#and edinburgh is always so nice this time of year because the festival's on!!

[vidavalor]

Do you think Aziraphale has a raging praise kink in addition to his 'food' and 'Crowley watching him do stuff' kinks? *hands you a box of spiced apple muffins, along with the recipe: https://www.hairybikers.com/recipes/view/spiced-apple-muffins*

Hi @jotun-philosopher! A recipe!!! I'm so excited. The website you shared is quite interesting. I'll have to make these on the other side of my holiday food as they look delicious. Do I think Aziraphale has a raging praise kink? Oh, yeah. Raging might be an understatement lol.

Praise kink and trauma thoughts under the cut.

In S2, we go from Lord Beezlebub paralleling Aziraphale, missing their Crowley (Gabriel) while in Hell, and musing that it'd be nice if someone ever told them they were doing a good job over to Aziraphale doing some difficult trauma work in Edinburgh and calling Crowley to talk to him about it. What goes a little undersung here, imo, is the way this is filmed and how Aziraphale can't stop talking about 1827 to a point that Crowley actually has to prompt him into telling him what he learned at the pub about Gabriel. This is because while Aziraphale-- who really didn't need to go to this cemetery at all for any reason related to figuring out what happened to Gabriel-- has been back to Edinburgh since 1827 (Crowley mentions him going to Edinburgh "for the festival" in 1.01), he's never been back to this spot since the night Crowley was yanked to Hell in front of him.

When we come in on Aziraphale at the cemetery, it's right off of that scene in the 1827 flashback and then we watch Aziraphale turn around again, now in the present, right? It's that he does have to turn around that's pretty significant. It says that he's not here because he thought maybe seeing Gabriel's statue again might give him some random insight as to what's happening to Gabriel in the present. He wasn't looking at the statue at first-- we come in on him looking at the spot where Crowley was taken.

Crowley and Aziraphale are in a place between S1 and S2 where Armageddon: Round Two could theoretically happen at any time. They have no idea if it's happening in five years or next Thursday or in an hour, really, and that's made the fact that Aziraphale has really never gotten over 1827 worse for him, to a point that it now bothers him to be away from Crowley for any significant length of time, especially if they've been arguing, because he's always worried that something will happen while they're apart and he'll never see him again. He spent almost a month (estimated by the dates in his diary) in 1827 thinking that had happened. He does some work on that in Edinburgh by deciding to go to the spot again and, when he does, he has to magically get the nearest cell phone so he can talk to Crowley from the spot because he knows that hearing his voice will help.

By telling Crowley that he's looking at the statue of Gabriel, we get in his knowledge that Crowley will understand the significance of this (and in Crowley's response indicating that he does) that they've talked about this at some point. There are other suggestions of that in the season (like the "I'm coming back. I won't leave you on your own" moment) but this phone conversation says that Aziraphale has verbalized to Crowley at some point how much 1827 still bothers him and Crowley understands that Aziraphale is telling him that he's taking a step towards trying to deal with it more.

(This is also an example of Aziraphale having done something clever and needing to call Crowley to tell him about it before he pops lol, which he's apparently been doing a lot lately since he no longer can get a pat on the back from Heaven, not that he ever did much, which is part of the whole damn problem. One could then perhaps presume that Crowley's been doling out a lot of praise over the phone of late, in addition to in person.)

So Crowley responds to Aziraphale telling him that he's in the cemetery in Edinburgh and looking at the Gabriel statue/trying to deal with 1827 by doing what they do sometimes-- cheer each other up from some depressing stuff about the past with a little of some of each other's favorite sexy chat.

This is basically a mirror in reverse of the scene in S1 in the car on the way to Tadfield where Crowley tells Aziraphale more about the antichrist baby swap and how it went wrong. Crowley was feeling depressed about the whole mess and how Armageddon was imminent now as a result of it and Aziraphale's response was to pivot to what was, effectively, dirty talking him in blasphemous Bible speak euphemisms in a dry-as-all-fuck, combination Pompous Angel/mildly soft dom tone because Crowley's sooooo weak for that lol. (I'm talking about the "seeds of destruction" scene, the dirtiness of which is probably a whole other meta, since we're mostly talking about Aziraphale here.)

Aziraphale's version of that is a massive praise kink. He looooves being told he's good at something or he did a good job or really just anything related to him and goodness, since Heaven's done a number on him and he struggles sometimes to fundamentally believe that he is good, which is lunacy but so are negative thought cycles in the first place. The praise thing with Crowley isn't unhealthy-- I'm not suggesting that. Aziraphale's negative thought cycle is unhealthy, obviously, but the praise kink thing with Crowley is actually not a terrible counter to it. It's obviously not the entire solution to dealing with Heaven's abuse of him but it is also doesn't hurt that Aziraphale believes Crowley and values what he thinks, which can help break up negative thoughts.

It exists both in and out of bed and Crowley was intentionally blending that over the phone in the Edinburgh scene by responding to Aziraphale being like I did the really hard trauma work thing we were talking about today and I'm still here go me with the kind of praise you'd give someone for doing something that was tough ("good job") but delivered low and with the little "mmrmm" before it, which was to associate it with, uh, other kinds of praise Aziraphale has elicited from Crowley before, by way of also invoking Aziraphale's Assorted Rumbly Crowley Sounds Kink as well.

Aziraphale undoubtedly heard it and replied around it, like he was doing with most of Crowley's flirting with him in S2, because driving Crowley slowly insane is also Aziraphale's favorite past time. It was made funnier by the fact that he left Crowley in London to get The Shop Lesbians together, explain The Vavoom to a memory-wiped Jimbriel, answer any questions about love for the Inspector Constable angel Heaven sent to spy on them, and fix Shax's "hot water boiler" so The Love Doctor was in and getting no love himself lol. Crowley's comment wasn't meant to go anywhere anyway, really-- Gabriel was literally five feet away at the time, which was probably also amusing Crowley-- but yeah, I think the conscious, intentional way Crowley phrased that is meant to suggest that Aziraphale not only likes positive reinforcement in life in general but has a bit of a raging praise kink in bed, with which Crowley is very familiar.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

A few things on my couple of days in the Scottish Highlands, as I lie in bed not wanting to get up yet, for my first full day in Edinburgh (I woke up early but I'm tired).

It was, of course, incredible. Better than I imagined, in my imagination where I tried to temper expectations. There was no need to do that. I didn't do any social media posting while I was there, mainly because I was so genuinely in the moment that I didn't feel any desire to look at my phone. During the rest of the trip, I've been posting during the down time, when nothing else is happening. During the last 2 days, I had almost nothing but down time, as I was just sitting on trains, but the down time was for enjoying incredible views.

I rode the train London-Edinburgh-Glasgow-Fort William on Thursday, stayed in Fort William overnight, then on Friday got a train that went Fort William-Mallaig, then stayed in my seat while that same train went Mallaig-Glasgow. Then got another train Glasgow-Edinburgh. Since I got here, I've been thinking the train rides are so cool but too short because everything on this island is too close together. Yesterday I did not have to get up from a train seat between 8 AM in Fort William and 3:30 PM in Glasgow, so that was nice. Though with views like that, I could easily have gone longer.

I took some pictures while I was there, but not too many, because I knew pictures don't do it justice. The internet is full of pictures of those places, I've been looking at them a lot for the past year. And they're pretty, but the reality was obviously much better, and there's no way to keep that so I didn't try too hard. I also sort of don't want to reduce them to a post on social media, so I won't put those pictures here. Just trust me, mountains and ocean and train in the same place is incredible. Most incredible scenery I've ever seen in my life. The only thing that comes close is when I read tripped around NZ, but this was better because it was from a train, instead of from a van that I kept being afraid my Kiwi friends would drive off those precarious cliffs.

Recommended music pairings: it turns out that listening to the entirety of the 1993 album North Country, by Canada's Cape Breton band The Rankin Family, goes nicely with the rail journey from Fort William to Mallaig, rated on the internet as one of the most scenic train journeys in the world. For the ride back from Mallaig to Fort William, may I recommend the 1993 album Closer to Paradise, by Canada's Cape Breton band The Barra MacNeils? Something as cool as this was no time to mess around with music I'm unsure about. Have to go with Nova Scotian folk music that came out when I was three, that mybdad purchase from folk festival merch tents that year so hearing them in the living room are among my earliest memories and they're still among my favourite albums today. I've had 30 years of testing those albums enough to be sure they're the right thing to play during one of the most scenic train journeys in the world, and I was right.

...I also like saying this because I feel like I only reference music by men on here, but I do sometimes listen to women, I promise! Rankin Family and Barra MacNeils are two bands with a mix of genders, but both dominated by female vocals. And the Rankins, at least, had their membership change a bit through the years but always had more female members than male ones. Jimmy Rankin might be the only one of them who went on to a major soli career (I don't mean to disparage that, I love his solo albums), but Raylene's vocals really carried that band.

Every time I listen to the Rankin song Leis an Lurgainn, I feel like I should be listening to it while riding trains through incredible mountain scenery. I finally got to do that and confirm that yep, I have found a situation that matches the soaring sensations this song invokes.

During the bits between Fort William and Glasgow, I went with David O'Doherty's Live in His Car During a Pandemic album, for it's nice reflective vibes that pair well with mountains, it turns out. Every time I listen to this album, I feel like I should be lying on my back at the top of a hill near the ocean, in the middle of the night in a wind storm. But trains through mountains are a close second for the best environment in which to listen to it.

I mixed in some Bobby Watt, and a bunch of that song that goes by many names - Go Lassie Go, Wild Mountain Thyme, Blooming Heather, Purple Heather - and I have so many versions of it on my phone, because it's my favourite of those folk songs that everyone has covered (best versions are Kate Rusby, Bruce Guthro, and Buddy MacDonald). It's about the purple flowers that grow on Scottish mountains, and I got to listen to it while seeing the purple heather on Scottish mountains for real, and that was so fucking cool!

Then for the last couple of hours of the journey, I listened to the recording of the last night of Late 'n' Live from Edinburgh 2007, featuring Andy Zaltzman, 2/3 of We Are Klang, 4/3 of Pappy's Fun Club (Crosby, Parry, Clark, & Dodds), and David O'Doherty with Kitson compering. One of my top few favourite bootlegs and for good reason. My God was that ever funny. And such a classic that it's one of the very few bootegs I feel like it's okay to reference directly. It was 17 years ago, it counts as ancient history at this point. I am so grateful to the person who preserved that one. Every time I listen to it (which is quite a lot), I feel like I should be listening to it while arriving by train you Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival. Didn't think I'd get to actually do it one day.

All right I'm going to go have breakfast now and them go watch some comedy. Hope everyone's having a good day.

[existentialcrisistime]

I would like to know more about your favourite Scottish indie/folk musicians, please.

I'm not gonna lie, after nearly twelve years up here I'm still just dipping my toes into the music, so I'm far from knowledgeable, but here's a non-exhauative list of bands & artists I've been enjoying:

Frightened Rabbit — of course, especially the albums The Midnight Organ Fight & Pedestrian Verse. Sad I never got properly into them at their peak, but I very much enjoy them now

Aidan Moffat (of the band Arab Strap) — his song/poem The Copper Top has been on loop in my head lately

One you've most likely heard of — Belle & Sebastian. One of the bands I loved when I moved up here, introduced to me by a friend, and I've still got a soft spot for their older songs now

Ballboy — possibly one of my all time favourite bands/artists, that I've loved for nearly two decades, and I've never met anyone else who knows of them without me introducing them. At least 50% songs mention being unable to sleep, I think, and with the main guy being Gordon McIntyre who I believe has a day job as a school headteacher, that absolutely tracks. Club Anthems 2001 & A Guide For The Daylight Hours are my favourite albums, but I adore them all. I've never seen them properly live, but I did see them play some Mountain Goats covers as part of a charity TMG cover festival in like 2015? and I caught Gordon McIntyre's solo album release gig the other year too (he's still writing songs about being unable to sleep)

Chrissy Barnacle — an artist I've never caught a headline gig of, but I must have caught her supporting at least five different bands over the years (including the aforementioned TMG covers event I believe). Great voice, deserves more than 45 Spotify listeners for sure

The Spook School — I got into these because a friend was/is dating one of the members, but I'm a massive fan now and they're great ! Very queer jangly indie-punk, they've split now (or rather, gone to the moon), but their tunes are excellent and their members are doing some great things individually

Admiral Fallow — I got into these guys purely through Spotify in the last year or so, and I'm yet to listen to their full discography, but the three songs constantly rattling around my brain are: Squealing Pigs (in my head that's an AOS Kirk song too), The Paper Trench, and Guest of the Government

Mogwai — another one you're more likely to have heard of. Definitely more post-rock than indie, or as I like to say, music to lie on floors to. Take Me Somewhere Nice was the first song I heard by them, shown to me by an ex before we started dating (so it must have been good). They also have a song called George Square Thatcher Death Party if that helps sway you. I was friends with I think the bassist's partner for a while (that's the thing about Scotland, it's two degrees of separation with everyone), and I've seen them live countless times. Albums close to my heart are Rock Action, Come On Die Young (CODY), and the Les Revenants soundtrack (an excellent show too)

I'm sure there are MANY more I'm missing, especially the 2010s Edinburgh indie scene that I always used to catch at small gigs and Record Store Day events when I lived there, but hopefully this is a good starting point and an introduction to a few bands you haven't yet heard of!

[cookinguptales]

So I went to Philly's Flower Show yesterday! It was exciting to see it finally come back to the convention center this year; obviously I'm glad they had it outside for a few years, but that did make it so I couldn't attend in the heat.

This year it was back indoors and I celebrated by going to the Flowers After Hours party too. :o

Anyway, I took like a hundred photos but tumblr will only let me upload 30. Either way, they're under a cut!

The first thing I did when I got there was hit the flower crown station. These are always fun to make here, and this year they had real flowers and wire, not just fake ones and a glue gun. I... may have spent too much time on my crown. lmao

So before I played arts and crafts for an hour... and after:

Bats are my favorite pollinator, though bees are very close. :')

Then it was time to enter the flower festival proper! The entrance was so pretty. I wish I could have quite gotten how trippy the lights were in there. They were constantly changing because this year's theme was The Garden Electric! Lots of interesting lights, which was especially fun at the party that evening.

(I forgot to take in the dress at the waist before I left but that's okay, it's still cute. lmao)

Had a lot of fun wandering around looking at all the prize-winning plants. There were hundreds and hundreds so I had to pare these down a lot lmao.

And then all of the art and arrangements! Again, there are just. So many of these. Jewelry, pressed flowers, arrangements, miniatures, huge dioramas, etc. But 30 images. So.

Look at the dresses this year! Some of them were so pretty.

I die!!

And the pressed flowers! Look at what the children made! ;o;

And the adult pieces were lovely as well

The little miniature rooms are always my favorite, though. The winner this year was a little herbalist cottage from Edinburgh in 1661 and when I tell you this bitch was vibrating thinking about Sleep No More. lmao. But there was also a Mexican market, an Italian street, a Japanese tea house, a Monet-inspired garden scene... Just gorgeous all around.

Some of the flower arrangements were really fun this year because they got into the electric theme.

And I always love the plant arranging categories that are like "...oh, I guess that's a thing" like "best doorway" lmao.

Most of the big exhibits had suuuuper long lines, so I waited until the party to see them when there'd be fewer people.

So then once the lights went out... I changed into my Party Noir look to match the party's dress code!

(I....... forgot my black mask at home, leave me alone.)

And oh mannnn the big displays were so nice this year.

Only the tip of the iceberg tbh but image limit!!

Had a lot of fun walking around in the indoor gardens, too!

The party itself was fun, if maybe not something I'd do again. Lots of alcohol to sample and some very loud music, but the big group of people wasn't super easy to get around in using my chair and I kind of got a headache from it all.

BUT there was also some fun entertainment (like fire juggling AWAY FROM THE PLANTS, burlesque-esque dancing, contortionists, etc.) and it was nice to get a chance to get closer to some of the big displays while other people were getting selfies with some of the selfie-bait sections of the show. lmao

(I got some, too!! I was not immune to the trippy flower backgrounds. But 30 images!)

ALSO THE BEE PEOPLE CAME OUT AND THEY BROUGHT BEES

Like an hour and a half into the party I came back to the bee people and was like "MAY I SEE THE BEE AGAIN" and when they pulled him out of his little habitat and let him crawl on their hands (it's a mason bee, they don't sting) I was like "I'M SORRY I'M TOO TIPSY TO HAVE ANY CHILL ABOUT THIS" but they laughed so it was okay.

ALL IN ALL, I had a really good time! I bought too much honey and balsamic vinegar! I ache today, but I guess I earned it!

yay, love the flower show. 💜🌱🐝����

[harrison-abbott]

I worked on Princes Street in Edinburgh in a summer job years and years ago, at this festival joint. Was pretty barbaric work and was only doing it for money. The first four weeks I was there, it was actually all right, because most of the people were young and fine with doing mucky labour, you know: it was shit, but, we got through it because we had youth and there was a sense of togetherness. And it was right in the heart of Edinburgh so we had that proper vibe for the city centre – we were working in the famous parts where all the tourists go. ///// So, for the first four weeks, our section boss was called Doug. And, he was cool. Nice guy. But then he had to leave – because he was only temporary. And he was replaced by his guy called Jordan. I didn’t even know Jordan was my new boss, because he only give me a limp handshake when he saw me and he didn’t say anything other than hello. And the entire mood in the joint changed after he arrived. After about a week, he sacked one of the younger guys. This young chap called Ed, who was from Poland, who I’d been friendly with. And then Jordan brought in all of these other chefs who he knew from way back. Because they were his mates. Despite all of these aspects, I always put in a good shift. Turned up, did the job. We had a WhatsApp group page, created by Jordan. And at the end of the night he would send these raging messages about the mess we had left in the kitchen. When it hadn’t been me that was on the shift. I.e., he addressed all of us as if it was all of our fault. Moreover, Jordan always looked like he was ill, or confused, or tired, or all three of those. I spoke to one of the girl chefs after a shift, one time, and she said that Jordan routinely took pills of all kinds in the toilets. And then he drove home at night, totally wasted, despite having kids at home. Jordan was out his mind on drugs, most of the time. ///// With this particular job, it just got too difficult to deal with. The mates that Jordan had hired were as rude as he was. And they enjoyed joining in on that WhatsApp group, taking swipes at those who weren’t ‘in their team’. So I got sick of it all. And found a new job working in a different part of the city. After that, Jordan deleted me on Facebook. Which, umm, kinda says it all.

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (872): Wed 7th Aug 2024

Edinburgh Fringe day2 and after checking out of the hostel (which I've noticed I always sleep very soundly in. You know how some people can't piss if there's someone standing next to them? Maybe I can't sleep unless there's someone asleep in a bed directly above me) I headed off for my first show of the day: Glitch. This was a monologue style play about a woman returning home for her ten year high school reunion and confronting her turbulent relationship with her mother. The actress was really good but unfortunately I could feel my eyelids getting heavy and I had to start pinching myself to make sure I wouldn't fall asleep. It wasn't because the story was boring or the acting wasn't good and as I've just discussed I slept like a baby last night, but for some reason I felt like I was about to nod off. Also to make matters worse there were arseholes drilling outside which made it hard to hear what the actress was saying as this venue had very thin walls as it's essentially a converted shipping container. Word of advice to future performers: set your play on a fucking building site because the noise from outside will create a perfect ambience and you won't need to hire a sound effects person. I still enjoyed it as the actress was very good I just hope she didn't notice that I was desperately trying to force myself not to nod off. I suspected that it may have been because I hadn't had a coffee this morning so before the next show I ducked into a cafe and got myself a nice strong mocha to wake myself the fuck up. My final show of this year's Fringe was just around the corner at Zoo Southside. This show was titled "The Signalman" and was about a train station signalman recounting the story of a recent derailing that resulted in many deaths right near his station. He confides in the audience that since then he's been haunted by visions of a shadowy figure standing at the other side of the tunnel waving at him and crying out "watch out". This was really well performed and the use of shadow, light and spooky sound effects gave off the impression that someone or something was constantly watching. The one thing that marred the show was that right near the end four old dickheads left just as the show was clearly coming to an end. They all were about seventy five and I suspect they only came into this show to hide from the Grim Reaper and left when the play started getting scary as they didn't want to drop dead from fright. I think the twist at the end of the play was that it was the signalman from the future at the other end of the tunnel warning himself about the upcoming collision or something I dunno. That's the only shitty thing about these shows at the festival it's not like you can go onto Wikipedia for a plot summary and you can't go up to the actor afterwards and ask what the play meant or you'll just look like an absolute moron. Well whatever it was about I enjoyed it and at least I didn't fall asleep or walkout with two minutes to go like a cunt would. I still had an hour or so before my train home so I went to a restaurant up the road from the train station and got myself a nice vegan burger and a beautiful non-alcoholic cocktail as I reflected on all the highlights from this Fringe. As much as I have enjoyed these festivals over the years I don't know if I want to come back again. The shows themselves are good but finding ways to kill time in between the shows is hard and also the amount of constant noise in the city and the rushing around to get to shows is becoming unbearable. I remember having the same feeling about London when I went there earlier this year to see AC/DC. It's a beautiful city but I think I've seen enough of it now and I need to start exploring some other places. At the very least I think I'm just going to reduce this visit to a one day thing. I'll get the train down at six in the AM and just spend nine hours going to show after show then getting the train back that night.

[camnotes]

the supposed last days in england

16 july 2014

We do not have breakfast together today. You cycled to Will's to prepare for the busking festival in Edinburgh. I wanted to sleep a bit more but after replying to my friend's email about meeting up in Denmark, I was a quite awake. Felt a bit lonely, I opened Youtube watching videos about health and beauty care by a Canadian girl. Tried to check how much internet data I have left out of the 100MB but the password for the app did not work. Felt bad about lying in bed using the internet, though it is less than one hour. When I could hear some sounds from the birds, I decided to wake up. I peed, cleaned my tongue and washed my throat with warm salt water. Rinsed the kettle and put some cold water in the boil. We run out of lemon so I have artichoke herbal tea from Vietnam. Washed a pure light green granny smith's apple, put the red blanket over the table outside, I was happy to enjoy another breakfast outdoor since we moved here, in the sun, looking up to the sky.

Looking straight now is the fence that divides our small rented stoned garden and the big grass garden of the land-lord that we go to the end most of the time to stay on the wooden floor next to the little stream, my favourite plum tree, few other trees and Andrew's cabin. You said it was a very girl, which you actually mean 'woman', thing of Magaret to ask her husband to put up the fence that was not there. Magaret happens to be a white woman that can make me put her in the category of those irritated British women. One day she was on the phone with someone and all I could hear was a lot of 'She' - she was talking about some girl or woman; and a lot of 'She was ridiculous'. Though she did have a few words with her for a few times and did smile and ask me about our recent holiday in Budapest, all could be just 'diplomatic'. I have learned myself not to be close with housemates because it's easier like that so I should understand why she behaves so. Women are more possessive of their men because historically since there was no contraception, women could get pregnant when being with a guy so they have to be careful and cannot just play around with different girls like guys.

It's just a 'women' thing. They might have a period, they might have been wanted by any guy. You said guys go get the girls so all the girls have to try to attract guys, that's why girls are more jealous to each other.

I have learned myself that when a white person is not nice to someone, it's not always 'racism', it's more 'discrimination' most of the time that can happen not just between races but between the same race from different places in one country. The people from the capital take for granted that their accent is standard; the rest is 'countryside', 'southern', or 'northern' for the case of the U.K.

When I think about almost four years that I have lived in England, I think about the people I have encountered, the people who have made me smile, laugh, cry, and think.

The formal manager of the scholarship office of the university. Big size middle age English man, some white hair, big belly.

When I met him in Vietnam before applying for the scholarship for the second time, he was friendly, helpful, understanding with the situation in Vietnam, my family situation. He told me he helped an Indian girl from a slum to study in England. I told him Westminster had been ranked first in the UK for giving our scholarship to international student. He smiled quite proudly 'It's good to be first in something'. He ordered the second coffee when I asked him about his degree in Archaeology before. Looking at my CV, he asked me why I do not study Film.

He seems like a different man in England. When people live in their own country, they can be nationalist. In the first meeting with all the international scholarship students, after telling everyone about the bad stereotypes of each nationality that has scholarship students - now I can only remember he said Indians, don't be on the phone all the time. He then said 'York is the most English town in England' then smile proudly, 'Guess where I am from'. At the end of his speech when he said, 'Be careful with me. I'm the man with the money and power.' is when my tears rolled down and I could not stop it. I looked around, some African faces, some Indians, some Asians - all seem too nervous and worried to smile or laugh at his supposedly joke. No one applauded either.

7 September 2014

I feel a bit lost but a new life is waiting ahead. It is not as if I am suffering from cancer and dying, even if there might be a next life, who knows how it would be. In my case now, I know it would taste like heaven on earth when I have several kinds of Vietnamese food a day, long time no see friends and family and the weather would warm me up after four years of wind and cold, come and go sun in England.

The last 39 days with London, England and BB. More than a month of traveling in between will make it easier. I have not felt good from yesterday since you told me you are going to teach that woman today. It just sounds like a prostitute getting client from the street for what happened. You will be very mad if I tell you this comparison. In Vietnamese culture, being a musician or a typical performing 'artist' could be considered as one kind of 'prostitute' who pleases different people. That is why my mum would not want me to go into singing, learning music instrument or any other kind of art, besides the fact that we could not afford it. I was surprised to hear from the mixed Dutch and French woman that her Dutch father did not want her to pursue ballet because for him, it is like dancing naked in front of lots of people.

[mymelodyheart]

All I Want For Christmas Is You  Chapter 1 ~Sparks Will Fly~

Notes

Hey guys, I'm back with a Christmas Ficlet, "All I Want For Christmas Is You," starring our favourite couple, Jamie and Claire.

It won't be my usual long story, but it's my wee gift to my readership who'd been following my journey in writing and always encouraging me with their insightful comments and kudos. 

Please don't be disheartened when I don't always reply back to your comments, as I spend every spare time I have writing. When I'm not writing, I'm dealing with this thing called life and taking care of my loves. But I promise you, I always look forward to reading your feedback, and if you have any questions of any sorts, I will answer them. If you see any mistakes or you wish to impart something I'm doing wrong or give me some ideas, please bear in mind I welcome constructive criticism, and I welcome opinions. I would even thank you for it, and I promise you I won't take it personally. The reason I say this is because I wholeheartedly wish to improve my writing and what a better way when my readers can share their thoughts with me. 

Without further ado, I wish you all happy reading.

If you wish to read this on AO3, here is the link.

James Fraser stepped into the pub followed by his older brother Willie. Although it was still early evening, there was already a small crowd all hyped up into a party mode. The multiple flat TV screens on the walls were showing world championship darts without the sounds. Instead, the speakers blared with Wham's Last Christmas song with the random interference from the resident DJ. While a handful of men milled around the bar holding their pints, the women sat at the table chattering animatedly and sipping long drinks and port. With Christmas Eve only two days away, there was a sense of excitement and goodwill in the air, typical of the festive season.

"Check out those birds at three o'clock."

Jamie cocked his head at Willie's words.

Two wide-eyed bonnie lassies stood next to the pool table sipping cocktails as if awaiting their turn for a game. Living in a tight community where everyone knew everybody and their business, Jamie immediately discerned the girls were visitors.

Willie unzipped his jacket. "I saw blondie first."

Jamie followed his brother's line of sight, but his eyes darted back to the dark-haired lass with the palest skin he'd ever seen, her tresses done up in a messy bun. Her long legs, accentuated by tight black jeans, grabbed his complete attention. She had a cropped red cable-knit sweater on and boots caked with mud which meant she must have been watching the shinty game earlier along with the rest of the village folks.

"Bloody hell, look at her," Willie murmured.

Blondie wore a purple turtle neck top that showed off her nice breasts, and jeans that hugged her hips snuggly. Jamie grinned. "Och, ye like 'em curvy, but I like her mate more. Shall we talk to them?"

"Aye, let's do that before one of those lads get there first." 

Jamie made a move forward.

"Hang on a minute," Willie's hand slapped across Jamie's chest, stopping him mid-saunter. "Yer ex ... she's back here for the holidays. She's sat at the bar with her mates. Are ye sure ye're ready for this?"

"Aye, aye. It's been over between us for ages," Jamie replied, not taking his eyes off the dark-haired lass. He hadn't thought about his ex for a long time and whatever he thought he'd felt for her back then, was nothing but a distant memory.

"This is just a bit of fun, alright? Dinnae get to attached. Blondie and her mate are probably tourists."

Willie had seen him go through hell over a year ago with his ex, who he thought had been the one for him. She had turned his life upside down, affecting his job, and his ability to stay sober after she'd cheated on him. Once Jamie got his act together, he'd sworn off serious relationships and decided to concentrate on work.

"Fun. Fun sounds good," Jamie muttered. When Willie didn't release him, he looked at his brother square in the eyes. "How about ye?"

"What about me?"

"Ye haven't chatted up a lass in a very long time. Are ye sure you still know how to?" Jamie asked, trying to keep a straight face.

Willie shoved his shoulder and feigned offence. "Ye cheeky git! Cannae chat any lass up when I know everyone here, now, can I?" 

Jamie nodded toward the two girls. "Weel, what are we waiting for?" He took a deep breath and kinked his head sideways to the left and then to the right. "If we're just gonnae stand here like a couple of numpties and discuss, we'd be too late by the time we get there."

"Mmm, never seen ye this eager to meet a lass before," Willie grinned.

Jamie looked back at the women and noticed they were beginning to garner attention from the lads nearby. The dark-haired one made a move around the pool table followed by her mate, and he was powerless to stop his gaze wandering down to the gentle curve of her arse.

Willie straightened his posture. "Let's go," he exhaled as he made a move.

Jamie followed suit and lined up next to his brother. As they got closer, he watched as the dark-haired lass skirted past a group of pool players with a polite smile, then wrote her initials in chalk on a blackboard mounted to the wall, claiming the next game. CB, she scrawled.

She wrinkled her nose and laughed at something her friend said as she started moving towards the bar. Jamie's frown deepened when the lass didn't see the sports bag put into her path. A few steps more, and she would trip and fall flat on her face. But not if he could help it.

"Hey!" Jamie shouted, abandoning Willie's side. "Hey, ye!"

She took another step, looking over her shoulder to acknowledge what her friend was shouting at her.

"Ah, fuck!" Jamie gritted his teeth and hurried towards her in quick long strides. He had no choice but to jostle a couple of bodies out of his way as she showed no signs of hearing him. He caught her as her foot connected with the bulky bag, his arms sliding under hers and pulling her up.

Her forehead bounced off his chin. "Oh, Lordy, Lordy." She let out a lungful of air and dug her fingernails into his forearms, her breath on his neck feeling like a double shot of heat warming his insides. "I'm such a clumsy oaf."

"Hey mate, shoved that bag under the table will ye, before someone breaks their neck," Jamie shouted over the top of her head at the owner of the bag, his voice sounding a tad harsh. With her front plastered against him, Jamie could almost feel her shock subside, giving way to the vibration of her laughter. Still holding her close, he puffed out a sigh and whispered into her ears. "Next time, ye should look at where ye're going. Ye could have landed on yer face, and that wouldn't have been a pretty sight."

Still laughing, her shoulders shook, presumably finding the situation hilarious. "We left our Airbnb earlier in a hurry, and my contact lenses are at the bottom of my suitcase. I'm farsighted, you see, but I'm too vain to wear my specs."

"Enough to fall flat on yer face? "

A few heartbeats passed. "If I say yes, are you going to start yelling again?"

"Aye."

"Alright then ...no."

Realising he still held the lass in a firm grip, Jamie let her go slowly to reassure himself she was steady on her feet. She kept her head down as she took a step back to rummage through the handbag slung on her shoulder. When she got hold of what she was looking for, she put on a pair of specs and blinked up at him through round, black-rimmed eyeglasses. As their eyes met, he felt something crank in his chest. He must still be wound up from the shinty game earlier because, on a sucked-in breath, an uneven sound passed through his mouth. A Dhia. She had the most beautiful amber eyes, and they reminded him of the colour of the finest heavily peated single malt whisky, Islay had to offer. 

"Oooh!" she whispered. 

Aye, tell me about it. "What's yer name?"

"You're one of the shinty players from earlier."

"Uh-huh." He tamped down the urge to laugh. "Yer name?" he repeated.

If the spellbound look in her eyes meant she was stunned by what she saw, she wasn't the only one. "Oh, yes. Sorry. I'm Claire. Beauchamp. Claire Beauchamp."

"Claire." For some reason, colour bloomed in her face when he said her name. "I'm Jamie Fraser."

"Hi." After a few seconds of just staring at each other, she recovered first and slapped a hand to her forehead. "Oh, shoot, where are my manners? Thank you. Thank you for saving me from an undignified fall." Her lips twitched, and her eyes twinkled. "If I had died of embarrassment, at least no one would care since nobody knows me here."

"I would care." Someone collided into him from behind, making him close the distance between them and her head tilt back to maintain eye contact. She was a tall lass, but still, he was a head taller than her. "So ... ye're here on holiday?" he asked.

"Yes, I am ...until Boxing Day. And then we're going to Edinburgh for Hogmanay. And then flying back to London on Three Kings from Glasgow." He heard her swallow. "I have a thing for Christmas in Scotland, you see."

"Is that so? What else do ye have a thing for?"

"Probably a lot of other stuff," she whispered, clutching her handbag in front of her. "But I'm having difficulty thinking of them right this minute."

"And why is that?" God, she's breathtakingly beautiful.

"I guess I'm still rattled by that near fall." She shrugged her shoulders, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Or have you forgotten all about that already?"

Jamie couldn't stop his grin. "No, not at all." In his periphery, he saw his brother and Claire's friend chatting. He wondered if he could whisk Claire away. This lass is something else. She wasn't staying here for very long, and he wanted to get to know her and make every second count.

He cleared his throat. "Look, Sassenach ..." 

"Sassenach?"

He felt heat glid at the back of his neck. "Sorry ... it's a Gaelic word. It means an outsider or someone from not around here. In case ye misunderstood, it's not my intention to make it sound like ye're not welcome here. Let's just say I meant it as a pet name. Endearment, if ye will."

He regarded her as her eyes searched his face, and she made no effort at all to hide her perusal of his lips. When a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes lit up into a wicked glint, his chest expanded a hundred-fold. "I like the sound of that ...Sassenach," she breathed as she rolled the Gaelic word in her tongue.

"Mmm, so, you're from London, huh?"

She shoved her hands in the back pocket of her jeans and rocked back on her heels. "Yeah. I'm originally from Oxford. But I live and work in London as an editorial assistant for a publishing company. How about you? What do you do, besides playing shinty?"

"I'm a tree surgeon. My brother and I run an arboricultural business."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, wow! I've never met a tree surgeon before. So I guess you must love your job to make it into a business?"

"Aye, I do," he smiled, basking in her open interest in his life. "I love the outdoors and the fresh air, whatever the weather. How about ye? Do ye like yer job?"

She paused and frowned in contemplation. "It's alright," she shrugged. "It's a job that will bring me closer to fulfilling a dream, I guess. I want to be a fulltime writer one day ..."

It was his turn to be surprised. "Maybe ye should move to the countryside if ye want to be a writer. Far too many distractions in London, don't ye think?"

She grinned. "Yeah, I suppose so. But I'm enjoying London at the moment, and I'm not quite ready to give up the city life. Just yet. Maybe one day." She glanced at her watch. "Umm ...you must have somewhere to go."

He wasn't ready to let her walk away, so he forced a worried cast into his face. "Eh, ye look still shaken up. We should probably get ye something stiff to drink ...and my phone number."

Her eyes widened, and after a tense split second, laughter burst out of her lips, loud enough to turn heads in their vicinity. She brought her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle but failed. The sound was so infectious, his own low rumble accompanied it, and he couldn't help but think, there's never been a time he felt such a powerful connection with another person. 

"Actually I'm with my mate here," Claire said finally, jerking a thumb over her shoulder and twisting around to the direction of where her friend stood. "She's my French flatmate. But it looks like she's already found someone to talk to." She paused and squinted her eyes. "Oh ...I recognise that bloke she's with. He played shinty too, didn't he?"

He waved at Willie and signalled him and Claire's friend to come over. "Aye, that's my older brother." 

Claire's gaze shot right back to him. "Really?" With a smile that showed off perfect teeth, she pushed her specs higher on her nose. "I wouldn't have thought. I don't have a sibling, and I just presumed your whole family would have the same gorgeous auburn hair like yours. Well, alright ..." She crimsoned to her hairline as she looked at his approaching brother. "I see some similarities now ...height, broad shoulders and the colour of your eyes."

Jamie felt a pinch of unease. Even though her vivacity was endearing, he wasn't ready to feel drawn to anyone this deeply or to care at such an alarming rate and intensity. After his last relationship broke down, there hadn't been anyone that piqued his interest ...until now. And she would be leaving in a few days. Chatting to her was only meant to be a night of enjoying the company of a beautiful lass or perhaps a diversion in whom he could lose himself into for a short time. But the moment he'd looked into her eyes, warm feelings drove into his heart while burning urges grew low in his tummy. This lass was a breath of fresh air and sexy and exactly what he needed. He mentally shook his head to clear his brain. Looking beyond the top of her head, he blurred the image of seeing this as something more. The long-distance relationship was a no-go. He was a country lad at heart, and she belonged to the city.

"Jamie?" She was staring at him as if he'd lost some of his ability to think clearly.

"I'm sorry ...still listening. It's just that I'm not used to a beautiful lass pointing out my physical attributes," he reassured her with a smile.

That beautiful blush blew across her face again. Jamie found it adorable. How could she be direct and shy at the same time? "I didn't mean to sound so bold. It must have something to do with me living in the city for so long ...you know, us Londoners tend to have no filters."

He winked at her. "Dinnae fash, lass. I kinda like it." And he meant it. 

She was about to respond when Willie and Claire's friend reached them, huge smiles painted across their faces like they'd hit it off.

The blonde girl took a step forward towards Jamie. "Hi! Claire and I enjoyed watching you guys play shinty earlier. I didn't realise it would be so aggressively physical. By the way, I'm Annalise," she smiled warmly, holding out her hand.

Jamie took it. "Aye, that it is and difficult to play when the grounds are too soggy. It could get pretty messy in this dreich weather." He shook her hand. "I'm Jamie ...please to meet ye."

"Likewise," Annalise replied, glancing at her friend.

Willie introduced himself to Claire, then brought his attention to their situation. "Looks like yer glasses are empty, ladies. Can we invite ye both to join us for a drink?"

Jamie saw Annalise elbow Claire with a conspiratorial look. When Claire nodded, Annalise batted her eyes at his brother. "Sure. That would be nice. I'd like a vodka and tonic please."

Willie grinned like he'd just received an early Christmas present and Jamie understood the feeling.

"Sassenach, what would ye like to drink?" 

Before Claire could reply, Hugh, one of the lads in his shinty team, tapped her on the shoulder. "It's ye against me now, lass."

Claire swung around and looked at the cue stick being handed to her, and her eyes lit. Turning back to Jamie, she grinned. "This won't take long, but I'll have a single malt, neat, please." Then she stood on her tiptoes and gave him a peck on the cheek. "This is for good luck."

He froze. It was an innocent kiss, but it packed quite a punch.

"Oh ...and yeah, it's a belated thank you again for breaking my fall," she quickly added, suddenly, appearing unsure like she doubted the gesture.

A slow grin roused to form on his lips. "Ye can thank me by going out with me ...tonight," he said, without thinking.

She blinked.

"I'd like to show ye something."

Her brows wrinkled as she studied his face.

"I'd really like to get to know ye better and take ye out," he said. "Please allow me." If she said no, he was quite certain he was going to beg.

"Alright."

He smiled as relief surged through him. "I'll wait for you until ye finish yer game," he said. "We'll leave after we've had a drink with my brother and yer friend."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere Christmassy."

She gave him a wary look, and he laughed. 

"Listen." He leaned in close. "I'll get yer friend to take a picture of my driving licence if that will make ye feel better."

He was about to pull out his wallet to retrieve it when she stopped him with a wave of a hand. "I trust you."

"That's a good start."

She rolled her eyes and laughed, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from her.

Slowly backing away from him, she smiled. "Let me play this one game first, and then I'll be with you."

With his heart in his throat, he watched her progress as she walked towards the pool table and swapped a few quick words with her opponent, who seemed to be humouring her. After the lively exchange, Claire pulled up the sleeves of her sweater to her elbow and rubbed her hands together. Before she began chalking the cuestick, she gave him a wink. That mere display made the muscles in his belly clench, literally whooshing the breath out of him. 

A slap on his back tore his gaze away from Claire. "Easy now lad," Willie said in a low, amused voice. "Ye look like ye could use the same drink as her."

Jamie glanced back at the subject of their conversation. "Aye, but make mine a double," he whispered.

"On it," Willie replied, laughing as he walked off.

What the bloody hell? He should be withdrawing himself away from this attraction because this mad instant bond between them was like an overloaded electrical fuse, capable of incinerating him alive. He'd already learnt his lesson from his last relationship. He'd been there and done that, but yet he didn't have the will to stop himself from finding out how their connection would play out.

Oh, Christ, this is bad. So, so bad, I'm in so much big trouble. Taking a huge sigh, he found himself a stool nearest to the pool table and watched Claire steal the show from the best snooker player in Broch Mordha.

[maviemesregles]

Twas two days before Christmas

This one-shot fic was written for @thelallybrochlibrary​ Holiday exchange.

A prompt from @maryooch​ :  "How about Jamie meets Claire while she’s trying to skate (badly) at Rockefeller center during the Christmas season. Both are unattached and in the city for different reasons."

Special thanks to Anne  @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur​  for always getting my messy ideas and improving them. For once again for making sure it's nice and readable for you guys.

Hope you enjoy and feel a wee bit festive! ❄️

AO3

New York, New York Frank Sinatra sang. The Big Apple stretched out all the way to the horizon in a milky white blanket of snow. The skyline pierced with gleaming structures of steel, glass, and concrete.

Claire stared out of the window where snow became even thicker than an hour ago and turned the buildings into giant ice cream cones.

“Honey, are you there?”

“Yes, Mum.” Beauchamp pressed her ear to her iPhone and climbed onto the high hotel bed. “I’m listening.”

“Baby, what did they tell you about the flight? Father has been calling British Airways at least a hundred times today. You know what he’s like.” Julia Beauchamp rattled around in the kitchen cupboards.

Claire dropped her head into the mass of pillows crispy scented of fresh laundry.

Of course, something like this could have happened only to her. After the three-day medical conference in New York, with bags full of gifts, sweets, booze for Dad, and cosmetics for Mum, Claire was ready to go back home for the holidays.

But this year the family tradition wasn’t going to happen because Claire got stuck in this city for God knows how long. The heavy blizzard came upon New York, forcing all the transatlantic flights to be cancelled. Red-faced, hands full of bags, and sweaty in her jumper, the English surgeon hissed “Fucking morons” when she was told she’s not flying today. And most likely not for the next three days. Her cell-phone kindly reminded her today is the 22nd day of December. Only two days left before Christmas. If not for being scared to be without a means of contact, Claire surely would have smashed the device on the white airport tiles.

“They put me into the hotel. It’s all paid.” She glanced at her suitcase, surrounded by shopping bags. “All flights to London cancelled.”

Reaching into one of the bags, Claire grabbed a chocolate bar, not caring about a proper lunch at the moment.

“What about Bristol? Manchester? Anything at all?” Her mother sighed, looking at the shopping list for Christmas dinner. “Dad could pick you up. Lamb just got the car back, all fixed.”

Chewing on the mint chocolate, Claire flicked through the menu on the side table.

“Nothing. I even checked flights to Edinburgh and Dublin. It looks like I’m stuck here.”

There was silence for a while. Claire could hear their dog Pop, an old pug, snoring in the background. All she wants to do is cry. Is it so much to ask? To be home for Christmas time?

“Oh, darling.” Her mother’s voice is soft and reassuring. She knows. “It’ll be fine. I’m certain that you will get home right in time for Christmas.”

After a brief goodbye, Claire checks the flight schedules again. Her frustration mounts and she begins to pace a circular path for at least ten minutes. Her nerves begin to fail her and she decides a cup of chamomile tea would be just the thing.

“Or better yet, a bottle of red," she speaks out loud filling the void for the room. She may as well take advantage of all this suite has to offer.

Her body relaxes into the lavender-scented bath foam, warming her chilly flesh as the fruity Sauvignon Blanc infuses her mouth. Later spurred by the TV forecast (damn the winter) Claire gets into leggings and oversized, knitted horridness of a sweater (decorated with mistletoes and festive ornaments all over it).  She shortly video chats with Geillis who is hugely disappointed Claire won’t get to the annual work party at the hospital.

“I do hope ye willna waste yer time in New York, a thasgaidh,*” hummed her ginger colleague. “Go to Time Square, Central Park or… Oh, weeeel, ye can go skating! Mebbe ye’ll find some attractive American who’d lay an eye on ye.” Geillis smirked.

Checking the explosion of hair on her head in the mirror, Claire sighed.

“If that attractive American is a pilot that takes me home, I would not mind, just tell me where to find him.” She tried to secure the naughty curls into something that could resemble a bun but eventually giving up.  “I feel like bloody Kevin McCallister,” Claire said as she slid into her boots.

“Weel, just dinna get in trouble with burglars.” Edgars barked a laugh and wished Beauchamp to have fun.

                                                   🎄  🎄  🎄    

Claire surely could say that Christmas time in New York must be wonderful. Even though her mood sunk to the lowest level, she became determined to raise her spirits. God, all those books about positivity and visualization her Mum reads out loud to her should have a hint of truth to them. Right?

The streets were decked with glimmering lights and dazzling displays. The chill in the air burned her cheeks and Claire was swept up into the herd of people like a fluffy sheep in her soft white woolly coat.

Roads were covered in a sparkling powder that made a nostalgic crunchy sound under feet. People were dressed in layers of scarves, cardigans, and warm winter coats. Some held onto hot beverages to warm their hands as well as their bodies. Some brave tourists were sporting red noses just like the one of Rudolph the reindeer Claire had seen in a Macy’s display. Everything was bright and festive. All the Christmas lights twinkled and the colourful signboards reflected off the snow. Christmassy music played from the shops displaying their wares touting them as the perfect gifts. The sounds of Christmas could be heard coming from phones and the passing cars. It was everywhere. Claire softly hummed a tune as her feet followed the crowd leading her to Rockefeller Center. When Claire lifted her head, her heart grew tender with childhood memories. She stood right in front of the huge Christmas tree, adorned with all its lights, the star on top causing Claire to get teary-eyed. She literally felt like a movie character standing here now. Glancing at rosy-cheeked, laughing people on the ice rink, she joined the queue.

“To hell with it.” She could make her own Christmas memories here, alone in NYC.

Claire had to admit she underestimated herself, thinking that skating is like riding a bike. But, she found that it most assuredly wasn't. She tried to keep her legs as steady as possible, trying to get used to gliding on the ice. Holding onto the rail, she wobbled around before she braced herself to finally go into the middle, and actually skate.

She surely thought that she looked like a penguin trying to find its friends, as she awkwardly moved around in the crowd. Occasionally, she squealed and even closed her eyes when particularly fast skaters passed her by. The moment Beauchamp thought she had got it, she pushed harder and began to glide on her skates. Before she knew it, she crashed into someone else. Clenching her fists and closing her eyes before her body hit the ice.

“Jesus. H. Roosevelt Christ!”

Falling down on her bottom, surgeon hissed at the burning feeling of her palms meeting the ice.

“Here, let me help ye.”

After no needed pause, Claire opened her eyes, glancing at the owner of the soft burr. The stranger whose hand was stretched out to help, smiled, a pair of blue eyes studying her intently.

“Thanks.” Giving a faint nod, Claire accepted the man’s hand. A swift pull and she was back on her feet, trapped between the arms of this bloody good looking man.

He was handsome from the depth of his cobalt blue eyes to the gentle tilt in his voice. A face with striking features Claire was sure she likely won’t forget. The strong jaw with a shadow of stubble and lips that took the soft shape of a smile. A scent of expensive cologne swirled around him. And the hair of the brightest red she’d ever seen.

“Yer didna hurt yerself, lass?” The man steadied her with both of his hands firmly on her waist.

Claire’s cheeks turned into a lovely shade of pink and she could feel the heat of his touch growing on her skin. Beauchamp dropped her gaze down her feet, mumbling.

“I’m fine. Though it takes some time for the pain to settle in and I can only hope I will be able to walk tomorrow.” She waved her hand in no particular direction but rather in frustration.

The stranger smiled as they awkwardly skated to the rail. Claire glanced at him through her lashes smiling back.

“So yer a Sassenach then.”

“Excuse me?” Claire furrowed her eyebrows, unable to stop looking at him. Damn him, he was attractive.

Her saviour let out a soft laugh.

“Yer English, no?” Besides his remark about her Englishness (Claire figured he was a Scot in mere seconds), his tone was kind. “It means an English person or an outlander.”

“How lovely.” Claire snorted examining her palms.

“I didna mean to offend ye.” He leaned to touch her shoulder gently. It took Claire longer then it should to speak up, the words burning against her dry throat.

“You didn’t.” The surgeon gave him a lopsided smile, stretching out her hand. “I’m Claire. Thanks for saving my arse.”

The Scot barked a laugh and took her hand in his. Claire wasn’t sure if she imagined it or not, but the way his skin felt upon hers gave her the rush of goosebumps all over it. Did he feel it too?

“I’m Jamie. And I’m more than glad to save such a lovely arse.”

What an eejit, he thought to himself. Who says that to a lass ten minutes after meeting her?

He already opened his mouth to give her a stream of apologies but she bit her lip and the bell of laughter warmed his heart. A Dhia, she was lovely.

Jamie had noticed her almost immediately when she entered the rink. That mass of curls that made her look like a fairy that stepped out the Scottish legends. He had to smile at the lass when she tried to skate (and very badly to his own good luck). Jamie watched her for a while when he could catch a glimpse of her absolutely horrid Christmas jumper and her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Her arse did not escape his attention either, perfectly round in those leggings.

As they made their way toward the lockers to gather their belongings, he learned she was from London. A surgeon visiting here for a medical conference. And no, she has never been to Edinburgh.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the window, Claire mentally admitted there were times when she had looked better when a man approached her. She could feel Jamie’s eyes on her back as she did her shoelaces, slowly she brought her head up, eyes locking with his.

The blue oceans met the whisky rivers. Claire wanted to say that she should go, it’s getting dark, and this day had got the better out of her. But instead, she took a step as if an invisible magnet was pulling her towards him. There was a silence that drowned them both into the abyss of unknown but much-needed connection.

“Jamie, I -” Her tongue, feeling like sandpaper, moved ever so slowly.

She felt hypnotized, barely registering that she started to walk the opposite way to the exit. But the next second, she found herself staring at their linked hands and his eyes travelling to her face.

“Wait, Claire.” Jamie wet his lips, the corners curl into an almost apologetic-like smile. “I ken it might be daft as we just met, but would ye do me the honor of joining me for dinner?"

She glanced at him, with eyes warm like a fine aged scotch.

“I would not mind a company.”

“I ken a perfect spot.” His hand on the small of her back, leading out of the crowd.

                                                   🎄  🎄  🎄

Claire was sure the air crackled with electricity or chemistry (or whatever they call it) as she and Jamie walked through the snowy streets of New York. The roads have been only partially plowed and cleaned. Beauchamp found her legs drowned up to the ankles in the fluffy mass. Jamie carried her over the asphalt where the snow began to turn into mushy puddles from the trampling of an endless stream of pedestrian traffic. Claire giggled as he carried her across each puddle, and felt the tips of her ears turn scarlet red.

The distance between them grew closer and closer until eventually, their shoulders were brushing against each other. She had learned that Jamie was born in the area of Inverness. He had a huge family, a sister and a brother which included many nieces and nephews as well. Claire smiled when she noticed his proud tone when he spoke about his father and the particular tenderness when he mentioned his older sister Jenny. Jamie had worked for the last three years in the US and at 34 years old he was a successful entrepreneur.

Claire mentioned the nomadic lifestyle she lived when she was a child. Her parents worked a lot and she had spent two years travelling with her uncle Lamb. She had a best friend, a Scottish lass named Geillis. Beauchamp liked to read and spend time in the garden with her mum. She sadly recounted that she had made the mistake of getting married only to find herself divorced after four months of the young marriage. Her ex-husband’s name was Frank. The memories made her uncomfortable and she did not want to remember more. Jamie did not ask further, only stating he never married.

“And yer telling me ye have no boyfriend?” Fraser’s hand curled over her delicate shoulder, encouraging Claire (to her own delight) to nestle closer against him. It was such a casual move that she had thought she knew Jamie for ages already. The warmth that was radiating from him rooted deep in her belly and was rising up and up, making her ache at the very core of her being.

“Seeing no one.” Claire shook her head, peeking at him through her lashes. “And how is that my fellow Brit is not with a lassie? ”

Jamie made a sound deep from his chest, something typically Scottish she’d gathered.

“I am with a lassie, and a verra bonnie one, I must say, am I not?” He smirked, though his voice was painted with seriousness.

“Flatterer.” Claire dropped her head, pretending her boots were much more interesting than anything else she’d seen. In truth, it was to hide a smile.

Later their hands merged together, fingers entwining. The strangeness and absolute familiarity of their palms fitting together was something neither of them could explain. Everything seemed to be suspended around them causing the time to become disjointed. Finally, they arrived at their destination.

“Highlands NYC?” Claire read out loud the name of the place Jamie had brought her. “Really? Out of all places in New York, you brought me to Highlander bar?”

The tips of Jamie's ears burned, the red matching his hair. Letting a shaky breath, his lips leaned over to her ear.

“Sassenach, ye should experience Scotland to its fullest.”

That moment Beauchamp went weak in her knees. The raspiness in his voice and… God damn, all of him almost forced her to drag Jamie to the nearest toilet and indeed enjoy one of Scotland's sons to his fullest. She did not.

They sat at the bar since all the tables were booked. The barstools migrated as close as possible for Jamie’s fingers to run freely at the expense on her back, sending goosebumps all over the skin. Her knees accidentally touched his. She laughed, loud and infectious at his stories. Throwing her head all the way back, exposing the pale skin on her neck, placing the blue of her veins in full view. The sight made his cock twitch. She laughed heartily, smacking her palm on his thigh when she found his joke particularly funny. Jamie's breath hitched becoming shallow and broken. She licked her lips. Claire slid her hand over the cold glass containing her cocktail. Her movements were deliberate, slow, down and up over the patterned glass mimicking... What did Geillis say about the unconscious signs?

Fraser shifted in his seat, more than ready to suggest they go somewhere where they find their way to each other. The hot air inside the pub and between them made both ache for each other.

But the food arrived distracting them from their lustful thought. They dined on Haggis dressed in whisky butter, and warm quinoa with crispy spiced chickpeas. They laughed and joked, speaking of this and that learning about each other. As the evening wore on, Claire found her heart beating its way out of her ribcage. She leaned in planting a soft kiss on Jamie's cheek fearful of having to whisper words of parting lying on the tip of her tongue. But she found she was not yet ready to say goodbye yet.

“Would ye like me to walk ye to yer hotel?” His voice was hoarse, scented with the whisky he had drunk. Claire leaned into him whispering:

“Yes.”

They hadn’t said goodbye in front of the hotel. Not in the foyer, either. Certainly not in the lift. As they stood in front of each other surrounded by glass cubicle she moved first.

Before he knew it Jamie’s mouth was claimed by hers. Chest heaving and gasping for air, both parted and stared at each other until the lift announced their destination with a soft Ding.

Claire’s hands shook, the room card almost slipping out of her sweaty palms. The second her feet entered the room, Jamie had pulled her closer by the waist. The lengths of the bodies pressing, Claire’s cheeks flaming hot. He breathed heavily as he left a trail of burning kisses down the column of her neck.

“Christ, I want ye.”

Cupping her arse Jamie’s lips traveled up, taking her bottom lip between his. She smiled against his mouth, hands pulling at his nape, closer and closer, until the kiss could actually hurt. She could feel the length of him, hard and ready through his jeans and it made her almost blind with animal-like want.

“Take this off,” Claire whispered pulling at the hem of his shirt. Aching for him became powerful to the point where she could not bother unbuttoning his shirt, Claire just yanked the soft material over his head.

She could swear she heard him growl when her sweater followed the same destination as Jamie’s shirt and landed into the fabric puddle on the floor. No bra in the way, Jamie did not hesitate to kiss his way down Claire’s cleavage, stopping for the thorough exploration of each breast. Her mouth dropped open in a silent plea when his lips captured the nipple. Almost burning with the heat that grew between her thighs and made her belly ache, Claire reached down, to unbuckle his jeans. Tongues danced, lips bitten surely to swell come the morning, teeth raking over the soft skin of the neck. Pulling the leggings with underwear to her ankles Jamie definitely left blueish trails where his fingers pressed. But it was a delicious feeling that bordered with painful pleasure. They stumbled upon the bed, falling into it, a suppressed laugh emerging between their mouths. Gently but firmly Jamie had pushed Claire flat on her back, letting his hand trace the invisible paths all the way from the high hills of her neck, down to the valley between her breasts, the plain expanses of her belly, all the way down to the hidden secrets between her thighs.

She moaned into his lips when his fingers had found her apex between her thighs. His bold caresses drew sighs, moans, and keening that he longed to hear. With the right pace and rhythm he drew those sounds out of her. Claire’s curls flew all over the white pillow. Air! She needed air and began to take deep lungfuls. Writhing as the sweet torture continued, Claire took large fistfuls of linens as an anchor. Arching into his hand, she had lost all the train of coherent thoughts.

“Jamie…” Gasping for air burning hot in her throat, she finally broke into the million atoms finding herself thousands of light-years later, breathing heavily, the sweat trickling down her nape.

“Ye’re so beautiful when ye become undone.” Jamie murmured, lips pressing a soft kiss at her brow.

Still shaking Claire reached between them finding a condom and gladly placed it on him. She’d found herself again in Jamie’s embrace. Still, she kissed him hungrily with the remnants of her own satisfaction yet to fade, asking for more. Jamie did not need much encouragement and with the slightest nod of her head, guided himself into her. The sudden, hot sensation of him made Claire throw her head back. Seized lungs could not produce any coherent sound. As Jamie’s hips moved fast into her, reaching that right spot, again and again, she could only cling to him for dear life. When Jamie’s own breathing became slow and shuddering, it wasn't clear where he began and she ended. The world expanded beyond itself. It grew into a million colourful stars shining brightly around them.

Well into the night, as Claire slept, he drew tender paths with his fingers mapping the lines and valleys of her body.

Later she awoke from her sweet slumber by the quiet rustle next to her. Jamie sat upright, hands roaming on the floor in the search of his underwear and jeans. For some reason, it bitterly stung. Claire slowly brought her hand up, gently touching his back.

“Please stay.”

                                                 🎄  🎄  🎄

Claire was sure it’s all had been a dream. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and in ten minutes her mother will call her downstairs to help start making dinner preparations. The brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes are not going to cook themselves. Her still sleepy mind started registering unusual noisy traffic outside, quite the opposite of the calm London neighbourhood where her parents lived. She turned to her side, eyes still tightly shut. Claire wasn’t sure now if she wanted to open her eyes and find herself home (where she so desperately wanted to be just twenty-four hours ago) or to wake up to the reality of finding one particular Scot next to her?

The mattress felt unfamiliar and too comfy. Her old bed in Beauchamps house surely did not feel that way. Moreover, the heat radiating from her left side was more likely from a person than the furnace. Claire’s eyes snapped open and she had to blink several times to get used to the bright sun, bouncing off the snowy scenery outside.

“Weel, hello to ye, sleeping beauty. I was afraid ye’d been cursed and would never wake.” Jamie rolled onto his belly, propping himself on the elbow. “Though it’s rather a nice sight to observe”

He ran his fingers down the line of Claire’s jaw before leaning in to kiss her.

“So you’re not a dream.” She smiled and pulled the blanket up higher than her waist, suddenly feeling shy. “What’s this?”

Her brows furrowed in confusion as Jamie fished his phone out, nodding to the screen.

“I don’t understand.”

“Ye’re going home, Sassenach.” He chuckled, feeling quite proud that he’d managed to find them both tickets to Edinburgh this evening. Jamie rather never did say out loud the price he paid but the look on Claire’s face was worth much more than that.

“Bloody hell!” She squealed, not believing her eyes. “How can I ever repay you?”

Jamie smiled when her hands wrapped around his neck.

"Love me some more, Sassenach.”

[linskywords]

1M Words Week: 1988 Handfasting

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7

It’s the last unfinished opening! This one is a vaguely pre-industrial AU where young people can get matched up by matchmakers at the spring equinox and have until the summer solstice to decide if they want to get married. Guess who Jonny gets matched with?? (It might not be who you think!)

***

It’s two weeks before the gathering at Waysmeet, and Patrick is exactly where he doesn’t want to be.

“I don’t see why I have to help with this,” Patrick says from his spot on Erica’s bed while she spins in front of him.

“Because I need the male perspective.” She peers over her shoulder to try to see herself from behind. “How do I look in this one?”

“You could still wait for next year,” he says. “I mean, you’re kind of young for it, right?”

Erica heaps six more dresses in his arms. “I’m old for it, and you know it.”

She’s technically correct: plenty girls go to their first handfasting at sixteen, and at seventeen Erica will be older than a lot of the other first-timers there. “Yeah, but you—murglthmp,” he says as Erica dumps at least half the contents of her wardrobe in his arms.

“Hm, I’m definitely wearing the blue,” she says, ignoring Patrick’s groans of distress. “Put the rest of them away for me, will you?”

Patrick spits out a mouthful of worn cotton and glares daggers at her, until he notices the sparkle in her eyes.

“Okay, fine, you can dump them on the bed,” she says.

He does and collapses next to them. “There’s other stuff, though. Mom said maybe we could travel this summer, if we save up enough. Edinburgh, even. There’s a competition—”

“Should I wear the black sash or the gray?” she says, interrupting him.

He bites his lip. He shouldn’t be surprised when she shuts him down; she does it every time he tries to talk to her about this, these days. “It shouldn’t matter if you look good,” he says instead. “Aren’t the matchmakers supposed to see into your soul or something?”

“Don’t be naive,” she says, twirling again with the blue dress held in front of her. “It always matters what you look like.”

Her blond hair is spinning out behind her, her face shining, her eyes set off by the blue of the dress. It’s really worrisome. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wear this?” he asks, pulling something out of the pile.

She stops spinning and looks over. “That’s from five years ago and the hem’s torn off.”

“It’ll…show where you come from?” Patrick tries.

She shoves him over so that he falls back onto the bed. “Nice try. But I’m not going into this to fail.”

Patrick knows. That’s the problem.

***

He’s supposed to go with her to Waysmeet. It’s usually the parents, but his mom spins some story about how she’s too busy with the vegetable gardens to go, which really means she wants him to go. She probably thinks it’ll be good for him, or something.

He spends the next two weeks dreading the trip, but when the day finally comes, the journey is surprisingly nice. It’s one of those days in the middle of spring when the sun has finally come out properly and the world remembers how to be warm again. They could have gotten a ride in the Collins’ wagon, but it’s bumpy and slow and they both hate the feeling of sitting there with nothing to do. They go on horseback instead, riding at a reasonable pace except when the giddiness of the perfect day overtakes them and they have to go into a gallop, laughing and whooping and racing to the nearest large rock. Their horses put up with it; they’ve grown up with the Kane children.

After an hour or so they stop and eat the dried apples and cheese their mom packed in their saddlebags, lazing in the sun and letting the breeze cool them from the ride. They have a contest to see who can throw their apple cores the farthest (Patrick, obviously, whatever Erica says about branch interference). When Erica finally gets past the rock wall, she puts her hands in the air and cheers, and Patrick thinks, This could be the farthest we ever get to travel together.

It’s silly—they were just kids when they talked about stuff like that, going to strange new places and seeing everything there was to see. It was always him and Erica talking about it; Jackie and Jess were never very interested. Patrick used to lie in bed at night when he couldn’t sleep and try to imagine the places they’d see. Then there were a few years when all he could think about was keeping their family together, and traveling seemed impossible—but they’ve been good, lately. He was thinking maybe they could actually act on it. Until Erica started talking about handfasting.

It’s a lot harder to pretend they’re just out for a ride once lunch is behind them. Patrick starts recognizing the landmarks he remembers from all their previous trips for solstices and equinoxes and harvest festivals. It won’t be long now.

They hear the noise of the great clearing before they reach it. Erica stops on the side of the road and makes Patrick stand guard while she changes out of her riding clothes. When she come back in her blue dress and mounts sidesaddle, Patrick feels like he doesn’t recognize her. Never mind that he’s seen her in dresses riding sidesaddle before. This person who’s about to offer her hand to the matchmakers looks like a woman—the kind who’ll have a home and family of her own soon. Not the girl he was throwing apple cores with just a few hours earlier, the one who used to talk about seeing the vast stretch of the ocean.

The meadow is as crowded as a harvest festival, but the air feels different. It’s humming with expectation. People are standing in little family clusters, in line for the matchmakers or already done and waiting for the gong to sound to begin the ceremony. And everywhere Patrick looks, he sees strings.

Golden ones. Leather ones. Cabled rope. Some that shimmer in the sunlight, and others that are thick and soft like good cloth. They’re around the wrists of the young men right now, but when they leave the meadow, they’ll be around the wrists of the young women.

Patrick leaves Erica and goes to tie up the horses. When he comes back, she’s made friends with the girls ahead of her in line for the matchmakers’ tent. She introduces them to Patrick, but he doesn’t really register their names. He’s busy staring warily at the line for the other tent, at the men entering with strings around their wrists.

One of them will be taking Erica away from them.

Well—not necessarily. Not everyone gets matched at their first handfasting, or even their second. There’s not supposed to be any shame in that. But he looks at Erica, already deep in conversation with these girls she’s just met, and he has a feeling that she’s not going to get out of here without a string around her wrist.

Some of the boys in the line on the other side of the tent try to get the girls’ attention as the lines get closer together. One of them, a big, red-faced guy with a crooked nose, spits six feet in front of him and stands up with a pleased smile, looking around to see if any of the girls have noticed. Someone else shoves him and laughs as he goes down into his own spittle.

“Urgh,” Erica says.

“See?” Patrick says. “See what you could end up with?”

“They’re not all like that,” Erica says. And she’s right: lots of the boys are just standing in line quietly, or talking to each other. Or, if they’re looking over at the girls, doing it with shy smiles.

“Still,” Patrick says darkly, and she rolls her eyes.

The line seems to take a long time. It’s still only early afternoon, but the days aren’t that long yet; the sun creeps from in front of them to the side by the time they get to the front. “Last chance to turn back,” Patrick says to Erica.

“I could say the same for you,” she says, and when he looks down, she’s holding out a ribbon.

His eyes widen. He recognizes it: it’s the pale blue fabric of the dress their mother wore to her own handfasting two decades ago and has worn on many holidays since, the one she’s never cut up for rags even once it got too threadbare to be worth patching. This isn’t a last-minute offer.

“No,” he blurts out, his voice sharper than he means it to be. He can’t. Not—not yet. “No.”

“Fine, fine.” She stuffs the ribbon back into a fold of her dress. “Wish me luck, then,” she says, and follows the line into the tent.

Patrick backs away.

***

She won’t tell him what happened in the tent, afterward. Just: “I get it a little more now.”

Patrick doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get why you’d let a stranger pair you up, even if you don’t have to get married at the end of it. Doesn’t get why you’d try to chain yourself to someone when you don’t have to.

They still have some time to kill until the gong. Erica talks to some of her new friends from the matchmaking line, and they survey the guys with ribbons and giggle quietly among themselves. Patrick doesn’t even want to know what they’re saying. He worries at the inside of his pockets and tries not to think much.

When the gong sounds, everything goes silent.

The crowd turns toward the tent. The matchmakers come out, in the black robes that are always worn by the Order of the Seven Knells. They flow through the crowd like a ripple of water, touching hands here and there, bringing people together and talking in low voices. Patrick wonders if they know, if they’ve worked everything out beforehand, or if they’re feeling it out as they go. Either way, they seem very sure of what they’re doing. It’s almost soothing, watching the pattern unfold—or it would be, if the stakes weren’t so high.

Erica is quivering next to him. Patrick’s looking at her, so he sees the moment everything changes: when her mouth drops open a little, and her quivering stops. He turns to see one of the matchmakers coming toward them, a young man in tow.

Well. She didn’t end up with one of the ugly ones, at least.

Patrick doesn’t want to see him, this guy who might be Erica’s future, but he can’t help but look. He’s tall, a few inches taller than Patrick, and his face is…not bad. Well, okay, fine, it’s a really nice face, nice in a way that feels new, like Patrick’s never seen a face like his before. His eyes are a bright clear brown, and his whole expression is open, cheekbones and jaw and mouth all fitting together in a way that seems obviously right now that Patrick’s seen it.

The matchmaker leads him up to Erica and joins their hands. “Jonny,” the stranger says, and Erica’s curtsy is perfect. Jonny’s smiling at her, soft and warm, and she’s smiling back. Then Jonny cuts his eyes to Patrick, and—

And oh. Oh.

Patrick’s insides jolt like he’s plunged into deep water. He can’t breathe—doesn’t want to breathe; just wants to keep looking. Wants to have Jonny keep looking back—just like he is—just keep looking at Patrick, forever, and—

“Jonny,” says the matchmaker, and Jonny turns away, back to the ceremony.

Erica’s saying some words. Patrick can’t quite hear them. Then Jonny is, too, something about yes, and bonds, and taking care, and then the matchmaker’s untying the string from Jonny’s wrist. Looping it around his wrist and Erica’s.

“Until the midsummer is upon us,” the matchmaker says. She takes her hands away, and Jonny and Patrick’s sister are joined.

Patrick feels like he’s been dropped off a cliff.

***

He’s supposed to make himself scarce while the two handfasters get to know each other. It’s supposed to be solemn and ceremonial.

Erica kicks him in the ankle. “Patty,” she says, “find us our dinner.”

“Hey.” He hops away and rubs his ankle bone. His voice sounds almost normal, hardly breathless at all. He’s proud of himself. “Can’t you find your own dinner?”

She holds out her hand, bound to Jonny’s, in mute protest. Patrick makes a face, and Jonny laughs. He has a nice laugh: warm and rolling. Patrick takes a step back. “Sure, sure,” he says, and goes back to where they left their horses.

It’s cooler over there, under the trees. Patrick takes a minute to rest his forehead against the horse’s neck. He’s had Vesper since he was ten, and the coarse smoothness of his coat is familiar and calming. He leaves his head there, breathing in and out to a count of ten.

He always knew it would suck, when Erica got paired of. He just—he never expected—

Vesper whickers softly, and Patrick pulls himself back up.

Their mom packed Erica a separate dinner for the occasion. That’s part of the tradition: the woman’s family provides dinner for the handfasting night, a sort of exchange for the string that will be offered. Patrick takes it back to where Erica and Jonny are still standing, talking quietly together. They look up when Patrick approaches, and Jonny’s eyes crinkle into a smile, and Patrick trips over a piece of ground.

“Don’t break the dinner,” Erica says, rescuing the package from his hands.

“I won’t,” Patrick says, but then he stumbles again straightening himself out. He’s rescued by a hand on his arm: Jonny’s hand, big and warm and solid around his bicep.

“You okay?” Jonny asks.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, as Jonny unwinds his hand. Patrick’s stomach is full of fizz. “Um, sorry, I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“Lies,” Erica says. “He can’t even aim an apple core.”

Jonny grins at her, and the fizz in Patrick’s stomach goes flat.

“Um,” Patrick says, fighting against the void in his middle, “do you have anyone who, uh…” He looks around behind Jonny, where one of his parents would usually be standing.

“Oh!” Jonny says. “No, sorry, they had to stay with the farm.”

“A farm, huh?” Erica says.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, face lighting up a little. “It’s a great little piece of land in Abshire—but, sorry, you guys must be hungry. Should we eat?” He looks at both of them, eyebrows raised a little, and it takes Patrick a minute to realize what he’s suggesting. He can feel his face getting warm.

“No. I, uh, I don’t eat with you guys,” he says. “I’ll just—” He puts their dinner into Jonny’s free hand, the one that’s not joined with Erica’s, and Jonny takes it but looks confused.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you how it works,” Erica says, as if she’s ever been to a handfasting before either, and Jonny turns toward her, smiling, the two of them a self-contained package.

Patrick hurries away.

***

Normally, he’d eat dinner with whoever accompanied Jonny, but there isn’t anyone. So he sits on a rock alone and watches all the happy new couples and their families around him.

It’s okay. He can’t imagine eating right now anyway, even though he does have a dinner in its tidy wrapping in front of him. His stomach is tied in knots.

His mother has been telling him for weeks that he needs to find a way to be happy for Erica. To hope for the best for her, even if it’s not what sounds like the best to him. And this is that, isn’t it? She could have gotten someone who wasn’t kind and thoughtful, whose hands were coarse instead of gentle, whose face didn’t light up when he talked about his family. Who didn’t meet your eyes and strike a light in you just by looking.

Patrick’s whole body feels like it’s vibrating.

The first mingling after the handfasting ceremony lasts until the sun starts to sink over the mountains. When the shadows get long, Patrick gets up from his rock and goes over to find Erica and Jonny. They’re sitting on the grass, remains of a picnic in front of them, hands still tangled together.

It’s stupid how much his eyes fix on that sight as he walks toward them. Their fingers overlaying each other. He can’t look away. “Hey,” he says, and they both look up at the sound of his voice. “Sorry to, uh, interrupt, but…”

“Is it time?” Jonny turns back to Erica. “It was an honor to meet you tonight,” he says seriously, and she smiles, a little shy. “May I?” he asks, one hand on the string binding them together.

She nods, and he unties the loop so that their hands are free. The string is a soft leather one, wide and only a shade or two darker than Erica’s skin. Jonny takes the string and bends over it intently, tying it loosely but securely around her wrist.

His hair is cut short, like most men wear it. Patrick’s eyes fall on the soft fuzz on the back of his neck as he leans over.

“Thank you,” Erica says when Jonny’s done, and he helps her rise.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” he says. It’s mostly a formality—all the men go to visit their handfasted the day after the ceremony. But Jonny makes it sound like a question.

“Of course,” Erica says.

Jonny turns to Patrick then, and Patrick panics for a second. Jonny holds his hand out, and Patrick clasps it. It’s large and warm and strong, like it felt when he took Patrick’s arm. “Nice to meet you,” Jonny says.

His face is so close. “You, too,” Patrick says, though it wasn’t. Whatever meeting Jonny has been, it hasn’t been nice.

[lightthewayofficial]

Chapter One: Atticus

The Parish family have been in the service of the Klaus Foundation since 1853. Queen Victoria and King Albert, both partial to a Christmas celebration, had countless serving staff to make their holiday as spectacular as possible, William Parish being amongst them. Bill had shown a particularly commendable demonstration of seasonal good-will when he’d saved Queen Vicky from being set alight by one of the Christmas tree candles. Saving the British Monarchy from being burned alive was very much considered in line with the Christmas spirit, and he was thus knighted by the reigning Santa Clause (at the time, this was Georg Klaus II). 

Parish continued to serve the British Royal Family into his old age. Whilst his children did not receive work within the palace, they were offered a coveted place at the Klaus dinner table and an invite to the Boxing Day Ball every year. After Bill’s daughter, Molly, managed to quickly avert a Christmas pudding related crisis- rather too much brandy, rather a lot of bushy beard in proximity of the pudding’s flame- it made sense for Georg II to employ the Parishes permanently. The Klaus Foundations’ fire-putter-outers. Today, the most recent generation of Parishes has recently hung up his fire hose, though, disappointingly, he didn’t get much of an opportunity to use it. 

His son, Atticus Parish, is currently stepping off the District Line at High Street Kensington to meet his girlfriend, Saskia Harper-Smith. He is ready for a cigarette after a long day of photocopying, and he’s absolutely bloody starving, because a Pret-a-Manger crayfish salad may be delicious but it certainly isn’t filling.

I am that man. Enough of the pretentious third person- I am Atticus Parish. And if I have to spend one more day at that Advertising company, I may just start tearing the photocopy machine apart bit by bit, and throw all the pieces across the office. I feel like I could easily revert back to my caveman days if I slip, even just a little. One more ‘are you busy, Atticus? Could I trouble you to print 300 of these flyers?’ and I’ll be a monkey flinging poo at the zoo enclosure window. 

Usually, the Christmas spirit is enough to pick me right back up. These past few weeks, I’ve seen Kensington High Street putting up its lights, colouring its shop windows with stockings and wrapping paper, litter the streets with after-school and after-work shoppers. It’s nice. I can smell cinnamon when I walk past Starbucks. I can wrap my scarf closer around my neck and sink into that seasonal feeling that usually has butterflies fluttering in my belly. Typically, I’m that person who’s sickeningly festive and starts playing Michael Buble in October. 

What can I say? It runs in my family. 

But there’s something different this year. And the year before that. And before that. Really, it’s since I left University. It’s like, whatever little switch that I have in my brain that automatically flicks on when 1st December rolls by has gone faulty. The fuse has tripped and I can’t turn it back on. These past few years I’ve been fumbling in the boiler room cupboard searching for the bloody thing with a little torch, and I just can’t find it. 

Actually, I don’t think that feeling is just reserved for my missing Christmas Spirit. This disorientation has been a general feeling for a while. Sometimes, it seems like every single twenty-something year old feels the same. 

An ambulance screams down the High Street. Boys in their school uniforms trapse out of Sports Direct, unable to afford any of the shoes they’ve had their eyes on all year. I turn left and step in a puddle that smells suspiciously of beer and piss. That’s just the fragrance of London. 

I put in the keycode for Saskia’s apartment building, opposite the Indian Restaurant that I always have to go to to pick up the food because Saskia’s called shotgun. I take the steps one by one, very slowly, and I open the flat door with my key. 

Saskia is home. This is unusual. She sits on the dogleg sofa with her tight-clad feet tucked under her bum. She extends a cigarette towards me before I even get to ask her how her day was. 

I take the cigarette. She’s staring at the page of her book. “How was your day?” I manage to ask. 

“Oh,” she sighs, in the way that says, oh, you know. Shit as usual. “Wine’s open on the counter.” “Brilliant.” I see the bottle of Campo Vecchio open on the black, marble top counter. I walk past Saskia’s abandoned Leboutins, towards the bedroom. 

I leave the door open behind me as I remove a suitcase from our shared wardrobe and begin to throw in random pairs of underwear. 

I hear movement on the sofa.

“What are you doing?” she asks, as if she already knows. 

“I’m going to The North Pole,” I reply, a bit giddily. 

“Don’t be daft.” I can smell her cigarette smoke, and it reminds me that I haven’t lit mine. I take a lighter from my jacket pocket and light the cigarette dangling between my chapped lips.  “You haven’t told them you’re coming.”

I pause, pyjama bottoms in hand. “That’s true. I haven’t been back in about fifteen years. It’d be rude to turn up unannounced, wouldn’t it?” “It’s less that,” Saskia calls casually. “I’m sure they’ll be slobbering all over a Parish, back in the good old NP. It’s more that you might not have a job waiting for you there.” My packing slows as I begin to fold my pyjamas carefully. I tap my cigarette on the closest mug; the ash was very close to burning a small hole through my tartan PJs. 

“Ever sensible. What would I do without you, Sas.” “Well, you’d better start thinking up the answer to that fast. Pole’s a long way away, sweet.”

I come to a stop then. Slowly turning around, I measure the view of my girlfriend, sat in her minimalist living room with smoke drifting around her straightened, dark-brown hair. She’s still burrowed in her book. 

“I’m sorry, Sas.”

That makes her put down her book, looking at me over the back of the sofa with a frown. “What on Earth are you apologising for, Atticus? You and I both know we don’t love each other that way.” At this point, Saskia’s blunt delivery shouldn’t come as a shock. It does, even now, even after knowing her for five years. “I know. I mean. We’ve spoken about it. But that doesn’t make it less rubbish that I’m up and leaving.”

She turns back to her book. 

“I’d rather you’d go if it’s your gut instinct, Attie. Your gut’s always been a good guide.”

“Only when you need help choosing from the takeaway menu.” She doesn’t laugh. I laugh to myself a little, though. 

“What made you decide this now?” she continues. “You could pop back to your apartment and get some proper clothes. You haven’t left an awful lot here.” “It just struck me as I was walking through High Street Ken.” “Ah. The horrible commercial aspect of it all?” I’m on hands and knees, rummaging under Saskia’s bed. She has some of those amazing vacuum pack things with a few of my winter jumpers in. I pull one of the packs out and it’s rock hard, like a sachet of compressed cocoa powder. 

“Sort of,” I say, voice coming out strained as I try and open the vacuum nozzle. “It’s just-” I pop the nozzle open, and it wheezes like an air mattress. “All the stuff in the news. The horrible political situation. Ice caps melting.” “Mmm.” “And what people need most is hope, a light to guide them, and instead it’s iPhones and Build-a-Bears.” “I like iPhones.” “And I like Build-a-Bears,” I continue, opening the vacuum bag and finding my warmest Edinburgh Woolen Mill knitted item. I have a fair few. “I’m not diminishing the power of a good present, of those little gestures. Of those things in life that make you happy. But the world is just so much more complex than our parents ever made it out to be, and now-”

There’s a thud from the apartment upstairs. The neighbours’ toddler has just started walking, and she keeps bumping into things. The comes a shrill cry as she registers that she’s fallen over. 

“Now,” I continue, “even when there’s good intentions behind it, even when these material things are helpful or fun or good, or whatever, it’s hard to forget that it’s probably been made in some sweatshop. Or that the company that came up with it isn’t paying any taxes- or it’s burning down the Amazon Rainforest. Or that one action figure is wrapped up in layers of pointless plastic packaging.”

A deep breath. And then I fold a second jumper and put it in the suitcase.

“Oh. Sorry- mind if I steal your suitcase, Sas?” “No. Has all of this only just occurred to you? And when did you become such a pessimist, Atticus Parish? I’ve never known you to talk like this, and quite frankly it’s terrifying.” I’m searching through my shirts. Why don’t I own any turtlenecks? “I know, it really is terrifying.” “Does this mean that you’re officially pursuing the Parish family business at Klaus Foundation, then?” “I suppose it does.” I zip up the suitcase.

“I’m.” There’s a pause, and I hear here close her book whilst I’m zipping. “I’m happy for you, Atticus. It’s always mattered to you, spreading hope and joy and all those sorts of things. Much more of a natural at Christmas spirit than me.” I’ve forgotten my toothbrush. My voice echoes in the bathroom as I say, “How would you know? You could be a natural. You’re a Smith who’s never wielded a blacksmith’s hammer before. Have you ever wielded a hammer, Saskia Harper-Smith?”

“No, and I daresay I never will.”

I pull the heavy suitcase off the bed- I packed too many shoes, but never mind- and I suddenly catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. Red curls getting too long, nose still red from the cold outside. Looking more energetic than I have in a long time- which is only, really, the sort of thing you notice when you’ve been particularly sluggish for a long time. Suddenly, I feel like I don’t have the time to stop and think about all of this. 

The sound of the suitcase rolling on the polished concrete floor is horribly loud. Saskia is standing, cigarette put out, only halfway finished. Her large eyes look suddenly larger and more childlike than they ever have before. 

“Look after yourself, thank you,” she demands.

“Of course, darling.” I bring her into a hug. She doesn’t typically like them, but I do, and she acquiesces today. I feel her skinny hand pat me awkwardly between the shoulder blades. 

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I mumble into the material of her cardigan. 

There’s barely a beat’s hesitation before she replies, “Yes you do.”

✨✨✨✨

It’s been a very long time since I’ve been on the boat to Håperg. 

This close to Christmas, it’s frankly irresponsible that I’m on this boat close to the darkest, coldest time of the year- and it’s remarkably lucky that these kind people have offered to take me. But here I am, and here they are, and I’ve done my best to offer them some of my tea from my flask as a thank you but they just smile and shake their heads politely. 

Seagulls screech overhead. I’m always amazed by how far-out seagulls fly- I don’t know enough about their eating habits to understand what they’re doing here. They’re probably thinking the same of me. The water occasionally splashes over the side, though the current isn’t that bad. It’s the ice that’s the problem, and I can’t shake off that unsettling feeling that we’ll just be the miniature version of The Titanic and end up sinking out here. When I came out here as a child, I didn’t really think about my own mortality so much. Now, I’m looking around and all I see is the receding shoreline of Spitsbergen and the sun failing to reach the horizon, that weak, pinkish glow dusting the clouds. It’s a bit terrifying.  

It’s perfect here.

I remember how much I loved it the first time, when I was six; the second time when I was ten. My lasting memory of both visits is the taste of chocolate and the cold scraping up my lungs. I loved it here, I loved seeing where my father came to work four months of the year. I won’t ever fully understand why he tried to put me off it, and I won’t understand how he almost succeeded. 

I close my eyes and breath in, and let the gentle rock of the boat silence my thoughts. The old engine roars and the seagulls continue to sing. I watch the ripples in the water, the pink and the stars reflected in the mirror sea-surface. 

It takes a good couple more hours for the boat to moor. The ocean is eerily still, the wind whistling in a high-pitched shriek. It picks up the ice in the air and whisks it around. It’s pitch-black out here now, as it will be for the next few months of the year. And this would be a frightening place, if not for the glittering lights of Håperg in the distance. Like fallen stars on the horizon. It’s just as welcoming as I remember it, an atmosphere of comfort and safety that could almost make you forget how unbelievably cold it is. And how many days it’s taken to get this far from London. 

The two men who’ve brought me here from Spitsbergen busy themselves with docking safely. One of them takes my suitcase, completely ignoring my inarticulate complaints- complaints that are essentially just me waving my hands about uselessly. The other hums something tunelessly to himself, unknotting some rope and, amazingly, pulling away his fur-lined hood. These men are made of stronger stuff than me. 

The step from the boat to the ice is high. The ice is slippery. I wobble in my descent and make a bit of a tit of myself, but that’s to be expected. 

“First time, yes?” The man with my suitcase asks. I feel terrible, I had asked for his name, but he didn’t give it and I’m too awkward to ask again. 

“Yes. Wait, no, sorry. This is my third time. But, the first in a very long time. I came as a child.” Through the flickering whisps of fur, I see the wincing expression of a young man. “Good. You remember the cold.” “Oh yes, hard to forget,” I call out over the wind. 

We walk for a minute or two through the snow- no idea where- and I learn that his name is Jakob. He learns my name. He asks whether I’m expected at Klaus Lodge, and I say no. His jovial laugh makes me wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. How incredibly presumptuous I’ve been, just turning up like this. 

Jakob comes to a stop by a shed and some parked sleds. The poor sod still has Saskia’s bright pink suitcase in his hand as he whistles loudly with the other, thumb and forefinger in his mouth. At first, I have no idea what he’s trying to summon. It’s dark and the flakes of ice in the air make it hard to see anything except for Håperg’s distant lights. But then, I see them. They bound over and I can hear their excited yelps. 

“Huskies!” I cry like a boy.

My new friend laughs. “You like dogs, I hope.” “I love them.”

I watch them run over, though I have no idea where from. There’s eight of them, and the front two are grinning with their tongues hanging out and breath blooming in clouds. There’s snow spraying around them like they’re jumping in puddles. And honestly, I haven’t felt such childlike joy in years. 

They crash to halt and run circles around us, yelping in excited, high-pitched cries as they jump up at Jakob. He pays them no attention, walking soberly towards the sled and expecting them to follow, which they do. They’ve been trained well, even if huskies tend to be a little bit bonkers. That much I remember. One of the front runners is wagging his tail so hard the whole back half of his body is swinging from side to side. 

“Blåbær will take you there.”

I run my gloved fingers through the frontrunner’s fur. He turns to nip playfully at me, perhaps also a bit defensively, before sniffing my hand and rubbing his face on my shoes. “I take it you’re Blåbær,” I call out to the dog over the roar of the wind. 

“He is best.”

I couldn’t agree more. 

Jakob loads me and my silly suitcase onto the sled so that we’re lying down in front of the handle and reigns. It makes me feel like a piece of luggage. And then I watch him hook up all the huskies, standing diligently in line and occasionally chattering to each other. And then I feel him take his stand at the helm. 

And then we’re off, and I get just the smallest amount of whiplash from the sudden start. I also get a faceful of snow from the huskies’ paws. It’s in my eye, which hurts a lot, and it melts in my mouth, too. I cling onto the suitcase. The mountains start to take shape through the flurry. I look up- the stars are watching our journey to Håperg. And- my God. The Northern Lights. They’re doing a Mexican wave above our heads in greens and yellows and blues, like an 80s synth dream. 

Something about it all has my heart radiating, making ripples of rightness through my chest. It has taken me too long to come here. 

At least I’m here now.

[matildastuartsold]

hshq task twelve: a timeline

it reads as a semi lil self para’s and part news report...bc i didn’t wanna self para as a 3 year old. tw: abortion, implied drug used, mentions of underage, mentions of age differences, image issues, pregnancy, mentions of possible grooming, body image issues, possible signs of bulimia, 

december 19th, 1997

for the third time in the last four, almost five years, the town crier of edinburgh stood just inside the gates of holyrood announcing the birth of a third princess, named matilda. 

june 18th, 2001

at three years old, princess matilda made her first public appearance with her family at the royal highland show. the littlest princess made her appearance well known running off excitedly with yells of “maude-y!” following her, showing off her cartwheeling skills, and waving at everyone who looked especially those with a camera. 

november 30th, 2005 

she doesn’t know a life without the media and having to parade around them. like today, skipping through st. andrew’s day activities some of her earliest memories surrounded people with cameras desperately clicking and yelling the names of her mum and dad, her sisters and her. matilda liked it though, she could simply become the only name they yelled with a simple smile or a wave. she liked it, but she was tired of being called matilda. she didn’t want to be called matilda, she wanted to be called tilly, like her friends all called her. it’s why she turned around with a frown at the reporter who yelled matilda. “i’m not matilda! my name is tilly!” crossing her arms across her chest, she stuck her tongue out annoyed at the her full name. even with her mother and father’s scold of “matilda!” and her tilly let her father scoop her up in his arms making a face at the paparazzi as she was carried away. 

january 4th, 2010

“but i don’t want to go to gordonstoun!” not that even mattered, ever since her mother became a queen last year it was never even worth putting in her own thoughts, not that it ever had been. now though it was going against the queen, not just her mum.  tilly just didn’t want to go to gordonstoun with her sisters. it seemed so boring. still the press release was already out, trunks already in her room ready to be back. “if i have to go someone will regret it!” 

september 19th, 2011

crushes were nice, all the boys in her year, the year above her, some even in margot’s year paying her attention, she’d be dumb if she didn’t enjoy it. so what if she kept sneaking out with them to smoke cigarettes and drink beers on the roof. she likes the attention from it. what was the school going to do? make her do laps? please, she wouldn’t do it and they couldn’t make her. so she found herself giggling at whatever connaugh mcdaniels was saying and took the sip of beer he was offering, because all eyes were on her in a way that they hadn’t been before.

april 31st, 2013

“i’m the fucking may queen!” throwing her head back in laughter, tilly twirled around the flower crown a top her head never moving. sneaking out to go to beltane, was the smartest decision she’d made in a while. falling back against her favorite duke to be she’d been going almost all the way with frequently, she took the flask from her best friend, georgia, taking a far too long sip of the vodka. she was happily drunk, feeling the brisk spring air on the hill hit her. she didn’t care about the obvious presence from people taking pictures of them. it didn’t matter she was drunk and determined for her goal of the night, losing the v card. “richard,” she smirked up at him. “we should head back to the tent, your may queen demands it.” letting out a giggle she moved back going for another twirl as she reached for his hand.

july 27th, 2014

she still doesn’t understand what the big deal is, her mother pacing back and forth going on and on about propriety. catherine looking like a mirror of her mother’s upset. her father’s disappointment. “i’m sixteen, just because i’m under this bloody crown doesn’t mean i’m not gonna go out and have fun!” her eyes glanced at the various magazine and newspaper headlines in front of her. she doesn’t see the issue with it, minus the invasion of privacy, in the picture she’s just pressed against the wall making out with one of her guy friends. she’s hearing the words come from everyone’s mouths but she’s not listening. just blankly sitting there. 

february 3rd, 2015

“you’re what?! tilly you can’t sleep with your math tutor!” tilly turned at the exclamation from her friend, a look of confusion on her face. “why not? i need to pass and he apparently wants to fuck a princess it’s a win win! besides he’s not that old i doubt he’s even thirty.” besides it was better than any of the guys in their class asking to lose it with her. at least it would be good and she’d pass. she didn’t see an issue. plus it felt good to be wanted, to have someone want her and not want her to be like her sisters. who cared if he was a married man approaching his 30s? he wanted her. 

september 10th, 2015

she woke up on her bathroom floor in just the lingerie she wore under her dress before going out. not that she cared after all, she’d probs look skinnier from throwing up all the drinks from the night before. she brushed her teeth, throwing her hair into a ponytail. Wiping off the remnants of her make up from the night before she looked on at the stranger in her bed. “get out before a walk of shame is too embarrassing, for your own well being.” Watching the man leave she shook her head curling into bed ignoring her phone continue to blow up again and again, no doubt people seeing pictures of the night before. 

may 4th, 2016

“fuck! jesus fucking christ i look awful!” seeing the press release photo on the cover of the magazine sitting in front of her on the table, she picked it up and tossed it straight towards the trash can. looking back at her partner for her textile project, she gave her a look. another example of her being the worst of the family.  “tell me why you thought bringing a tabloid where i look awful in would really make a good study environment?” shaking her head, she picked up her phone seeing who could come over tonight, she might be able to convince richard to get on a flight. she’d slept with arthur a few times maybe him? there were more than a few posh boys at oxford she’d met on her visits. shaking her head she motioned at the fabric she brought. “they’re all recycled, should work for what we need.” 

january 3rd, 2017

"matilda herietta annabelle stuart how could you be so wildly irresponsible?!” her mother is screaming, her father looks disappointed. she knows she fucked up because it’s just the two of them. having her parents attention on just her, she could probably count the times that’s happened on just one hand alone. she doesn’t regret flashing the paparazzi though, the magazines printed with trainwreck tilly subtle covering where she’d lifted her top, but it was still obvious she had. “i was drunk, it was hogamany, i must have been black out by that point.” she knew it didn’t matter, watching her mother go into another rant. still, it felt nice for once to be the only person that mattered to her parents. 

 october 31st, 2017

she was didn’t know where she was really not that it mattered. she went up to oxford to party with the posh guys and all her. you could barely call the white lingerie she wore an angel costume, something she thought would an irony. she probably mixed too many liquors and too many drugs together. still she reaches for the hand of the guy she’s leaning on pulls him to a door, hoping one will be a bathroom or a bedroom. with her luck she’ll see what happened tonight on twitter in the morning. 

august 7th, 2018

they told her to be on her best behavior, that she’s technically working edinburgh fringe festival. still she thinks she’s doing a charitable deed. she’s buying these poor struggling actors alcohol and then getting into drinking contests with them. it’s all rather sensible if you ask her. she’s doing a charity besides it feels good being the center of attention. she’s sitting on the actual bar, a rather attractive actor from some play or some shit she watched today has his hand on her thigh. why would she do anything else? 

september 7th, 2019

she knew that the braemar gathering was a big deal, she’d been to it almost every year of her life. still it didn’t mean she wasn’t bored as hell after a day of it, it’s why she’d pulled richard aside at the noble dinner at balmoral later that evening. her own personal playground as a kid, she knew exactly which cupboard to push him in. it would have been so much nicer if her mother’s fucking cheif of staff hadn’t opened the door when she was on her knees. the yelling wasn’t even bad, it was the punishment. her life being packed into suitcases around her as she sat on her bed back in edinburgh 24 hours later. no what hurt the most was her mother’s last words to her before she got on the plane to dubai, “i wonder if you’ll ever stop disappointing me.”

december 23rd, 2019

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me?! happy birthday, happy christmas, we’re marrying you off to the crown prince of venezuela! how could you do this to me mum? catherine just said-” she doesn’t think she’s ever been more furious in her life. opening the bottle of vodka and lining up the cocaine she said on her. “you know what i don’t care if i was drunkenly with him once, mother it doesn’t mean i want to fucking marry him! you’re ruining my life! forgive me, your majesty. i won’t forget from now on i’m your subject, not your daughter. have a happy christmas, goodbye.” she threw the phone, then threw a shot back looking at the lines she set up. “lola!” she screamed walking towards her suitcase. “i want to look sluttier than a prostitute whose rent is due tomorrow, a christmas present to my mother given my engagement. i don’t want to remember tonight.” 

janurary 21st, 2020

she knew for days, something was wrong. she wasn’t how she always was, then she got sick, consistently, three mornings in a row. sitting staring at the line of positive pregnancy tests that were in her bathroom sink she looked at cora rubbing her back comfortingly. “i need to call or text or- there are only two people i don’t make wear a condom and i haven’t slept with richard since september.” grabbing her phone she  sent a quick ‘come over now’ text. and threw her phone towards the bed. “burn the tests tonight, get them out of her, taking them to the fucking mcdonalds to throw them away if you have to. they aren’t gonna be anywhere near me though, it can not ruin everything. my mother already hates my existance, she’d send me to the fucking gallows if i ruined her one chance at getting rid of me. not a word of this to her spy either or catherine.” 

janurary 24th, 2020

it was cold and she was crying. laying on the chair in the doctor’s office, she held onto cora’s hand like it was her only way of living and she felt so much relief knowing that if she needed it neil would carry her out of the building. “i know, i’m not the model catholic or really any religion, but i still feel wrong, i feel guilty. i don’t know what else to do though.” so she cried, letting her communications advisor and his wife comfort her like they were her parents. sometimes they feel more like parents than her own. when the doctor comes in, tells her its going to pinch and might be uncomfortable, she lets cora distract her with stories of her and neil when they started dating. while she doen’t need him to carry her out, she leans on them both the whole way to car, letting herself come to terms that she wasn’t pregnant anymore. 

march 9th, 2020

“félix, i’m going to get fucking wasted at the beach,” she wasn’t sure when she got fucking domestic. she lives with her fiancé, they share a bed, fucking wedding magazines are sent to her. it feels like she’s in a snow globe. one where she barely recognizes who she is. she still looks in the mirror and remembers that if things had been different her stomach would probably have a bump now, not be the flat as it is. so instead, she’s taken to more day drinking, trying not to think about the thing only 6 people in the world know about and why it makes her feel so empty.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

Ahir Shah’s 2023 stand-up hour, Ends, came out on Netflix last week. It’s the show that won the big Best Show award from the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and deservedly so, in my opinion. I got to hear it last year and thought it was incredible, and could not wait for it to get filmed so everyone else can see it too.

I was prepared to be a bit disappointed when I watched the Netflix version, because I think something usually gets lost, from hearing something exactly as it was performed on an Edinburgh stage during its original run, to seeing a version that’s been workshopped for the better part of a year, and then edited for a streaming service.

I got a bit of that disappointment when Tom Ballard’s It Is I show went on YouTube – I saw it live the year before and thought it was absolutely incredible, and then I watched the filmed version, and thought it was still very good, but had lost a lot. They censored a couple of his swear words, which is a very good way to lose the momentum and/or vibe in a stand-up show. A couple of the threads had been cut out, and I didn’t know whether he’d dropped them from the show or whether they’d been edited out of the broadcast. I still enjoyed it, but not as much.

I was prepared for something similar with Ahir Shah’s show, and I’m pleased to say it didn’t happen as much. It still happened a bit – I’ll be honest, the version from its original Edinburgh run was better than this. But not by all that much. It was mostly the show I remember, and it was told very well, and it didn’t feel as “edited” as I often find that streaming service stand-up specials do. I think the earlier version made me laugh a bit more than the Netflix version did, though to be fair, part of that might be that everything’s funnier the first time you hear it, when you don’t know the punchlines are coming. I think a couple of the punchlines were missing from the Netflix version, and then a few more were softened by me knowing they were coming, so I didn’t laugh as hard.

But I did, to be honest, cry again. It’s one of those shows. One of those award-bait crying shows, and this one got its award, and I think it rightly so. Not all stand-up shows with bits to make you cry deserve awards. But this one sure did. It was one of only a couple of stand-up comedy shows to make me properly cry in 2023 (and on the subject of those couple of shows… NextUp should be putting out the new version of Grace Petrie’s stand-up show any day now, can’t wait to watch that again and cry more).

I don’t want to write too much about it because I think everyone should watch it, and I think it’s better to watch it without too many preconceived ideas of what’s in it. It’s a show about family and immigration and how past generations shape future ones, and it’s personal and political, and sometimes I don’t politically agree with every single detail of everything Ahir Shah says, but I can still see his perspective and respect his opinion.

And I don’t think that’s always true of differing political opinions – there are lots of political opinions that I don’t respect one bit and I think the people who hold them should fuck off. Ahir Shah isn’t one of those people, he’s just a left-wing version who has a bit of variation from me in the specifics of some of his views, and I find that interesting.

I often find it annoying when people say we should be “challenged” by stand-up comedy. I listen to the news to be challenged, and I read stuff by journalists and people who know what they’re talking about to inform my political views. Then I go to the entertainment sector to laugh when people say those views in a much funnier way than I could manage, and to feel a bit of cathartic relief when the comedians talk shit about the terrible people who hold terrible opposing views, since they’re able to put their shit talk into funny words. It’s nice. I do my civic duty and listen to news that adheres to journalistic standards of balance. Then I live my life that’s full of right-wing people very causally saying shitty things while I keep my mouth shut until by the end of it all, I have a headache and stomachache and pain in my chest from shutting my mouth for so long. And then I listen to comedians who agree with me talk shit, and it feels like a breath of fresh air and a weight off my shoulders. It does still have to be funny – I’ve heard some comedy where I agree the hell out of it but it’s not well written so it doesn’t make me laugh. But yeah, I probably do sometimes laugh a little harder at something where I agree with it politically, than I would if it were something equally funny but I didn’t agree the hell out of it. I like hearing my own views parroted back to me in an entertaining way, thank you.

And seriously, I don’t think it’s good when people complain about “you just want comedy to parrot your views back to you, instead of looking to be challenged”, because people looking to the entertainment industry to have their views challenged is a bit part of the problem. Challenge your views via people who know what they’re talking about. Don’t learn new things from comedians. They don’t know anything.

Those last couple of paragraphs are how I usually view political comedy. Which is why it’s such a big deal that I view this Ahir Shah show as an exception to that. I think he does challenge me, and I did learn some new things from this stand-up hour. Learned to look at a few things in a new way. Again, to be clear, he has the fundamentals of decent politics; he’s not out there challenging me with material that’s misogynist or transphobic or “actually when you think about it, maybe the government shouldn’t subsidize low-income children who want to eat at lunchtime”. Just different ways of looking at things, within the purview of being, you know, basically all right. I’m not sure I always agree, but I find it interesting.

So there’s that, in the show Ends. Intelligent political and sociological analysis. There’s the generational legacy stuff. Some good callbacks and throughlines. There’s the bit that made me cry, delivered very well. It’s always a bit weird to see someone do the tearjerker part of their show after they’ve been touring it for quite a while, and you know they’ve performed this same material a lot of times, so it’s hard to muster the same emotion every time. But I think he nailed it on the Netflix filming night, anyway. It got me just as good.

Oh, and it is funny. A bit less funny than the earlier version that I remember, but that’s a fucking high bar, and this was still funny. That's important too, in an award-winning comedy show.

Anyway, absolutely everyone should watch this, I cannot recommend it highly enough. If anyone reading this would like to watch it, and the only thing holding you back is not having Netflix and not knowing where to watch it, send me a message I can reply to privately (so, not an anonymous ask because those can only be replied to publicly - send me a direct message or a non-anonymous ask), and I'll help you out. That offer is always on the table with things I write about that have been publicly released, and I usually try not to refer to it too much in public posts, but I'm doing so in this one because I really really want to encourage people to watch this. Don't be shy if we don't know each other, either. Even if we've never interacted before, if you're a blog that has nothing to do with mine, doesn't matter. I'll just be happy to have pointed more people to this. (Though obviously, if you have Netflix watch it there to give him the view count, and, you know, support live comedy where you can and stuff.)

[theheartofpenelope]

Simple Things : Chapter eleven

Excerpt - “Charlotte would have to admit there were worse sights to wake up next to.... Tom looked so perfectly peaceful and relaxed as he lay there next to her. In her hotel room. In her bed. The white bed sheet haphazardly draped over his legs. His curly hair was a mess and she adored it. Even from where she was resting, she could feel his bodily warmth radiating onto her.” Tag list: @winterisakiller, @devikafernando, @scorpionchild81, @messy-insomniac-bookgirl, @smutsausage, @hiddlesbitch1 @noplacelikehome77 @wolfsmom1 @meh1217 @dina-bln @lilaeye39 @tinchentitri @fairlightswiftly @nonsensicalobsessions @wolfsmom1 @stmeiou @ink-and-starlight @givemecocoaa @profkmoriarty13 @nikkalia @massivelemon @lotus-eyedindiangoddess @argo-shila @emoietmoi @redfoxwritesstuff @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @raining-litter @theoneanna @coppercorn-and-cauldron @turniptitaness  Author’s Notes/Warnings: tags will follow later on Anyway thank you in advance for feedback - would love to know what you think…Also on AO3 through this link Masterlist available through here Bonus: click here for the pinterest moodboard (always updated)

Chapter eleven 1. Sunday birthday brunch at Lizzie’s

After ringing Lizzie’s doorbell, Charlotte glanced down at the colourful bouquet she carried in her hands. The sweet aroma of the flowers filled her lungs with happiness and energy, both very welcome because she felt dead on her feet. 

When she was greeted with her nearest and dearest friends soft and happy laughter bubbled through the air. Charlotte’s smile was wider than she could have held possible and her heart was simply overjoyed. One by one the group of girlfriends fell into each other’s arms with joy, exclaiming excited shrieks and silly little compliments. Oh, she definitely had missed this, all of it.

As expected, the girls’ respective men were fussing over a BBQ in the garden while two  teeny little rascals were attempting to push a ball around in between the two of them. Charlotte sweetly kissed one of the birthday-girls who was patiently cradling her newborn to sleep. Charlotte gladly took a moment to inhale the sweet baby-scent while kissing its head as well, before whispering to her friend how much the little bub resembled its father.  

This was nice, this was good. This is where she’d wanted to be… At the annual birthday brunch that celebrated all ‘three summerbabes’ that were amongst the group of tight-knit friends. It was a lazy event, no pressure. It was all ‘put your feet up’, ‘stay as long as you want’, etc. And just like every year they were all there, without fault. There was no question Charlotte would attend as well, conferences or not. She’d gladly taken a night flight out of Edinburgh for it, because she would not (could not!) miss this for the world. 

Several hugs and kisses later, Lizzie introduced Charlotte to a new face; a man named Michael. Not someone’s new boyfriend, no, no, not this one. He appeared to be a friend of Lizzie’s husband David, a ‘newly single’ and Lizzie couldn’t resist to point that little fact out and not-so-subtly add; ‘like you.’

Charlotte groaned inwardly as she meekly greeted the man who had turned a deeper shade of pink, just like her.  

“Is it just me,” she joked, “or do you feel like we’ve walked into a trap here?”

To her delight Michael smiled and admitted to the sentiment, leaving Lizzie to gasp in fake horror and muttering Charlotte could get her own Mimosa. 

Charlotte chuckled, but quickly left the man behind and for good reason; another man, most definitely nòt called Michael, was currently haunting her mind, body and soul.

>>> Charlotte would have to admit there were worse sights to wake up next to....

Tom looked so perfectly peaceful and relaxed as he lay there next to her. In her hotel room. In her bed. The white bed sheet haphazardly draped over his legs. His curly hair was a mess and she adored it. Even from where she was resting, she could feel his bodily warmth radiating onto her. He smelled so nice. And while she wanted nothing more than to nuzzle against his chest and crawl into his embrace, trailing kisses from his collarbone to that spot behind his ear that made him gasp...  she opted not to. After all, it was quite early still and he was so tired…. 

She smiled to herself softly and deftly unplugged the hotel phone so her morning wake up call wouldn’t wake him. Another convention-day had presented itself and Charlotte reluctantly kicked herself into gear; cautiously sneaking out of the bed and into the bathroom. And while she was mindful not to wake him as she showered and slipped into her clothes, she was utterly clueless on how she ought to proceed after that. Does she leave without a word? Surely not. Should she leave a note? Should she wake him? In her mind she knew very well what she would wànt to do… In an ideal scenario she’d crawl back under the sheets with him, so they could wake whenever it pleased them and come to terms with the aftermath at their own steady pace. But this was not that day. She'd never felt so happy, so sated and at the same time so insecure in her life.

At the sound of her cell phone ringing Charlotte sped out the bathroom to silence the damned thing, bumping her little toe against the bed in the process. Charlotte suppressed a series of heavy curses while stubbornly limping on and grabbing wildly at her phone nonetheless.

The tall silhouette in her bed came to life with a jolt.

"mmmm,"  he groaned, "mmorning," >>>

“Ambush?! What ambush?” Lizzie protested after Charlotte confronted her in the kitchen, “Michael is a friend of David’s. I can't help it if he turns out to be single.”

“Conveniently or not darling, you seem to forget I know your and David’s circle well enough to know that this is absolute bullshit.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes at her friend, “Oh shush! Give him a chance. He's sweet and kind and once you get to know him I'm certain you’ll be forever grateful I introduced the two of you….” 

She shook her head at her friend: Charlotte hàd agreed that Lizzie could set her up on occasion, hadn’t she? Well then…  ‘Brunch is fun with friends. And he is a friend and so is she. Both single. Huh. Imagine that…’ 

Charlotte cursed Lizzie internally as she stomped off; her mind now racing at full speed. However she swiftly calmed down once she was outside again. Especially when laying eyes upon Cait and her first born, promenading around, seemingly on cloud number nine. Cait offered her to hold her little newborn and Charlotte more than happily obliged. Admiring the teeny tiny state of perfection, her mind devilishly reminded her that nothing could scare men off faster that women cooing over a perfect little baby… Perfect! And Charlotte cuddled the little one a tad bit extra because of it … 

>>> Tom bounced up straight when he noticed Charlotte’s predicament. The sheet tactically held in position he scooted to her side of the bed where he wordlessly held out his hands for her to place her foot into it. 

He studies her toes diligently and massaged the pain away. 

So perfect, so lovely, so devilishly handsome even upon waking, although a bit confused as to why she was already dressed and seemingly set to go. >>>

Yes, men definitely tend to run at the sight of their girls - prospective or not - fall in love with babies. But not this one. This one did not run off when a baby was diplomatically involved.

“Hey there little bug,” he greeted the tiny baby, while he offered Charlotte a glass. 

Michael made a generous attempt at small talk. He was nice, attentive and very clearly dragged in the same predicament as she was. He was compassionate, interested, maybe slightly overdressed but Charlotte was nowhere in the mood for this. This was supposed to be brunch. Casual birthday brunch at Lizzie’s - not some kind of a speed date… 

“Yet another summerbug,” he conversed on, “there seems to be a lot of those here.”

He nodded towards her, a question lingering in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Charlotte smiled back good heartedly, “not me though.”

“No?” he sipped from his gin-tonic, “what kind of ‘bug’ are you then?”

Despite not wanting to, she chuckled and bit her lip in utter defiance. She hated it when Lizzie did something right when she so badly wanted it to be wrong.

>>> Charlotte reassured Tom of her good intentions. She was definitely not leaving him without a word. She offered him the cup of coffee she’d made them and felt as if she’d grown wings when he looked at her like that. 

He nodded at her appreciatively. And she easily gave into the urge to smoothly slip her hand over the nape of his neck and into his tousled hair; while answering his doting morning kiss.

So last night, he looked up at her with one raised eyebrow. Mischief written all over his face. She chuckled as she met his expression, "m-hm..." >>>

Charlotte, now babyless, jiggled her leg while partaking in the conversations as the group sat around the table in the garden. 

“She’s nervous,” David nudged his wife.

Lizzie beamed, “told you this would work.”

‘Charlie why don’t you sit over here, next to Michael’. ‘Charlotte did you hear Michael just got back from Dublin?’ ‘Michael, did you know Charlie just flew in from Edinburgh?’ ‘Oh you two, why didn’t we put you together sooner.’ ‘Oh, this makes sense.’ Oh, there were not enough Mimosa’s in the world to end this trail of suffering.  

Charlotte absentmindedly pushed the food around in her plate, before ultimately dropping her cutlery on it. She tried her best to follow the conversation, she really did. But when some friends left the table to put their little kids in their respective cots, her mind has started wandering. 

She vaguely detected David’s intonation went up at the end of a sentence. Apparently a question that required an answer from her. She looked up with a kind “hmm?”

“Edinburgh?” he kindheartedly inquired again. 

“Oh! Yes, erm quite nice, thank you,” she blushed and chuckled. “Did you know, in August they have this festival?"

"Really?"

"Mhm," Charlotte nodded. She’d though this one through well enough now. "Tom showed me around."

"Tom?” Lizzie suddenly piped up while clearing the plates. Ah finally, she’d caught her attention. 

"Yes, Lizzie, Tom,” Charlotte smiled as she slanted her head towards her friend and handing over her own plate. 

"I've heard thàt name before!”

Charlotte rose to her feet and collected a bunch of dishes, ready to follow her friend and continue this conversation in the privacy of Lizzie’s kitchen but her friend seemed to have grown roots on her own lawn. 

"My god, I knew it!” she exclaimed, a small tower of dirty plates in her hans, “these international conventions are paying off...” 

And while Lizzie's mind was brewing up stories, Charlotte could only laugh and shake her head. 

Move woman

"Did you have fun?”

"Yes,” Charlotte nodded, “I did actually.”

"You didn't... " Lizzie’s eyes doubled in size.

"Oh but I did,” 

Michael slightly shifted in his seat.

Oh. Bad form Charlotte, not in front of the prospective one...

David rolled his eyes, "excuse us would you?"

"Yeah I'm," Michael stammered and pointed to David as he quickly followed in his steps. 

"Did he know where everything was??”

"Liz, my god!” Charlotte rolled her eyes as she put the dishes down on the table again, “what are you asking me?”

"Well, you know these days…”

"Trust me,” Charlotte sighed, “he did nòt need GPS-assistance.”

"Oh my god!” Lizzie chirped and tapped her feet on the grass in enthusiasm, “why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Because you simply had no ears for me, love,” Charlotte replied softly.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” Lizzie sighed, “but ugh!! Now what? Tell me. Tell me all of it. Every single dirty detail. Please. I’ll be all ears now, promise… ”

2. Sunday high tea at Benedict & Sophie’s

Tom chuckled to himself when he saw little Christopher dashing around in the garden as he chased the colourful butterflies that fled from the nearby rose bushes. Christopher looked up at the fluttering little animals with big wondrous eyes. Tom found himself envieing that capacity of looking at the world through childlike eyes, always admiring, always exploring and with that unshakable belief that everything and every one was ‘good’ while in reality that really was not the case. Not often at least.

“Such a lovely family,” he shook his head with a smile before looking back at his friends, “I envy you.”

Benedict snorted while following Tom’s gaze. Sophie on her part only sighed as the baby monitor crackled. Baby Hal was definitely awake now. She thanked Tom once more for his attentive first godfather’s gift before scampering up towards her - for now still - littlest bundle of joy. 

“So how was Fringe?” Benedict questioned as he reached for his drink. 

“Satisfying,” Tom swirled the spoon in his cup of coffee. 

Tom was happy but short in his answers today, Benedict had noticed. 

“Now come on, out with it.” 

“Out with what?”

Benedict flashed him a mirthless smile, he knew his friend better than this. Benedict called out to his son as he sauntered about with his butterfly net, urging him to be a bit more subdued in his actions for fear of him hurting himself. He was met with a witty reply only a 4-year-old could come up with.

They had established the performance had gone very well, the feedback had been tremendous. Tom was meeting up with a renowned director soon for a new play. He’d met up with the friends and relatives. And apparently he had a not-date-like date as well with pleasurable outcome... 

“You know, for a man who just got freaky at Fringe,” Benedict chortled at his own joke, “I would expect to see you a tad bit more... upbeat?”

Tom huffed to himself before sipping from his coffee again, which triggered a dramatic frown from Benedict.

“I mean, let’s recap here shall we?”

“You kissed the girl,” Benedict stated, “and I can assume you wanted to kiss this girl, right?” 

“Yes,” a firm nod from Tom.

“You slept together,” Benedict squeezed his eyes into two fine lines.

“Affirmative sir,” again a firm nod. 

“Then what is with the mood dear friend? I would think…” 

Tom sighed gravely, where did he begin…

 >>> Charlotte nodded when he repeated her “11 PM? As in tonight? Your flight is tonight?”

"It's a Fringe thing apparently. Night flight or no flight..."

Tom was astounded; their schedule couldn't have been more diverse. When the conference concluded, he was already working interviews and set for performing subsequently. This was no good, no good at all… 

He sighed and put his tired brain to work. He suggested a bar right outside the city centre. A cosy remote little place where they could meet up again in privacy after his performance and before her departure. A place where she would be able to catch a taxi easily, almost instantly even. And if his mind didn’t deceive him, they would have a little bit more over an hour. Not much, but so very craved. 

To his delight, she instantly and cheerfully agreed and amorously returned the kiss he rewarded her with. >>>

“Hang on,’’ Benedicted waved his hands under closed eyes, “supposed to?”

“Well, I got caught in …” 

“No,” Benedict buried his head in his hand and muttered, “Tom, honestly, no.” 

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” 

“Slip out the back, avoid the crowd, explain you have to get somewhere in time...”

“I tried,” Tom protested quietly.

“Well,’ his friend groaned, “not enough it would seem.”

Tom chastised himself and he couldn't blame Benedict when he straightforward spat out it was forever the story of Tom’s life. Forever putting his career, or his reputation, first. Making an effort to be likeable and stay likeable for hoards of fans. To the point his personal life suffered because of it. As if everything else would pause for him as well. Open up your eyes my dear friend! Life goes ever on. If you miss the train, don't expect someone to send the limo back to pick you up. On or off, but decide now. 

Tom squirmed in his seat uneasily. It hadn't occurred to him like thàt until now really. But did Benedict really had to spell it out so harshly though? Tom had argued with him initially; saying it had nothing to do with fans or reputation or any of that. He just felt awful because he had left things up in the air between them. And as a matter of fact he was really intent on seeing or speaking with her again. Truly, honestly. 

Benedict sighed, clearly not buying any of it.

“So,” he exhaled loudly, “was this a one-night affair?”

“I – I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know,” he dropped his hand on the table with a dramatic chuckle, “how can you not know?” 

“It’s complicated,” Tom disputed. 

“Try me,” Benedict dared his friend, “because it’s fairly easy… do you see yourself without her or not?" he paused, "could you continue without pursuing this and look back without regret? In short - what does Sadie mean to you?"

Tom scrunched his nose and shook his head vehemently, "Sadie? Sadie’s not..." 

"Well then, there is your answer," Benedict interjected his reasonings. “See? Easy!” 

It was no secret Benedict didn't particularly care much for Sadie. In his mind the young actress hung around Tom in all sympathy, but pushed towards a romantic connection in public for more press attention. He could be mistaken though, he did admit this to his friend. But he had also been quick to add he wasn't mistaken about these things very often. 

"I meant to say,” Tom interposed on his friend, “that this is not about Sadie, it's Charlotte..."

He noticed Benedict look up at him dumbfounded, his eyebrows raised in complete and utter surprise, “Charlotte?” 

It took him a moment before several profanities came falling from his lips.

"Yeah, tried that too," Tom snorted under a mirthless smile before downing the last of his coffee, "didn't work."

3. Sunday birthday brunch at Lizzie’s continued

“So??” Lizzie repeated anxiously, “now what?” 

“I don't know,” Charlotte shrugged with a chuckle. 

“What do you mean, you don't know,” Lizzie rolled her eyes, “call him, text him, go on. If you have chemistry, you only need one other thing. Timing.”

“Ah, but timing's a bitch. Besides, he hasn't really reached out to me, so I think it's pretty clear that this was all there is…” Charlotte didn’t know who she was soothing more; Lizzie or her own broken heart. 

“I just wanted to make clear that setting me up today might not have been the best idea, sweetheart…”Charlotte sighed, “it was a bit much and a bit too soon.”

"But Charlie, you need to get back out there again,” Lizzie contested kindly, “I’m afraid you'll turn from wallflower to wallpaper if you keep standing on the side…”

"Dramaqueen!”

"Truth”

"I know, I know, but, you know… got laid,” Charlotte winked, “I'm getting there alright? Baby steps,” she gestured as she put her thumb and index finger close together.

>>> She arrived at the bar early and fiddled with the complementaries her tea had offered her. She felt as giddy like a schoolgirl waiting of her crush. Only said crush did not arrive upon the agreed hour. 15 minutes went by, then half an hour. This was not good. Charlotte checked her phone for the umpteenth time. The battery was still at 78%

She mentally thanked a colleague of hers who offered her a powerbank in the afternoon when Charlotte had noticed her phone battery running low. One night out of the ordinary and her usual routine had gone right out the window. She never put her phone into flight mode that night, nor did she load up the battery and it showed. She was however desperate not to fall off the radar that day. Because she did not, could not, miss a call from him, or a text, or anything basically. 

She professed her eternal gratitude to said lady. Her battery level went up, however incoming messages remained at steady zero. Charlotte didn’t really take too much note of it. He had his own calendar to work through today. But now, well passed their established hour her frustration level came to higher lever…. 

Maybe he was delayed, she pondered. Maybe this, maybe that. Her mind was fully aware of the pretty realistic fact that he would not show up, but her heart wasn’t ready to believe that yet. Until 40 minutes had gone by. Charlotte rose to her feet and paid for her bill. As Tom had predicted, she got a taxi very easily. She looked left and right once more while the drive loaded her baggage. Nothing. 

Getting into the vehicle she softly huffed to herself, "silly girl, what did you expect?"

It wasn't so much his failure to show up that hurt her, it was more his incessant ability to simply not communicate. Promising someone to show up and failing to do so is just so not done. Charlotte would rather have the stone cold truth. Right there. In her face. Don't sweet talk, name the things for what they are. But apparently actors just loved to act… Charlotte rolled her eyes, ashamed for her own gullibility and left for the airport. >>>

“Well, maybe something is wrong with your phone?” Lizzie muttered as she fished out Charlotte’s device out of her purse. 

“You've watched too many romcom's sweetheart,” Charlotte muttered whilst washing the dishes in Lizzie’s kitchen.

“Seriously though!” Lizzie insisted, “I texted you this morning.”

“You did not Liz, you think you did but I think we have well established your mind is everywhere except in the present. One year older, one year….”

“You're on flight mode, you dummy!” Lizzie squealed out. 

“I’m wha?” Charlotte muttered while quickly drying her hands, “I am not, gimme….”

“I knèw it!” Lizzie tittered on triumphant while Charlotte’s cell phone went into a small beeping frenzy, “there he is,” she added in a sing-song voice. 

While Lizzie nagged on, Charlotte’s heart leapt into her throat. Of course! She hadn’t lost all hope on him. Or them. Not just yet. Well, maybe just a little bit. As she quickly scanned for Tom’s messages, her heart swelled and her faith in him restored itself swiftly.  

> Thinking of you

> Not much longer...

> Charlotte, wait for me please!

> Nearly there….

> Charlotte, where are you?

> I can't find you... 

He’d left her a voicemail. Of course he would! Her heart thudded in her chest and she excused herself, anxious to hear his voice again. 

She heard him sigh and hesitate.

You're gone. A pause. Charlotte, I... 

Maybe I was too late, maybe I didn't see you or maybe you weren't here to begin with (bitter laugh) sorry about that... I just…. I only wanted to say (a pause) I have no regrets. None (a pause) I … I just feel so awful that I didn't see you again tonight. I wish ... (he sighed). God I wish I could have said goodbye properly. You don't know how I've longed to see you again... 

Charlotte's hands clasped over her mouth. One night, picture perfect. And then… the hunt was over. The loot had been collected. On to the next apparently. The puzzle pieces finally slid into place. Her heart sank into her shoes, and she fought back a rush of emotion that fell on to her. Goodbye? Honestly?

“And?” Lizzie tilted her head curiously, “what did he say? When will you see him again.” 

“I erm,” Charlotte shrugged, “I won’t.”

“Well,” she sighed dramatically, anxious to switch the subject, “that’s that then. What about dessert?”

4. Sunday high tea at Benedict & Sophie’s continued

Benedict remained mute and slightly dumbfounded after Tom had finished filling him in on the need-to-know details of Edinburgh. Only when Sophie resurfaced with little Hal on her arm, he gestured wildly and managed to mutter to his wife, “Charlotte!! It’s Charlotte.”

“Well of course it is,” Sophie beamed knowingly, “who else?” 

“But, but,” he heaved his shoulders up helplessly, “how do you know this?”

“I just do,” 

And as Sophie confessed that she suspected there was somethere ‘there’ on Benedict’s birthday party, a reluctant Tom admitted that they had in fact kissed at ComiCon less than 2 weeks prior. Benedict felt like a fish out of the water at this confession, claiming he was there and how could he not know this. Sophie however deftly shut him up by offering him baby Hal and seating herself next to the two men at the table. 

“So,” Sophie questioned him, “is there a problem I fail to see?”

“I don’t know. I texted her...I tried calling her but her phone was switched off. So I left a voice message and … nothing,” Tom shrugged.

Benedict offered him a slow clap, which Hal quickly tried to mimic. 

“Yeah, clearly, you’ve done all you can…”

“Tom,” Sophie clasped her hand over his, “ignore Bigfoot there. What is it you want? 

“It’s stupid, it’s silly, it’s a dead-end. We live miles apart,”

Benedict coughed, “Taylor.”

Hal giggled as he tried hacking and gagging to his daddy’s resemblance. Benedict doted on his youngest boy and encouraged his antics while Tom laughingly urged his friend to shut up.

“Alright, alright, then forget about her. She hasn’t responded to your texts or your one and only - I feel I must emphasize - phone call. Too bad, the joke’s on her, turn around and move on.” 

Tom’s eyes drooped down as he came to a full understanding and nodded accordingly. 

"I feel I need I repeat my question : do you see yourself without her or not?" Benedict paused, "could you continue without pursuing this and look back without regret?”

“Well, I càn live without her. There is no question about that,” Tom shrugged. “You know the first time we met, I thought she was intelligent and beautiful, and absolutely perfect. And now I’ve come to realize that she isn’t. At all. She is not perfect; she’s got her scars and her emotional baggage.”

“And?” Sophie urged with a smile, “my morning chocolate for the fact that this made matters even worse.”

Tom sighed and looked over at a loudly giggling Christopher in the garden. 

“I think that’s your answer right there…” Sophie quietly added. 

"You know, Sophie and I didn't happen overnight,” Benedict followed her reasonings to which she snorted. 

“And we do not live on cloud number nine. A relationship is work,” she confessed on her turn, 

“But I love her so much, that it hardy feels like work..."

“Ah,” Sophie winked in good humour “you see, and it works both ways…”

“When you hesitate, Tom, you take the plunge. Or you’ll regret it forever,” Benedict hastened to say. “Which means you’ll be on my case about it. Also forever.”

[mariocki]

RIP Sheila Steafel (26.5.1935 - 23.8.2019)

I recently started watching Granada's 70's children's series The Ghosts Of Motley Hall (1976 - 1978), as certain mutuals will attest, and found it suddenly became compulsive viewing - so much so that I watched all three series in a little over a week. It's with some sadness, then, that I read of the passing of Motley Hall star Sheila Steafel during that very week.

Born Sheila Frances Steafel in Johannesburg, in 1935, to English emigrees Harold and Eda, Sheila was introduced to the stage at an early age. Her father directed and acted in amateur theatre productions, whilst her mother was a gifted pianist, and her childhood was one of music and culture: both parents were involved in organising a choir at the local synagogue, which Sheila sang for. At school she got into trouble for writing a risqué pantomime - already she was making waves as a comic performer.

In 1953, Steafel abandoned her university education in South Africa and moved to Britain. She applied to study at RADA, and completed a preparatory term before being told that her 'unusual' looks and mannerisms would be a hinderence for a young performer; she was advised to wait until her thirties and try to become a character actor. She refused to give up on her career, however, instead enrolling in the renowned Webber Douglas Academy, winning the Margaret Rutherford award for comedy.

Roles on television soon followed, with guest spots on the likes of No Hiding Place (1959), and a supporting role in the 1960 adaptation of H. G. Wells' Kipps. She fared even better onstage, taking over the role of Barbara opposite Tom Courtenay in Lindsay Anderson's celebrated production of Billy Liar in 1961. There were some more genre credits - episodes of The Odd Man (1962) and it's sequel It's Dark Outside (1965), Sergeant Cork (1963) and Danger Man (1966), as well as small film roles in the likes of Daleks' Invasion Earth 2150 A.D. (1966), Quatermass And The Pit (1967) and Otley (1968). By the middle of the decade, however, Steafel was settling happily into the genre for which she had always seemed destined: comedy.

Over the next decade or so, Sheila became the first choice of support for almost every major comedian on British television. The list of shows she worked on makes for an enviable CV, and she was variously comic foil, stooge, straight-woman and love interest to anyone who was anyone in TV comedy. She worked with Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, Frankie Howerd, Eric Sykes and Spike Milligan; she was in every episode of Bernard Cribbins' 1970 sketch show, appeared alongside Tommy Cooper, The Goodies, Kenny Everett and Roy Hudd. She was part of the regular cast of the seminal satirical series That Was The Week That Was (1966 - 1967), playing against John Cleese and Ronnies Barker and Corbett, all at the start of their long careers. The 'unusual' looks that had seen her dropped from RADA did not, seemingly, prevent her from becoming an almost ubiquitous face on British comic television throughout the 1960s and 1970s - it didn't hurt, either, that she had impeccable comic timing and a versatility which meant she could turn her hand to almost any role.

In 1976, Sheila was cast in the role which, for many viewers, she would be best remembered. Richard Carpenter, the actor turned scriptwriter, had already made his name with the children's series Catweazle (1970 - 1971) when he started work on The Ghosts Of Motley Hall. Unlike his earlier work, Motley was more of an ensemble piece, following the misadventures of a group of spirits tied to a former stately home as they attempt to prevent it's sale or demolition. There were to be five ghosts in all, representing a range of eras; from Arthur English's Elizabethan jester Bodkin, through to Freddie Jones' 19th century General, Sir George Uproar. The cast was completed with Nicholas Le Prevost, as Jones' dim ancestor Sir Francis Uproar, and Sean Flanagan as young stable boy Matt. To round out the show, Carpenter needed a female character - so Steafel was cast as The White Lady, the spirit of a long-forgotten and mysterious woman whose true identity is a mystery to everyone, including herself.

I was a little wary, going into the series: although I have enjoyed quite a lot of the classic children's television I have watched as an adult, it is undeniably a mixed bag. I needn't have worried, because Motley is that rarest of things - a show that truly appeals to the whole family. It's fun and it's silly, and there's just enough excitement to cater to a young audience, but it's also filled with subtle comedy, jokes and references for the older viewer, and moments of surprising pathos. At it's heart, it is held together by five superb performances from the central cast; Freddie Jones is having just the time of his life as the loud, blustering blowhard Sir George, Arthur English is gently good humoured as the fool whose jokes have aged as badly as the Hall, and Le Prevost reveals a gift for subtle physical movements that make his moments of confusion or distraction much funnier. As a young performer up against four seasoned professionals, Flanagan equips himself very well, and makes for one of the more relatable and likeable teen leads in this kind of programme. And, floating between them, Steafel creates one of her most memorable and endearing characters. Particularly nice is the unique relationship she has with each of the others - she is the ghost best suited to calming Sir George from his pompous rages, or curtailing Bodkin's comic performances when the others have had enough - and especially in her relationship with Sir Francis. It isn't outright stated, but the two spirits are clearly close friends: whenever there is a dispute, they side together; whenever the ghosts must search the hall for an intruder or lost item, it is Francis and the White Lady who team up first; if ever one of the others is rude or ungentlemanly in her presence, Francis immediately springs to defend her honour. Most adorably, they are shown more than once to spend time together relaxing without the others - in an early episode they discover a television together, and end up practicing yoga as a duo. It's a lovely, deep, subtle friendship that is never brought centre-stage but plays itself out in the background of the main plots.

Like her earlier comedy work, Motley allowed Steafel to try her hand at new things and to stretch her performing skills - the White Lady gets some wonderful moments, and a real range of storylines. There are moments of sorrow, concerning her lost identity and feelings of isolation; fury, when the business of the other ghosts interferes with her practice of wailing on the stairs; and much comedy, particularly from the discovery late in series one that she is the only spirit that can be seen by Gudgin - the hall's caretaker, played by sitcom stalwart Peter Sallis. This revelation leads to an ongoing element in the series, as the White Lady brings messages to Gudgin and notifies him of any complaints among her fellow ghosts - her insistence that the caretaker is slowly becoming accustomed to her presence, and in fact even becoming fond of her, in the face of his obvious and continuing terror, is one of the sweetest things about her character.

Like the other four key cast members, Sheila appeared in all twenty episodes of The Ghosts Of Motley Hall. Afterwards, she continued to make television appearances, but spread her wings wider - she became a regular voice on radio, and returned to the stage, making memorable appearances in the 1985 RSC production of The Merry Wives of Windsor and as Meg in the 2006 revival of Pinter's The Birthday Party for the Bristol Old Vic. She took numerous one-woman shows to the Edinburgh Festival, and her dry wit and sparkling personality made her a regular booking on all manner of panel shows. She continued working into her later years, making numerous appearances on TV soaps like Holby City and Doctors, whilst also turning her hand to writing. Her first book was an autobiography, When Harry Met Sheila, published in 2010 - in it she recounted her long career, as well as the story of her marriage to Harry H. Corbett. The two had met as young performers and married in 1958, divorcing some six years later. Sheila didn't remarry, but had several relationships and many close friends and colleagues throughout her long and distinguished career. In 2012 she published another book, a collection of short stories based on real encounters she had in her long life. With wry good humour, she titled it Bastards. Sheila Steafel leaves a legacy of laughter and entertainment, and a litany of comic performances that would be the envy of any young actor.

[agentofship]

A Taste of Scotland

A Taste of Scotland Pairing: FitzSimmons

Rated T, 3,6k words

Summary: Jemma is spending her vacations in Edinburgh with her friend Daisy before going back for a new year at Oxford University. Being a smart, sophisticated woman, Jemma prides herself in her taste for the beautiful museums and natural sights Edinburgh has to offer, and if she'd been spending quite a lot of time on High Street watching a certain bagpiper play his instrument, it's only, of course, because he's a wonderful musician. Written for Smut Week for the themes Meet-cute, Kisses and First kiss. I'm already kind of attached to this verse so I would be very inclined to write a follow up or two and have Fitz's POV for instance :) A huge thank you to @libbyweasley​ for the encouragement and for making this a lot nicer to read as always. So excited to post this new fic for smut week. I started with a not so innocent T rating but it will get better soon :D Sorry I haven’t had the time to comment on all your awesome fics and answer comments on my fics lately, I will do it very soon and in the meantime, know I’m enjoying it all very much :) Also, let’s pretend I haven’t recycled my banner from kinkbingo, okay? It was all ridiculous really. She had spent half her summers in Perthshire and been to Edinburgh more times than she could count. She knew the place almost better than her hometown. Street musicians were mostly a tourist attraction and it shouldn't have such an effect on her. He shouldn't have such an effect on her. And yet, despite having decided to go to the National Portrait Gallery while Daisy went out to buy all the tartan souvenirs she could find, Jemma had somehow found herself at the same spot she'd stopped five days in a row on High Street, promising herself she would only take a look to see if he was here and stay no more than ten minutes if that was the case. It had been more than an hour now. Dark clouds were gathering ahead and she should probably move and go to the museum before it started raining again. But there was just something about him. He really was a great musician to start with. Not everyone could make the bagpipe sound so nice and melodious. Especially on High Street during festival season when there were two other street musicians within hearing distance. And okay, he was very cute, even despite the funny faces playing the bagpipe forced you to do, and he had a lot of charisma, he was funny and his choice of songs was rather original and… she was absolutely fantasizing about him and his kilt. Which made her feel completely mortified. It wasn't like her to reduce a man down to a physical appearance and choice of clothes. She'd seen men in kilts all her life. What could possibly be so special about him? "How was the museum?" Daisy whispered in her ear and Jemma startled before turning around to find her friend grinning at her. "Daisy! Don't scare me like that! I didn't see you coming." "Of course you didn't see me!" "We were supposed to call each other when we were—" "I wasn't far and I had a feeling I would find you here…" "I wasn't here all the time!" Jemma lied, feeling her cheeks heat up as she spoke. "Of course. What did you see at the museum then?" "Paintings?" Daisy raised her eyebrows and Jemma sighed. "Ugh fine. I've been here the whole time, I'm pathetic."

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