me a favor, Swan, when we go in there,” he said seriously, and he was doing exactly that, looking intently at her, and his eyes were just so ridiculous and blue as he nodded toward the well-lit lobby of the Mills’ Organization office building. “Don’t believe I’m as crooked as I seem to be. I haven’t lived a good life, and I’ve done worse things than you can ever imagine. But if you can trust me, just a little--”

“Right,” Emma said. “The team thing again.”

“I think we can help each other, Swan. I’m not much for loyalty, but I’ll swear allegiance to whomever can help me. I was hoping it’d be you.”

“You want to kill him, don’t you?” Emma interrupted, because she had figured out at least that much in between the fairy-tale nonsense he’d spouted. Emma understood pissed, she understood revenge, she understood needing allies and most of all she understood two fucking years in Tallahassee and--

“You could have just asked me for the keys,” Neal had said, and smiled.

“Bye, Emma,” Henry had said, and smiled.

Hook was still staring at her. Deep breath.

“Gold took more than your hand from you,” she said, not asking. “He’s the one that killed her. That’s what this is all about for you.”

“You’re quite perceptive, Swan, for someone who’s never been in love,” he said.

Emma shrugged.

One second more of his eyes on her, Emma feeling like he could drill a hole into her head, and then his expression shifted all over again. “Alas, in this world, we are slaves to time, and it is getting quite late for a social call. Tick-tock, love, and put your hand right there, that’s a good girl.”

He led her not to the building but back to her car, talking over her protests. “Believe me, Swan, you don’t want to be on Regina’s radar yet any more than you already are. Give me but a moment to work my charms on the security guard before we set sail, yeah?” He held the car door open like a proper gentleman.

Emma looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Try something new, darling,” he said, his eyes pleading. “It’s called trust.”

Slowly, Emma nodded. “Get on with it, Hook,” she said, sitting down. “And don’t think for one second I’m taking my eyes off of you.”

“I would despair if you did,” Hook said with a wink, and walked in.

Emma pulled the car door closed and immediately regretted staying behind, though the view as Hook walked away was nothing to sneeze at. Her hand balled up into a fist as she banged it against the glass of the window; this was a bad idea.

She wasn’t sure if she meant the scheme--or Hook.

The look you get in your eyes when you’ve been left alone.

Emma sighed, giving one last bang on the glass, and wondered if she should just start the car and drive away.

“Be careful, Emma,” Hook said from the seat next to her, and Emma jumped. “You’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t want to talk to you about this,” Emma said, closing her eyes.

“You can’t always run just because you’re frightened,” Hook said. “Graham’s gone and you’re a part of something new and you’re already afraid.”

“Besides Graham, I don’t think I’ve ever been a part of anything,” she whispered.

“But you could be,” Hook said, reaching for a chain that hung around his neck and pulling it off, dangling a ring in the empty space between them. “Keep this,” he said. “You could do with a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?” Emma asked, but a loud knock on the window startled her awake.

“Forgotten me already?” Hook asked with a smirk. “Come, Swan, I’ve secured us an audience with Her Royal Highness, Regina Mills.”

Regina Mills’ office was a wide room, well-lit, with a wall of windows.

A shiver passed through Emma as Hook’s hand fell from the base of her spine, where it had been since they’d gotten on the elevator, a moment before they stepped through the door.

The decor was black and white and stark, tasteful and minimalistic, and the centerpoint was a desk facing away from the window wall. To access it, Hook and Emma had to walk down a sort of allee that showed off the inlay floor; on one side was a table that could seat six and on the other was a white couch facing a fireplace, with a statue of a horse anchoring the mantle. The wallpaper was a grim silhouette of a forest and a heavy chandelier dangled from the ceiling, the one point of color a large bowl overflowing with Red Delicious apples. Regina’s desk had no front piece--it balanced on a pair of elaborate sawhorses and gave anyone who cared to look a view of her legs, which were now on display as Regina was wearing a skirt with her jacket as opposed to the trousers Emma had seen earlier in the day. Like maybe the job of threatening Emma Swan had required a wardrobe change.

As for the woman herself, she was in a rage.

Emma was giving serious consideration to the idea that rage was Regina’s perpetual state; still, whatever Emma had seen of her that afternoon was nothing when taken against her reaction to the presence of Hook. And her, Emma. And her presence, there, in the company of Hook. Emma’s own outfit probably wasn’t helping matters, either--at least when it came to Regina, but Hook had more than once had his eyes trained, in a most ungentlemanly fashion, on her ass, and seemed to enjoy her outfit very much.

Yay.

Regina Mills was actually, by all appearances, several levels above rage and they were barely through the door. Even her eyes seemed to be on fire, alight with heat that was surely capable of melting steel. “Captain Hook,” she said silkily, her voice attempting to suppress all of the emotion already on display. “I’m positively delighted to see you again.”

Emma did not need to be either calm or focused to know that was a lie. The face was a dead giveaway.

“I was sure you would be,” Hook said, spreading his hands and inclining his head in a parody of a bow. The lack of affect in his voice was shocking--dry, sharp and uninterested; Emma suddenly missed the gentle touch that she had not invited at the small of her back as she was confronted with this stranger and his expressionless face. Even the liveliness of his eyebrows was missing, though Regina’s eyes still looked capable of shooting fire as her eyebrows went straight up into her hairline.

“The question is,” Regina said, “how you knew to find me at all.”

“It is rather, isn’t it?” Hook said, and nothing else, merely waiting for Regina to continue.

She was quiet for a moment and her gaze fell on Emma. “And the Swan girl,” she said dismissively. “Not the normal sort of company for a man like Captain Hook, even after all of this time.”

It was the name he’d given to the sleepy security guard--the name that had granted them entry--and it still startled Emma to hear it again. Was it somehow a real thing, and not just a joke? Had that been his rank in the Navy?

“Oh, Regina,” Hook sighed. “I thought you knew me better than that, after ‘all of this time’. You of all people should know I tend to favor brunettes.”

Gold had said much the same and Emma was enough of a detective to have deduced that the former--the late--Mrs. Gold must have had brown hair, only the comment clearly meant something else to Regina. Her eyes narrowed and Emma was, briefly, on her side--that was positively the worst excuse for making a pass Emma had ever seen, and she had once been picked up by the guy sleeping in the backseat of her stolen car.

Hook stood impassively; there was something charged in the air between them.

Understanding dawned on Regina’s face. “The maid,” she said flatly.

Hook nodded and gave another bow. “I do apologize,” he said, self-evidently not sorry at all. “I know you thought you were the only one who could charm Nurse Ratched and fly one out of the cuckoo’s nest. Given the circumstances, however, it seemed wise to acquire some leverage.” Hook’s face contorted into a leer as he said, “But then, you would know all about that--wouldn’t you?”

Regina’s expression, if it was possible, got even darker; Hook nodded, apparently satisfied.

“What are you doing here, Captain?”

“I’ve come to condole with you on the loss of your pet,” Hook said, and his sharp consonants were back, harsh and pointed now instead of playful and flirtatious, and Emma worked to hide her flinch.

“Was it you?”

“I’m flattered, Regina,” Hook said, holding up his left hand, “but we both know this is hardly capable of such a feat.”

“What happened to Graham Humbert?” Regina demanded. It was a command and Regina clearly expected to be obeyed.

Hook seemed equally determined to disappoint her, raising his eyebrows with a little smile. It was not a real smile, Emma noticed. It wasn’t even the fake smile he’d bestowed upon the co-eds at the bar.

It was a smile that had been twisted, made into something dark and cruel.

Hook stood silently until Regina’s hands balled up into fists on her desk. Then: “The Dark One,” he said simply.

“That’s not possible.” Regina’s hands relaxed and she trilled a laugh. “How much of your own bar’s rum have you been drinking, Hook?”

“Ah, yes,” Hook said in a lazy drawl. “The bar. Do allow me to thank you for that, Your Majesty. I so love a life spent in servitude to others. My ship in a bottle was a particularly pointed reminder that I did not understand what had agreed to when you offered me this...opportunity.”

Emma lost track somewhere around “Majesty”, but she did notice Regina’s lips curl very slightly upward--she was pleased with herself.

“But do consider, Majesty,” he pressed on, “whether you truly believe that you’ve kept the Dark One tame all of these years here in this realm, this Land Without Magic that was meant to keep him a prisoner. Do you truly believe that he has been here, all of this time, with no plans, no contingencies, and no means of acting upon them?” Regina’s expression shifted again, and Hook’s smile spread.

For a moment, no one moved or spoke, and then Regina repeated: “It’s not possible.”

Even Emma knew she said it in an attempt to convince herself.

“And yet,” Hook said, the words rolling off his tongue, “as you so wisely pointed out, I’ve managed to find you. I’ve taken steps.” He matched his actions to his words, pushing into Regina’s space, leaning over the desk and balancing his weight on the one hand.

“You think the maid is some kind of chess piece?” Regina scoffed.

“Do I look,” Hook said, “like I’m playing a game?”

“You’re still dedicated and resourceful, Hook,” Regina said grudgingly, “but Belle can’t help you kill Rumplestiltskin.”

“He’s Awake, Regina,” Hook countered. “And you’d have been stupid not to realize it the instant you saw what he did to Humbert.”

“Is that any way to address a queen?” Regina snapped, but Hook had obviously gotten to her. “Even a pirate should have better manners than that.”

“Oh,” Hook said, drawing out the syllable. “Perhaps I’m not crazy about your manners, either. Perhaps I’ve been grieving over them these past twenty-eight years, drinking rum behind my bar. You know what a persistent fellow I am, Regina. You know that twenty-eight years is barely a prologue for me. You of all people know what I am capable of, since you’ve seen fit to leave me with a daily reminder. But then--you’ve never been one for subtlety, have you?”

“Hook,” Regia said, her voice sharp with warning.

“Of course, Your Majesty, my manners,” Hook said. “I can see I’ve been remiss in not properly introducing--”

“Who is she?” Regina interrupted. “What is your purpose in bringing her here?”

“She is right here,” Emma said, glaring. “And she would love to know what the hell you two think is going on.” Because--’Dark One’? ‘Your Majesty’? ‘Captain’? Talking about Rumplestiltskin like that was an actual name for an actual person--this was so far down the rabbit hole that Emma was starting to wonder if a hookah-smoking caterpillar had dropped something into her rum.

Only--she hadn’t actually drank any of the rum, and she was making bad fairy tale puns in her head while Hook and Regina ignored her, as if she had served her purpose in this conversation, and she had been wrong because there was one thing Emma understood about all of this: leverage. She was part of Hook’s leverage, and as fury started to swirl up around here there was also the tiniest stab of disappointment and sadness, a faint wisp of not again.

“The child got away,” Hook said, and waited.

All trace of calm was gone from Regina and the rage had taken over. “Is this a joke, Captain? Something about Miss Swan’s ridiculous tattoo?”

Hook smirked again, the same cruel distortion of his lips, and shook his head. “I can’t count meself an expert, of course,” he said, “but I am a man of some considerable education and I’ve learned over the years of two things that are always true in a situation such as ours. Which one, Your Majesty, do you suppose is relevant here?”

That really got to her, Emma saw. Her entire body froze, her eyes widened and then shut completely for a minute until Regina visibly forced herself to open them again, and to face her interlocutor and his sickening, shit-eating grin.

“All curses can be broken,” Regina practically spat the words out at them.

And now, Emma thought, curses. Un-fucking-believable.

Regina and Hook, though, obviously both believed.

In curses.

“And yours, Regina, is weakening,” Hook said, pulling back from the desk and resuming his earlier stance, the fingers of his right hand wrapped around his belt. “Which brings us back to the subject of Humbert. Did you know he was hired and sent after me? Any guesses by whom?”

“No,” Regina said, her perfectly-painted lips pressed into a thin line.

“It would appear,” Hook continued, “that the Dark One has noticed that whatever you’ve taken has gone missing. ‘Tis a curious thing, no? For a man who, like me, should have no memory?” He paused. “Somehow, Regina, I don’t see that ending well for you.”

“Get. Out.” Regina gestured at the door with such force that Emma half-expected it to fly open by the force of her will alone. “Now. Both of you.”

“Willingly,” Hook intoned, accompanying it with another mocking bow. “Come, Swan, we’re done here.”

And they left.

Emma wanted to stalk off in a huff but her present footwear made that impossible. Not to mention, Hook was definitely staring at her ass again, and there was no point in prolonging his opportunity. She squared her shoulders, hands on her hips, legs slightly apart. Her best glare was on her face and she was back in do not fuck with me mode as Hook already had his arms up in a placating sort of gesture that Emma was absolutely, positively not in the mood for.

“Give me one good reason,” Emma said, “not to punch you in the face.” It ended up coming out as more of a snarl than a request but Emma was okay with that as long as it got her point across.

Hook easily caught the hand she hadn’t even consciously swung at him and gripped her wrist gently. “Considering I just did you a favor,” he said, his thumb rubbing absently across her skin, “that would be very bad form.” Hook didn’t go of her wrist; in fact, he tightened his grip and turned it so that it was facing up and the sleeve of her jacket had slipped up her arm until the flash of ink on skin was visible. “Now,” he said, “what is all of this palaver about a tattoo?”

Emma pulled her wrist back as if she had been stung, her hands going straight to her pockets. Her anger and frustration swirled around her, pulling her grief back to the surface. “No,” Emma said. “You do not get to screw with me right now. My partner is dead and whatever game you are playing has nothing to do with me. We are not a team and I am not helping you and you are going to tell me what the fuck just happened back there.”

“Regina’s been spooked, love,” he said. “She’ll look to protect whatever it was she took, which means that you shall be able to retrieve it on behalf of your...client.” He said the word as if it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Emma glared at him some more, this time because he was right. It was an old bail bonds trick for smoking out a perp--a classic, really, and Emma should have thought of it for herself.

“You seem very sure of that,” Emma said. “In fact, you seem to know her pretty well. What happened between the two of you back there?”

“Nothing,” Hook said smoothly. “I’ve told you, Swan, I did some work for the family once, long ago.”

“How do I know that you don’t have whatever it is Gold is looking for? How do I know you didn’t steal from him?”

“Oh, I’ve stolen from him,” Hook said easily, then raised his eyebrows at her expression. “Not my Milah, Swan--she left him and he killed her for it, and it would be my preference not to speak of her further.”

Milah. “Just like my Milah, when the crocodile took her from me.”

Emma shook her head. “So what did you steal?”

“Nothing I’ve any intention of giving back,” Hook said with some finality. “And, as pertains to your particular mission, nothing he knows is missing.”

Belle. “Belle can’t help you kill Rumplestiltskin.”

“Belle,” Emma said. “The maid.”

“Impressive,” he said. “But know this, Swan: I do not traffic in unwilling women.”

“So Captain Hook is a pirate after all, then?”

The look you get when you’ve been left alone, he’d said, only he’d had it too, and Emma had got the sense that under all of that innuendo, there was someone just trying to keep the world enough at bay to slay his own demons. She’d thought that, against all odds, she was beginning to get a handle on him. They’d shared something, some moment of understanding, in spite of his delusions and his revenge fantasies; Emma had seen it in the way that he had looked at his brother.

In the way he’d looked at her.

Then she had stood in a room with him, watching him face off against Regina, and it was like she was seeing an entirely different person--and the worst part was, she was pretty sure none of what he said had been a lie.

Cruses and Queens and Rumple-fucking-stiltskin in a “Land Without Magic” and he seemed to think all of that was true.

“What aren’t you telling me about you and ‘Her Majesty’, Captain?”

“Nothing,” Hook insisted. “That’s my tale and I’m sticking to it.”

“Not good enough,” Emma snapped. “I want answers, Hook. Real ones.”

“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” Hook said, and suddenly she was back with the man she’d met in the bar and he was watching her like she was the only thing he ever wanted to look at.

Emma shifted her head, turning away from his gaze, and crossed her arms, feeling the leather there--battle mode, activated. She couldn’t stomp her foot--the shoes again--but she took a step back. It was deja-vu; they had already done this dance tonight, and she was no closer to knowing who’d killed Graham even if he was right about retrieving Gold’s property from Regina Mills.

“Who are you, really?”

“James Hook,” he said. “That’s my name. That’s been my name as long as I’ve been in this world, I swear to you.”

“James Hook,” Emma said, “is a character from a story book. So is Rumplestiltskin. Curses are not real, and there is no way that you have known Regina Mills for twenty-eight years unless you worked for her family when you were seven years old, and that is definitely too young to have enlisted in the Royal Navy even if you came by way of Neverland.”

Hook was quiet, and he hesitated before speaking. “I spent many years in Neverland,” he said.

“Did you get there through a rabbit hole?” Emma retorted, her temper flaring. “On your way to Wonderland?”

“Travel between realms does require a portal,” Hook said, still serious, then: “I’m going to tell you a story, Swan.”

Something about the soft, serious tone of his voice kept her still, waiting for whatever he might say next.

“Once upon a time, there was an enchanted forest, and its denizens included all of the fairy tale characters you think you know, until they found themselves in a place where all of their happy endings had been stolen.” He paused and said, “This world, Swan. The Land Without Magic. Time stopped, and everyone was trapped, and that was Regina’s victory; but magic always comes with a price--and all curses can be broken.”

All curses can be broken.

“You can’t be serious,” Emma said.

“It was prophesied that the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, the product of True Love, would, on her twenty-eighth birthday--”

“No,” Emma interrupted. “Stop talking. And definitely stop pretending you know anything about me or my life with your open-book garbage.”

“Alas, love,” he said, and he sounded resigned. “I know you better than you know yourself--I know who you are and where you came from. I know what became of your parents and why you grew up alone. Your parents’ entire kingdom was cursed. They sent you here to break it. And all of it is because of Regina Mills and Robert Gold.”

“My parents?” Emma wanted to laugh, but the noise she made didn’t come close to that. “Their kingdom? A curse? Do you know what you sound like?”

Emma would later blame the sheer ridiculousness of the situation for why she didn’t notice the flashing lights headed in their direction.

“The tattoo is proof,” he said. “A buttercup. It was part of your father’s heraldry.”

“You’re telling me fairy tales,” Emma said.

“They’re not fairy tales,” Hook insisted. “They’re true. Every story you’ve read, some version of it has actually happened. You, Swan, have been here more than a year but it was on your birthday that something happened, am I correct? Your twenty-eighth birthday?”

The lights were closer, now, and they were attached to a sheriff’s cruiser.

“You kissed the Hunter, Swan,” he continued relentlessly, “and despite your protestations you must have felt something for him, some connection, or it would not have allowed the curse to weaken its hold on him.”

David Nolan was at the wheel, and he was pulling up alongside them. He put the car in park, lights still flashing, and opened his door. He called her name but made straight for Hook.

“James Hook?”

Hook nodded, wary, his eyes moving straight toward Emma. Emma just held up her hands, a mirror of his earlier gesture. Not me, she mouthed.

“There’s been a complaint of harassment made against you,” Nolan said. “And you’re needed for questioning in the matter of Graham Humbert’s death.” David had gotten Hook’s hands behind his back, pulling out the cuffs.

“I’m devastated, love,” Hook said, and his voice was deadly calm as the first bracelet clinked. “Didn’t you even want to do the honors?” His eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, were like chips of ice as he stared at her.

“Call me ‘love’ one more time,” Emma said, “and you will lose the other hand.”

“Emma,” Hook said, and there was a note of pleading in his voice. “Did I tell you a lie?”

She ignored him, ignored David calling her name again and got back into her car, starting it and shifting and pulling away before Hook was fully situated in the backseat of the cruiser. She was going to move the car, park it again, and stake out Regina.

She was not going to spend the night thinking about James Hook and Graham Humbert and what Graham could possibly have gotten into with him. She was not going to think about Hook’s delusions and Graham’s death. She was not going to think about Neal or the look in Hook’s eyes when he had spoken to her and how, against all of her better instincts, Emma might actually have believed him.

Just because you believe something does not make it real, Emma reminded herself as she watched the cruiser drive away. She couldn’t take the chance that she was wrong about him--more importantly, she would not take the chance that she was right. Look out for yourself and you never get hurt , Emma reminded herself, and then did what she was best at: she ran.

@shireness-says @carpedzem @mariakov81 @kmomof4 @stahlop @snowbellewells @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @nikkiemms @searchingwardrobes @scientificapricot

guys, i have no idea about tags. i have no idea if they are working, or not working, or if people want them. if you like them, thank you for reading! if you don’t, apologies for spam--just LMK 🤣

#csrt #our little life (rounded with a sleep)#cs rewrite a thon #cs fic #captain swan rewrite a thon #canon divergenc #s1 divergence #cursed!killian #an alternate theory of the curse

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authorgirl1111 · 4 years ago

Text

A/N Couple of things.

1. Spike has a soul. If I do continue details of how he got it and why will be revealed.

2. I know Spike doesn't show up until School Hard. But for reasons, this story starts 1 week before school starts. Before 2x01.

Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy the Vampire Slayer and affiliated works.

***

Welcome to Sunnydale (Home Sweet Home)

Oops, Aisling thought when she drove over the ‘Welcome to Sunnydale’ sign. Beside her her bleach blond adoptive father chuckled softly. Instead of staying to survey the damage done to the sign, she made a turn and drove down until she found the street she needed.

To be honest, the absolute last place she wanted to be was in another town that had a Hellmouth, (Cleveland had been a mess and a half) but this Hellmouth also had The Slayer, and if she had to choose between a Hellmouth with the slayer and one without- well it wasn’t exactly a hard decision. Though if it hadn’t been for the fact that a Hellmouth could supposedly help her father heal, she wouldn’t have even entertained the notion.

She stopped at the building she had been searching for, an apartment building a few blocks away from the school. For a moment she stayed still her hands clasping the steering wheel.

Then a pale cool hand reached out and held hers.

She turned to face the man, bleached blonde hair and blue eyes and covered neck to feet in black. She took a deep breath at his concern. "We're here." She said, he voice held a light irish accent, undoing her seatbelt.

Her father shook his head. “Wait here.” He said.

She wanted to argue and leave with him but he levelled her with a stare that had her backing down. When he was sure that she was going to do as he said he undid his seatbelt, opened the car door and left leaving him behind.

She locked the door behind him and waited. The moment her father had left she let out a breath she hadn’t realized that she had been holding since they left Prague.

She should never have suggested going to Prague. France would have been better, or Rome, or Ireland (where she had chosen to go every other year), literally any other place but Prague.

Every summer they travelled for summer vacation. Every year they switched on who got to decide where they vacationed. Her dad had been reminiscing about Prague and Aisling had figured that it would be nice to see, so that’s what she had suggested.

Aisling shook her head Idiot.

She leaned her head against the steering wheel. She would have given anything to take back that summer, to suggest any other place.

Someone knocked on the door and she turned to see Spike waving at her to come out. She took another deep breath and unlocked the door and stepped out of the cool September air. Together they walked to the back of the car and opened the truck.

Aisling reached out and pulled out two suitcases while Spike pulled out another. Aisling sighed as she watched him struggle.

“I can make multiple trips, it’s fine.”

Her dad stared at her before ruffling her hair and kissing her forehead and instead reached into the backseat and pulled out a backpack. Aisling rolled her eyes, the backpack contained most of his food.

“Want you to eat when we get inside,” Aisling said. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Bit”

“So you say,” Aisling said then she switched tactics. “Still… I don’t want that to expire, so please. Eat.”

Dad sighed. “Point.”

Aisling smiled at the win, then it slipped when she looked at the suitcase her father had been unable to lift before she turned and walked with her Dad toward the landlord.

The landlord was not human, though the exact species of the demon was completely lost on her. He smiled down at her and she smiled back, but she could tell that both her father and the landlord could tell that she was forcing it.

“She’s tired.” Dad covered. “Bit’s been up since dawn.”

The landlord wisely did not mention that Aisling was carrying more than her father was. He walked them over to the main entrance and walked them through the passcode needed to enter. Then with a glance at the young human girl he explained that if they were bringing human company, there was a second code they had to enter, that worked as a kind of warning system so the demons living there could hide out of sight.

“Course, the girl here doesn’t count, since she’s living here. I take it she’s used to demons?”

“She is,” Aisling said tired of the landlord talking to her father like she wasn’t capable of understanding speech. “Living with a vampire will do that.”

“Have to say, I’ve seen a fair number of humans and demons living here together, but a human and a vampire living together is new.”

Dad wrapped an arm around Aisling. “She’s my daughter, found her when she was just a wee young thing.”

“I was 7.” Aisling cut in. “He found me when I was 7.”

“And how old are you now?” Landlord asked finally turning his attention to her.

“Turned sixteen this June.”

Landlord whistled. “Almost a lady.”

She wanted to gag at the almost patronizing tone the Landlord adopted. Her father must have sensed her ire because he quickly changed the subject.

“Will the other tenants mind?” Her father asked referring to Aisling bringing friends over.

The Landlord shook his head. “Nah, a good number of demons have kids that are human or human passing, and they like bringing human friends over. We just ask that you and your... daughter give us a heads up.”

Aisling nodded, though she had no interest in bringing friends over. “Thank you.” She said anyway.

The Landlord walked the two of them to the elevator, pressed the button and it led them up to the fifth floor.

“Have to say, Spike, when vampires do rent an apartment here, they tend to take the basement; fewer chances of sun exposure. Yet you specifically asked for an apartment with east-facing windows." The Landlord said as he led them through the building.

Aisling's father, Spike, shrugged. “Aisling likes watching the sunrise.”

“I also like not having my dad burst into flames,” Aisling said.

Her dad rolled his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Aisling said rolling her eyes. “You always say that.”

Dad smiled. “And It’s always true.”

Not always. Not that Aisling was going to out her father’s injuries to a stranger.

“Here’s your room.” The Landlord said as he unlocked the door. “Rents due at the beginning of every month, though if you need more time we can work something out.”

“Thank you,” Spike said, Aisling nodded along.

The Landlord handed Spike the key before leaving. He closed the door with a soft click.

Fortunately, the apartment already had furniture. So they didn’t have to worry about sleeping on the floor, especially considering they had sold their last house and everything in it to afford to come there.

Aisling placed her bags on the floor and turned to stare at her father, who looked ready to keel over.

Aisling hurried forward and steadied him before leading him to the couch and gently pushed him onto it; then she removed his coat before she did so. Gently she took the backpack from him pulled out a thermos, opened it and handed it to him.

The smell of blood nearly undid him- even if it was two days old and nearly expired-, Aisling could tell he was holding himself together just enough that he wouldn’t vamp out as he guzzled down the thermos of blood.

Once he was done he put the thermos down, his mouth now blood red. He licked his lips and stared down at her.

“You don’t have to hide when you feed,” Aisling said. “I’ve seen you vamp out before, I’m not scared.”

“It’s not you Bit,” Spike said. “You know I have less control when I vamp out.”

She did, she also knew that Spike had the best control out of any vampire she knew. “Are you still hungry?”

Spike hesitated and Aisling pulled out another thermos and handed it to him. “Drink, I’m gonna go get the rest of the stuff.”

“Ash-“

“It’ll be fine,” Aisling said with a smile as she rummaged through the pockets of Spike’s leather duster to find the keys. “Have a little faith in me, will ya?” she said clasping the keys in her hand and hurrying out of the room before Spike could argue.

***

For as much as Aisling tried to hide, Spike always knew when she was scared, or worried, or in pain. Her heartbeat tended to always give her away, and if not her heartbeat then he tended to be able to smell the fear, or pain that would radiate off her in waves.

The last time Aisling had been near a Hellmouth had been when she was 12, they’d stayed there for six months before they’d packed up and left.

At least this one had The Slayer which would mean that there was some level of protection. It was the only reason he’d agreed to come to Sunnydale in the first place, and even then he’d raised concerns, but Aisling had been adamant, arguing that Spike’s job depended on him being in top physical health.

When Spike had still declined arguing that they would find another way to make money, that it wasn't the first time that they had landed on hard times. Aisling had brought up Her. Arguing that now that he was weak, she would likely know and would be heading straight for them. At least if they left for Sunnydale, they had the added protection of the Slayer, and with any luck it would detour Her, from making her way over.

He hated it. Hated that even after 8 years She was still a threat.

Spike was not the type to run. Every time She had come he'd been able to get her out of town, but now that he was weakened he had been forced to leave Los Vegas and come to the HellMouth in the hopes that the Slayer was somewhat competent (Though the fact that she'd survived the Master and Lothos suggested that she was), and able to deal with a vampire's whose mental abilities was on par with Lothos.

It helped to know that he had personally seen to Aisling's training, that he had taught her every conceivable way to kill vampires and demons. Trained her in techniques that would hopefully protect her from mental attacks. Training that saved her life multiple times, that saved his own life in Prague.

It also helped that the Master was dead, and the leader of the Order of Aurelius was some child fledge that had only been a vampire for a few months.

It helped that they were living close to the active Slayer. For however long that Slayer had left she would at least make sure that as many vampires and demons as possible died and stayed dead.

Still living so close to a Hell Mouth, while making him stronger, was very dangerous to the young human girl living with him, and he didn’t know if the Hellmouth would ever truly revive him to full strength.

He heard the sound of someone turning the doorknob and turned his head just as Aisling walked through carrying two more suitcases.

“Before you head back out.” Spike started stalling her. “Choose a room?”

Aisling paused and stepped forward and headed to the first door that was right beside the living room. She opened the door and looked inside it. It was small but not cramped there was still a bed from the previous owners, though it was completely stripped of sheets. A small dresser and a closet off to the right.

The east wall had a large window that gave her a perfect view of the town Skyline and would allow her to see the sun as it rose.

Despite its very deadly effect on her father, she always found the sight of the dawn to be beautiful. With a sigh, she turned and walked down the mini hallway and opened the second door and entered what was so obviously the master bedroom. Around twice the size of the other room with a walk-in closet, that Aisling was tempted to suggest to Spike that he convert it into his bedroom, so he didn’t risk waking up every morning burning to death. Oddly enough the window here was a lot smaller and had blinds already up.

“I’ll take the other one,” Aisling said.

“Are you sure?” Spike asked.

Aisling smiled. “I don’t need a lot of room.” She said.

“Neither do I Ash.”

Aisling shrugged. “The other room has bigger windows,” Ash said. “You're less likely to fry here. Also, the walk-in closet could be better for you… if you want to convert it into a smaller bedroom so your even less likely to fry during the day.”

“Ha, bloody ha,” Spike said dryly.

Ash rolled her eyes. “There are a few extra bags in the car, I’m going to go get them.” She said turning to walk away.

“Aisling.” Aisling paused and turned around.

Spike hugged her. “I love you alright? Please don’t ever forget that.”

Aisling smiled a little to herself. “Never have.”

Aisling sat down on the floor after she had brought in the last of the luggage. Her arms hurting Spike poked his head out of the room that Aisling had claimed as her own and knelt by her side. “Time for bed little one.” He said a hand on her shoulder. “You can finish unpacking tomorrow.”

Aisling stared at him for a long moment. “Can I just sleep here?” She asked. “ ‘m too tired to move.”

“Aisling.”

“Worth a shot.” Aisling yawned before she stood. “Don’t forget to put the curtains up before daybreak, I so do not want to wake up with a pile of ash as my father.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “I won’t.”

“Good,” Aisling said before she stood up and walked to her room. “Night, Dad.” She said before she closed the door.

Once she closed the door she sighed and rummaged through her suitcase to find a white lacy short-sleeved nightgown. Slowly she peeled off her day clothes and slipped her nightgown over her head.

She sat on the bed, that Spike had made up for her, for a moment just taking in her new room and sighed. “Home Sweet Home.” She said softly before she lay down and pulled the covers up to her chin.

Within moments she was asleep.

Outside the door, Spike looked around his apartment and sighed. “Home sweet home” He echoed.

***

A/N if you want more please review. Knowing that people like it gives me one more reason to update.

#buffy the vampire slayer #Spike #Original Character #Vampire and his human child

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violetsystems · 3 years ago

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#personal

I still haven't gotten my passport back yet. Old or new. I'm sure it's on the way but taking its sweet time. It hasn't been that big of a deal though it's a heavy inconvenience not being able to legally identify yourself. I have an expired driver's license and a lot of paperwork but that's not really good enough for most of Illinois. Work or leisure. I don't drink and don't really frequent bars anymore. I work for myself though I haven't paid myself yet this year. You have to have valid ID to be gainfully employed by someone else here. If I didn't have my life together already it would be more than annoying. I have health insurance still under a subsidy. I had my teeth cleaned earlier this week. No cavities. Mostly due to the electric toothbrush. I bought a waterpik right after. I've been so bored that I've started attacking problems I wanted to solve years ago. There's still drawers full of crap that needs to be thrown out. Lifetimes of shit do pile up if you are focused on other things like a dead end job or selfish personal relationships. I don't have either of those these days. So there really isn't any excuse for dirty drawers. I'm not planning to shit myself anytime soon to revisit the past. Which leaves the present and the future wide open. Much of that is dictated by my love of computers. I figured out how to mine finally. The open source way. I spent a lot of time in a terminal trying to apply the right definitions to scan my phone for the Pegasus spyware. I do think the results were negative so I'd rather not dwell on the past. Being a technological professional I have definitely spent a lot on electricity. That same idea of dirty drawers applies. You turn things on believing that they are ecologically friendly. It says so on the package. You don't dig enough to gather factual data to know it for sure. You get distracted by real life. Headlines. Drama. Nosy neighbors. The list goes on. And all the while, it just keeps bleeding out. I bought these smart plugs. Half of them monitor energy. The other half I didn't read the description close enough when I bought them. The ones that do measure electrical usage, I've set up in high power rooms. Both those and the low power rooms I can kill switch from my phone or whisper to my smart assistant to power off. I pay the electricity for the unit below me as well but that's more the agreement I have with my landlord. The biggest expense for me is always the AC and the heat. The appliances and everything else are just the icing on the cake. My rent has been affordable enough that with a little care and attention I can stay on budget. I never had that freedom or time to feel motivated enough to try. Now I know my razer laptop draws less than my rice cooker. Not that I'm the twelve hour rice in the rice cooker kind of guy. I have cooked chicken in it. What can I say I've had a lot of time on my hands. This happens when you can't identify yourself.

Sometimes you don't want to be identified. My past is so far behind me that it's a broken narrative. I've written about this narrative for years on this platform. I think it's a great place to write. This morning I saw a Tor books ad that looked like a regular blog post. Soon you'll be able to charge a subscription for your content if you wish. I'm not really here for that but I do think it's a great tool for creators. Bandcamp is still the easiest way for me to release music and shirts when I'm super fucking bored. But somehow five or six people always seem to support it when I do. I sold a shirt all the way out on the Ukraine once out of nowhere. I personally find it easier to mine and watch my electric bill right now then to fight to be seen as an artist. But situations do evolve over time under the right circumstances. And community is something I have never complained about Tumblr not having. Real life? Yes I have a lot of room to complain about the lack of community or respect for individual rights and will. But control over things is something I do have. And I've learned how to do that through setting boundaries for myself. I've learned a lot of those boundaries from being part of the culture down here. Unassuming. Anonymous. Hellbent on keeping it real. Chicago can sometimes be the same. It hasn't always been in the past. The fact that I'm completely disconnected from it is a large clue. The past. Not Chicago. I live here. Just like I do on Tumblr. That's a joke. But being able to write and stand my ground has given me a voice here and sometimes in the real world. Sometimes the wrong people listen. Or people get the wrong idea and make it more about them than me. But life goes on. If anything is true from what I wrote about a year ago, it's that I've both changed and stayed the same. There's things I can't escape about myself. Even if I can't prove to the state of Illinois I'm real enough to buy legal weed. Or how I've been fully vaccinated since April. Or how I can just leisurely set up a mining rig for research in my home office. How I can write here and challenge the status quo just by being the exception. Tumblr probably isn't going anywhere, anytime soon. I can't unlock any of my other social media from the past due to unfortunate circumstances related to identity and email. Not that I'm really complaining anymore. I was. As invisible as I am it feels more like a cloaking device than anything. Chicago in the news can be very dangerous and very wild. And yet, if anyone knows anything about me, I walk everywhere. Slow enough for people to follow you for blocks on end. Wanting to be seen. Worried about my safety. Worried about their safety because I left the house for once. Worried about everything. I'm not really that worried. Annoyed? Beyond annoyed. But as angry as I get, negativity does nothing for me to foster. It makes me look like every other secretly insecure white man here and just makes the turbulence around here worse.

If you have time enough to measure the difference in wattage between your rice cooker and your 6700xt gpu on full blast, you probably have time to pay attention to nuance. I pick up on the little things these days. I get that I share a porch with my neighbors and a cat. I get that I share a neighborhood too. I get that as a cis heterosexual white male I operate with privilege. It's not that hard to understand how to humble yourself in the presence of others. It's not hard to see how people have fought for rights harder than yourself. We're all fighting for the same thing. Freedom. I am understanding where I control the narrative and where I'm a guest. Where I don't have a say over other people's bodies, souls, or thoughts. I'm just as frightened by abuses or power and authority and yet they come as no surprise. I deleted everything Blizzard on my systems and am never looking back. I walk anywhere I choose freely with only a few annoyances. Jesus freaks and right wing antagonists are always up in my face trying to get a rise out of me. People think I'm a demon or haunted by some pirate ghosts. I have pretty good intuition and timing. I was a dj for like two decades. Beatmatching and pattern recognition. I get that I scare people and intimidate them just by breathing. Men are scary. Even to me. "Not all men!" Part of the reason people keep their distance from me is something I have to understand. I think we all have to understand who we are and what we can become when we live without care or intention. A lot of people just sleepwalk through this and blame the victims. They feel it's a weakness to share power. Sharing power is what cultivates freedom. But sharing power is almost pure chaos. It takes a lot of responsibility. And a lot of questioning of authority while asking the right questions and not just pinning a tail on a donkey. It's in the nuances and the people where freedom blossoms. Not in the polls or the pundits. We the people signifies something about America we ourselves have lost sight of. People buy their way into office at the behest of corporate and special interest money. The people are out there suffering while the profits guide the government. And it's really only the people who can turn this thing around. Here in Chicago, we know with our heart of hearts what to do. We have done it for so long. We survive together. We may not always like each other. We may feel like people are breathing down our necks and judging our every turn. But we always know where each other stands. We can stand to treat each other better. At least respecting that people have walls built up for protection more often than to hide something criminal. At least give people the space they need to grow. I have a lot of space to mine and play games. If I stay inside, it's so I don't rock the boat. If I go outside, just remember I have feelings too. We all could do better not to get caught up in them because we're overwhelmed by the bullshit. The bullshit we're in together. Respect is what is going to get us through. And I identify as down for the culture. As an ally you have my word. Love is the future. And the future is for everyone. <3 Tim

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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'It's the mist! Can't you hear it sizzling?' 'A sizzling mist, is it?' The landlord looked at the wall, which was quite empty and unmysterious except for a few cobwebs. The urgency in Mort's voice unsettled him. He would have preferred the normal scaly monsters. A man knew where he stood with them. 'It's coming right across the room! Can't you feel it?' The customers looked at one another. Mort was making them uneasy. One or two of them admitted later that they did feel something, rather like an icy tingle, but it could have been indigestion. Mort backed away, and then gripped the bar. He shivered for a moment. 'Look,' said the landlord, 'a joke's a joke, but —' 'You had a green shirt on before!' The landlord looked down. There was an edge of terror in his voice. 'Before what?' he quavered. To his astonishment, and before his hand could complete its surreptitious journey towards the blackthorn stick, Mort lunged across the bar and grabbed him by the apron. 'You've got a green shirt, haven't you?' he said. 'I saw it, it had little yellow buttons!' 'Well, yes. I've got two shirts.' The landlord tried to draw himself up a little. 'I'm a man of means,' he added. 'I just didn't wear it today.' He didn't want to know how Mort knew about the buttons. Mort let him go and spun round. 'They're all sitting in different places! Where's the man who was sitting by the fire? It's all changed!' He ran out through the door and there was a muffled cry from outside. He dashed back, wild-eyed, and confronted the horrified crowd. 'Who changed the sign? Someone changed the sign!' The landlord nervously ran his tongue across his lips. 'After the old king died, you mean?' he said. Mort's look chilled him, the boy's eyes were two black pools of terror. 'It's the name I mean!' 'We've – it's always been the same name,' said the man, looking desperately at his customers for support. 'Isn't that so, lads? The Duke's Head.' There was a murmured chorus of agreement. Mort stared at everyone, visibly shaking. Then he turned and ran outside again. The listeners heard hoof beats in the yard, which grew fainter and then disappeared entirely, just as though a horse had left the face of the earth. There was no sound inside the inn. Men tried to avoid one another's gaze. No-one wanted to be the first to admit to seeing what he thought he had just seen. So it was left to the landlord to walk unsteadily across the room and reach out and run his fingers across the familiar, reassuring wooden surface of the door. It was solid, unbroken, everything a door should be. Everyone had seen Mort run through it three times. He just hadn't opened it. Binky fought for height, rising nearly vertically with his hooves thrashing the air and his breath curling away behind him like a vapour trail. Mort hung on with knees and hands and mostly with willpower, his face buried in the horse's mane. He didn't look down until the air around him was freezing and thin as workhouse gravy. Overhead the Hub Lights flickered silently across the winter sky. Below — — an upturned saucer, miles across, silvery in the starlight. He could see lights through it. Clouds were drifting through it. No. He watched carefully. Clouds were certainly drifting into it, and there were clouds in it, but the clouds inside were wispier and moving in a slightly different direction and, in fact, didn't seem to have much to do with the clouds outside. There was something else . . . oh yes, the Hub Lights. They gave the night outside the ghostly hemisphere a faint green tint, but there was no sign of it under the dome. It was like looking into a piece of another world, almost identical, that had been grafted on to the Disc. The weather was slightly different in there, and the Lights weren't on display tonight. And the Disc was resenting it, and surrounding it, and pushing it back into non-existence. Mort couldn't see it growing smaller from up here, but in his mind's ear he could hear the locust sizzle of the thing as it ground across the land, changing things back to where they should be. Reality was healing itself. Mort knew, without even having to think about it, who was at the centre of the dome. It was obvious even from here that it was centred firmly on Sto Lat. He tried not to think what would happen when the dome had shrunk to the size of the room, and then the size of a person, and then the size of an egg. He failed. Logic would have told Mort that here was his salvation. In a day or two the problem would solve itself; the books in the library would be right again; the world would have sprung back into shape like an elastic bandage. Logic would have told him that interfering with the process a second time around would only make things worse. Logic would have said all that, if only Logic hadn't taken the night off too. Light travels quite slowly on the Disc, due to the braking effect of the huge magical field, and currently that part of the Rim carrying the island of Krull was directly under the little sun's orbit and it was, therefore, still early evening. It was also quite warm, since the Rim picks up more heat and enjoys a gentle maritime climate. In fact Krull, with a large part of what for want of a better word must be called its coastline sticking out over the Edge, was a fortunate island. The only native Krullians who did not appreciate this were those who didn't look where they were going or who walked in their sleep and, because of natural selection, there weren't very many of them any more. All societies have their share of dropouts, but on Krull they never had a chance to drop back in again. Terpsic Mims was not a dropout. He was an angler. There is a difference; angling is more expensive. But Terpsic was happy. He was watching a feather on a cork bob gently on the gentle, reed-lined waters of the Hakrull river and his mind was very nearly a blank. The only thing that could have disturbed his mood was actually catching a fish, because catching fish was the one thing about angling that he really dreaded. They were cold and slimy and panicky and got on his nerves, and Terpsic's nerves weren't very good. So long as he caught nothing Terpsic Mims was one of the Disc's happiest anglers, because the Hakrull river was five miles from his home and therefore five miles from Mrs Gwladys Mims, with whom he had enjoyed six happy months of married life. That had been some twenty years previously. Terpsic did not pay undue heed when another angler took up station further along the bank. Of course, some fishermen might have objected to this breach of etiquette, but in Terpsic's book anything that reduced his chance of actually catching any of the damned things was all right by him. Out of the corner of his eye he noted that the newcomer was fly-fishing, an interesting pastime which Terpsic had rejected because one spent altogether far too much time at home making the equipment. He had never seen fly-fishing like this before. There were wet flies, and there were dry flies, but this fly augured into the water with a saw-toothed whine and dragged the fish out backwards. Terpsic watched in horrified fascination as the indistinct figure behind the willow trees cast and cast again. The water boiled as the river's entire piscine population fought to get out of the way of the buzzing terror and, unfortunately, a large and maddened pike took Terpsic's hook out of sheer confusion. One moment he was standing on the bank, and the next he was in a green, clanging gloom, bubbling his breath away and watching his life flash before his eyes and, even in the moment of drowning, dreading the thought of watching the bit between the day of his wedding and the present. It occurred to him that Gwladys would soon be a widow, which cheered him up a little bit. In fact Terpsic had always tried to look on the bright side, and it struck him, as he sank gratefully into the silt, that from this point on his whole life could only improve. . . . And a hand grabbed his hair and dragged him to the surface, which was suddenly full of pain. Ghastly blue and black blotches swam in front of his eyes. His lungs were on fire. His throat was a pipe of agony. Hands – cold hands, freezing hands, hands that felt like a glove full of dice – towed him through the water and threw him down on to the bank where, after some game attempts to get on with drowning, he was eventually bullied back into what passed for his life. Terpsic didn't often get angry, because Gwladys didn't hold with it. But he felt cheated. He'd been born without being consulted, he'd been married because Gwladys and her father had seen to it, and the only major human achievement that was uniquely his had been rudely snatched away from him. A few seconds ago it had all been so simple. Now it was all complicated again. Not that he wanted to die, of course. The gods were very firm on the subject of suicide. He just hadn't wanted to be rescued. Through red eyes in a mask of slime and duckweed he peered at the blurred form above him, and shouted, 'Why did you have to save me?' The answer worried him. He thought about it as he squelched all the way home. It sat at the back of his mind while Gwladys complained about the state of his clothes. It squirrelled around in his head as he sat and sneezed guiltily by the fire, because being ill was another thing Gwladys didn't hold with. As he lay shivering in bed it settled in his dreams like an iceberg. In the midst of his fever he muttered, 'What did he mean, “FOR LATER”?' Torches flared in the city of Sto Lat. Whole squads of men were charged with the task of constantly renewing them. The streets glowed. The sizzling flames pushed back shadows that had been blamelessly minding their own business every night for centuries. They illuminated ancient corners where the eyes of bewildered rats glittered in the depths of their holes. They forced burglars to stay indoors. They glowed on the night mists, forming a nimbus of yellow light that blotted out the cold high flames streaming from the Hub. But mainly they shone on the face of Princess Keli. It was everywhere. It plastered every flat surface. Binky cantered along the glowing streets between Princess Keli on doors, walls and gable ends. Mort gaped at posters of his beloved on every surface where workmen had been able to make paste stick. Even stranger, no-one seemed to be paying them much attention. While Sto Lat's night life was not as colourful and full of incident as that of Ankh-Morpork, in the same way that a wastepaper basket cannot compete with a municipal tip, the streets were nevertheless a-bustle with people and shrill with the cries of hucksters, gamblers, sellers of sweetmeats, pea-and-thimble men, ladies of assignation, pickpockets and the occasional honest trader who had wandered in by mistake and couldn't now raise enough money to leave. As Mort rode through them snatches of conversation in half-a-dozen languages floated into his ears; with numb acceptance he realised he could understand every one of them. He eventually dismounted and led the horse along Wall Street, searching in vain for Cutwell's house. He found it only because a lump on the nearest poster was making muffled swearing noises. He reached out gingerly and pulled aside a strip of paper. Tanks very much,' said the gargoyle doorknocker. 'You wouldn't credit it, would you? One minute life as normal, nexft minute a mouthful of glue.' 'Where's Cutwell?' 'He's gone off to the palace.' The knocker leered at him and winked a cast-iron eye. 'Some men came and took all his fstuff away. Then some ovver men started pasting pictures of his girlfriend all over the place. Barftuds,' it added. Mort coloured. 'His girlfriend?' The doorknocker, being of the demonic persuasion, sniggered at his tone. It sounded like fingernails being dragged over a file.

#Mort

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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'I think there's some people here to see you,' said Mort, and hurried away. As he reached the passageway the Vizier's soul started to scream. . . . Ysabell was standing patiently by Binky, who was making a late lunch of a five-hundred-year-old bonsai tree. 'One down,' said Mort, climbing into the saddle. 'Come on. I've got a bad feeling about the next one, and we haven't much time.' Albert materialised in the centre of Unseen University, in the same place, in fact, from which he had departed the world some two thousand years before. He grunted with satisfaction and brushed a few specks of dust off his robe. He became aware that he was being watched; on looking up, he discovered that he had flashed into existence under the stern marble gaze of himself. He adjusted his spectacles and peered disapprovingly at the bronze plaque screwed to his pedestal. It said: 'Alberto Malich, Founder of This University. AM 1,222-1,289. “We Will Not See His Like Again”.' So much for prediction, he thought. And if they thought so much of him they could at least have hired a decent sculptor. It was disgraceful. The nose was all wrong. Call that a leg? People had been carving their names on it, too. He wouldn't be seen dead in a hat like that, either. Of course, if he could help it, he wouldn't be seen dead at all. Albert aimed an octarine thunderbolt at the ghastly thing and grinned evilly as it exploded into dust. 'Right,' he said to the Disc at large, 'I'm back.' The tingle from the magic coursed all the way up his arm and started a warm glow in his mind. How he'd missed it, all these years. Wizards came hurrying through the big double doors at the sound of the explosion and cleared the wrong conclusion from a standing start. There was the pedestal, empty. There was a cloud of marble dust over everything. And striding out of it, muttering to himself, was Albert. The wizards at the back of the crowd started to have it away as quickly and quietly as possible. There wasn't one of them that hadn't, at some time in his jolly youth, put a common bedroom utensil on old Albert's head or carved his name somewhere on the statue's chilly anatomy, or spilled beer on the pedestal. Worse than that, too, during Rag Week when the drink flowed quickly and the privy seemed too far to stagger. These had all seemed hilarious ideas at the time. They suddenly didn't, now. Only two figures remained to face the statue's wrath, one because he had got his robe caught in the door and the other because he was, in fact, an ape and could therefore take a relaxed attitude to human affairs. Albert grabbed the wizard, who was trying desperately to walk into the wall. The man squealed. 'All right, all right, I admit it! I was drunk at the time, believe me, didn't mean it, gosh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry —' 'What are you bleating about, man?' said Albert, genuinely puzzled. '— so sorry, if I tried to tell you how sorry I am we'd —' 'Stop this bloody nonsense!' Albert glanced down at the little ape, who gave him a warm friendly smile. 'What's your name, man?' 'Yes, sir, I'll stop, sir, right away, no more nonsense, sir . . . Rincewind, sir. Assistant librarian, if it's all right by you.' Albert looked him up and down. The man had a desperate scuffed look, like something left out for the laundry. He decided that if this was what wizarding had come to, someone ought to do something about it. 'What sort of librarian would have you for assistant?' he demanded irritably. 'Oook.' Something like awarm soft leather glove tried to hold his hand. 'A monkey! In my university!' 'Orang-outang, sir. He used to be a wizard but got caught in some magic, sir, now he won't let us turn him back, and he's the only one who knows where all the books are,' said Rincewind urgently. 'I look after his bananas,' he added, feeling some additional explanation was called for. Albert glared at him. 'Shut up.' 'Shutting up right away, sir.' 'And tell me where Death is.' 'Death, sir?' said Rincewind, backing against the wall. Tall, skeletal, blue eyes, stalks, TALKS LIKE THIS . . . Death. Seen him lately?' Rincewind swallowed. 'Not lately, sir.' 'Well, I want him. This nonsense has got to stop. I'm going to stop it now, see? I want the eight most senior wizards assembled here, right, in half an hour with all the necessary equipment to perform the Rite of AshkEnte, is that understood? Not that the sight of you lot gives me any confidence. Bunch of pantywaisters the lot of you, and stop trying to hold my hand!' 'Oook.' 'And now I'm going to the pub,' snapped Albert. 'Do they sell any halfway decent cat's piss anywhere these days?' There's the Drum, sir,' said Rincewind. 'The Broken Drum? In Filigree Street? Still there?' 'Well, they change the name sometimes and rebuild it completely but the site has been, er, on the site for years. I expect you're pretty dry, eh, sir?' Rincewind said, with an air of ghastly camaraderie. 'What would you know about it?' said Albert sharply. 'Absolutely nothing, sir,' said Rincewind promptly. 'I'm going to the Drum, then. Half an hour, mind. And if they're not waiting for me when I come back, then well, they'd just better be!' He stormed out of the hall in a cloud of marble dust. Rincewind watched him go. The librarian held his hand. 'You know the worst of it?' said Rincewind. 'Oook?' 'I don't even remember walking under a mirror.' At about the time Albert was in The Mended Drum arguing with the landlord over a yellowing bar tab that had been handed down carefully from father to son through one regicide, three civil wars, sixty-one major fires, four hundred and ninety robberies and more than fifteen thousand barroom brawls to record the fact that Alberto Malich still owed the management three copper pieces plus interest currently standing at the contents of most of the Disc's larger strongrooms, which proved once again that an Ankhian merchant with an unpaid bill has the kind of memory that would make an elephant blink . . . at about this time, Binky was leaving a vapour trail in skies above the great mysterious continent of Klatch. Far below drums sounded in the scented, shadowy jungles and columns of curling mist rose from hidden rivers where nameless beasts lurked under the surface and waited for supper to walk past. 'There's no more cheese, you'll have to have the ham,' said Ysabell. 'What's that light over there?' The Light Dams,' said Mort. 'We're getting closer.' He pulled the hourglass out of his pocket and checked the level of the sand. 'But not close enough, dammit!' The Light Dams lay like pools of light hubwards of their course, which is exactly what they were; some of the tribes constructed mirror walls in the desert mountains to collect the Disc sunlight, which is slow and slightly heavy. It was used as currency. Binky glided over the campfires of the nomads and the silent marshes of the Tsort river. Ahead of them dark, familiar shapes began to reveal themselves in the moonlight. The Pyramids of Tsort by moonlight!' breathed Ysabell, 'How romantic!' MORTARED WITH THE BLOOD OF THOUSANDS OF SLAVES, observed Mort. 'Please don't.' 'I'm sorry, but the practical fact of the matter is that these —' 'All right, all right, you've made your point,' said Ysabell irritably. 'It's a lot of effort to go to to bury a dead king,' said Mort, as they circled above one of the smaller pyramids. They fill them full of preservative, you know, so they'll survive into the next world.' 'Does it work?' 'Not noticeably.' Mort leaned over Binky's neck. 'Torches down there,' he said. 'Hang On.' A procession was winding away from the avenue of pyramids, led by a giant statue of Offler the Crocodile God borne by a hundred sweating slaves. Binky cantered above it, entirely unnoticed, and performed a perfect four-point landing on the hard-packed sand outside the pyramid's entrance. 'They've pickled another king,' said Mort. He examined the glass again in the moonlight. It was quite plain, not the sort normally associated with royalty. That can't be him,' said Ysabell. They don't pickle them when they're still alive, do they?' 'I hope not, because I read where, before they do the preserving, they, um, cut them open and remove —' 'I don't want to hear it —' '— all the soft bits,' Mort concluded lamely. 'It's just as well the pickling doesn't work, really, just imagine having to walk around with no —' 'So it isn't the king you've come to take,' said Ysabell loudly. 'Who is it, then?' Mort turned towards the dark entrance. It wouldn't be sealed until dawn, to give time for the dead king's soul to leave. It looked deep and foreboding, hinting at purposes considerably more dire than, say, keeping a razor blade nice and sharp. 'Let's find out,' he said. 'Look out! He's coming back!' The University's eight most senior wizards shuffled into line, tried to smooth out their beards and in general made an unsuccessful effort to look presentable. It wasn't easy. They had been snatched from their workrooms, or a postprandial brandy in front of a roaring fire, or quiet contemplation under a handkerchief in a comfy chair somewhere, and all of them were feeling extremely apprehensive and rather bewildered. They kept glancing at the empty pedestal. Only one creature could have duplicated the expressions on their faces, and that would be a pigeon who has heard not only that Lord Nelson has got down off his column but has also been seen buying a 12-bore repeater and a box of cartridges. 'He's coming up the corridor!' shouted Rincewind, and dived behind a pillar. The assembled mages watched the big double doors as if they were about to explode, which shows how prescient they were, because they exploded. Matchstick-sized bits of oak rained down among them and a small thin figure stood outlined against the light. It held a smoking staff in one hand. The other held a small yellow toad. 'Rincewind!' bawled Albert. 'Sir!' 'Take this thing away and dispose of it.' The toad crawled into Rincewind's hand and gave him an apologetic look. That's the last time that bloody landlord gives any lip to a wizard,' said Albert with smug satisfaction. 'It seems I turn my back for a few hundred years and suddenly people in this town are encouraged to think they can talk back to wizards, eh?' One of the senior wizards mumbled something. 'What was that? Speak up, that man!' 'As the bursar of this university I must say that we've always encouraged a good neighbour policy with respect to the community,' mumbled the wizard, trying to avoid Albert's gimlet stare. He had an upturned chamber pot on his conscience, with three cases of obscene graffiti to be taken into consideration. Albert let his mouth drop open. 'Why?' he said. 'Well, er, a sense of civic duty, we feel it's vitally important that we show an examp— arrgh!' The wizard tried desperately to beat out the flames in his beard. Albert lowered his staff and looked slowly along the row of mages. They swayed away from his stare like grass in a gale. 'Anyone else want to show a sense of civic duty?' he said. 'Good neighbours, anybody?' He drew himself up to his full height. 'You spineless maggots! I didn't found this University so you could lend people the bloody lawnmower! What's the use of having the power if you don't wield it? Man doesn't show you respect, you don't leave enough of his damn inn to roast chestnuts on, understand?' Something like a soft sigh went up from the assembled wizards. They stared sadly at the toad in Rincewind's hand. Most of them, in the days of their youth, had mastered the art of getting rascally drunk at the Drum. Of course, all that was behind them now, but the Guild of Merchants' annual knife-and-fork supper would have been held in the Drum's upstairs room the following evening, and all the Eighth Level wizards had been sent complimentary tickets; there would have been roast swan and two kinds of trifle and lots of fraternal toasts to 'Our esteemed, nay, distinguished guests' until it was time for the college porters to turn up with the wheelbarrows.

#Mort

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