#and she managed to convince me to work camera for the church this morning

[cicadidae-tm9899]

Man I'm not gonna be able to listen to malevolent until like 4 or 5 today 😔

[pedros-mustache-main]

when your love reaches me (ii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 8.5k+ (once again, i got carried away)

warnings: screwed up historical timeline, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), language, innuendo, slight angst; truly, this chapter is mostly fluff which is surprising coming from me and probably explains why it was so hard to write :)

a/n: thank! you! for such a lovely response to the first part of this mini-series! truly means a lot. :) also: mega shoutout to @deacyblues​ who really helped me with this one; she’s the mvp of this chapter! this one is formatted a little differently than the first and the last part (which for some reason i’m ~nervous~ about), so let me know what you think. xoxo!

part i

in this chapter: snapshots of what life is like on the road alongside the one you love.

october, 1978—new orleans

as much as it can be, life is bliss.

you’ve been on the road for days, slept on a bus more than in a proper bed, survived the flagrant display of hedonism in new orleans, argued with brian about how long he hogs the bathroom in the morning, and barely eaten anything of substance, but still you’re happy.

he makes you happy. you make him happy. that’s all that matters.

you’re on the bus, headed for the airport. the next leg of the tour is florida—two nights there—then two nights on the east coast—maryland and connecticut. it’s late, nearing midnight, and the bus hums down the highway at a consistent and comfortable speed. for the most part, it’s quiet. there’s a soft conversation somewhere at the front of the bus; you think it’s gerry, yet again going over the schedule, but you could be wrong. flashes of light stream through the windows as you pass under street lamps, and you curl a little closer into brian’s side. he shifts in his sleep, mumbling under his breath.

he’s tired. they all are. it’s only been a few days, but after the party in new orleans and with the waning energy after the initial concerts, the boys are settling—settling into tour life and the long nights and early mornings. life on the road isn’t easy, and you don’t blame them for catching whatever sleep they can when they can. 

you’re settling too. it’s been nearly two months since you left home. you’d thought you’d be more desperate than you are. sometimes, you see a trinket in a shop window or hear anna say something that reminds you of your baby sister. other times, crystal will make a joke that reminds you of your brother. in those moments, you miss home more than anything in the world. but then brian will walk by, headed for the stage, and trail his fingers across your shoulders in a silent moment of affection, and you’re happy where you are. 

so long as you’re with him, you’re happy.

brian’s eyelids flutter open when the driver skips over a pothole. he groans, rubbing at his temples. “fuck,” he breathes. 

you push yourself off his chest, enough to meet his gaze. “feeling okay?”

he peeks through his fingers. “i think i got run over by a train.”

“well, that’s what freddie’s parties will do to you.” you poke his ribs, grinning. “you’re lucky you lot have a few days off to recover.”

“trust me,” he says plainly. “it was built into the schedule.” for a moment, his eyes scan your face. one long finger comes up to brush your cheek. “how’d you manage to get out unscathed?”

you shrug and resist the urge to lean into his touch. you can’t tell him the truth. he wouldn’t understand if you explain that your grandmother once read you an article about “saturday night in sodom” and the night freddie mercury almost broke louisiana. instead you twirl a lock of his hair around your index finger and say, “i’m good at moderation.”

leaning back against the headrest, his arm circles your waist, squeezing at the flesh below your hip. “remind me to get a few tips next time.” he closes his eyes, his lips parting as he falls back asleep. you smile, snuggle against him, and pinch yourself.

nope—still not dreaming. thank heaven.

november, 1978—detroit

by the time you reach michigan, the rhythm of the tour is set. everyone has their role to play, and each part is played to perfection. your part is slightly more fluid than most, but, alongside anna and john’s wife veronica, you manage to find your way most of the time. 

it can be awkward, though. you have no musical talent, no ability to haul or set up lighting rigs. really, your role is very clear: you’re around to keep brian entertained and as relaxed as possible. whatever he needs, you do it—even if that means letting him muss your hair or mark your skin too much during a lengthy drum solo. 

at first, you can’t stand knowing everyone else knows when you’ve had a quick shag in the stairwell or showed up late to sound check because brian got too handsy in the lift on the way out of the hotel. you’ve never been so open about a relationship before, least of all the physical aspect of it. you like to keep private things private, but that doesn’t work so well when you live hotel to hotel with the same thirty people. any bit of juicy gossip can fuel the band and the roadies for days on end. they’re worse than a group of church-going busy-bodies.

but that was a week ago, and you know better than most that much can change in the span of a week. brian’s lingering kisses or the quickes in a broom closet don’t make you nervous anymore. you don’t care if you get caught because lord knows roger and anna or veronica and deaky or any number of the crew are doing the same a hallway over. it’s all a part of the thrill of being with him, loving him (you refuse acknowledge it—the love—even to yourself; it’s too soon to love him, though you know you do). 

on the first night of the two gigs in detroit, you catch brian in the hallway before he goes out on stage. you’d stepped out to grab a bottle of water and nearly missed him in the process, but when he sees you, he lights up with a smile. he pauses. roger quips for brian to make it quick as he rushes after john, drumsticks in hand. 

“go get ‘em, tiger,” you say, slugging his shoulder with your fist lightly.

he catches your arm and lifts your hand to kiss the bone of your wrist. god, he makes you melt. “you gonna come watch from the side?” he mumbles against your skin. he’s looking at you through his dark lashes, thoroughly enjoying the way you squirm from side to side.

you nod and untangle your hand from his grasp. “eventually, yeah. crystal said he wants to show me the view from up top.” 

brian rolls his eyes with a good-natured huff. “watch out for that crystal. he’s trouble.” 

“sorry—what was that, mate?” crystal, rushing down the ramp toward one of the dressing rooms, pauses behind brian. “did you say i’m trouble?”

brian glances over his shoulder. “would you deny it?”

crystal hesitates, runs a hand over his beard. “no, but i don’t think my contract includes taking slag from my boss.”

shaking his head, brian laughs and heads up the ramp toward the stage. you call after him, and he turns as he continues walking, red special over his back, eyes wide and expectant. lifting the camera that’s perpetually around your neck with one hand, you blow him a kiss with the other. the camera captures his reaction: a wide grin, flushed cheeks, legs mid-stride. he disappears around the corner, and the hallway fills with the sound of cheers and applause when queen finally takes the stage.

you meet crystal’s eyes and wait for him to say something. you don’t have to wait long.

“you two are disgusting.”  

“you know, if you had actually brought me my drink at the disco, we might not be here.”

“to think i could have been saved the horror of having to go to bed each night scrubbing my brain of all your disgusting happiness.”

reaching out, you touch crystal’s elbow and pout your lower lip. “oh, crystal, are you lonely? do i need to find you a friend?”

he scoffs and twists to shake the hand on his elbow. “please,” he drawls. “i’ve got no issue there.” 

you stick out your tongue, and he moves down the hallway, but you follow close at his heels. “so, will you really show me the view from the scaffolding?”

“aren’t you afraid of heights?”

“absolutely, but i want to see it anyway. ratty said it was the best seat in the house.”

it takes a modicum of more effort to convince him—you have to promise to buy him a bowl of ice-cream next time the group goes out—but eventually he gives in. after leading you through a maze of wires and boxes, he climbs the lighting rig suspended over roger’s drumset. you hesitate at the ladder. you are afraid of heights, but you based on the way ratty went on and on about how “fuckin’ amazing” the show is from above, you’d like to think you can put your fears aside for the experience. palms sweaty, you wipe them across your jeans then scramble up the ladder. crystal sits on the narrow walkway, laughing, legs dangling over roger’s head. he pats the spot beside him, and you shuffle closer. 

“what do you think?” he asks, spreading his arms toward the view.

once you’re settled and able to calm your racing heart, you look out over the stage. your breath catches in your throat. “ratty was right—for once,” you whisper. 

you can see everything from here. most of the time, when you’re confined to the wings, you can barely see brian or barely see deaky. you never see roger, and you can rarely see the audience. from the scaffolding, you can see it all: freddie strutting across the stage, roger pounding the drums, deaky bopping in a tight circle, brian tearing into the guitar. from this angle you catch the way they work as a well-oiled machine, perfectly in-tune with one another. you can see the audience, too, and the way their faces shine with joy. the crowd looks like the sea, the way it moves up and down and side to side with the time of the music. it gives you a whole new appreciation for the roadies, too, and the way they work tirelessly to make this happen, often without proper thanks.

crystal nudges you with his shoulder. “take a picture,” he says. “to remember.”

you don’t have to be told twice. you raise the camera, peer through the viewfinder, careful to get your feet and crystal’s in the frame, and snap a shot. when you pull back, you see brian looking up at you from below, and you hope you got him in the frame, too.

november, 1978—philadelphia

“[y/n]! get over here!”

at the sound of ratty’s frantic voice, you pause in the stairwell and look over your shoulder. he’s hunched over a smoking amp, waving toward crystal and another roadie—phil, you think. when he catches your eye, he points to the spot beside him. you’ve never seen him so alarmed and, as much as you want to get away from backstage and find a couch to nap on, you hurry to his side.

“what is it?”

“the fucking amp broke! deaky’s muted and so’s brian.” 

you cringe. “his amp’s gone bad, too?”

“no! something else. i don’t fucking know. he just needs this wire.” ratty shoves a wire in your hand. it hangs loosely in your palm, and you get the feeling you know what he’s going to ask next. “you gotta go give it to him.”

you shake your head, mouth gone suddenly dry. “ratty, you have to be joking.”

he straightens. “do i look like i’m joking, [y/n]?”

he looks, truthfully, like he’s on the verge of tears. but you don’t say that. you just grimace and mutter, “please don’t make me do it.”

“sorry, gotta be done. just make it quick!” he takes a hold of your shoulders and pushes you out of the safety of the wings before wheeling around on his heel at the sound of crystal calling his name. 

legs frozen, you stand just to the right of deaky, still partially obscured by the walls of the wings. deaky continues to play, despite the fact that no one can hear him. you can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. he looks to the left and the right, searching for someone—anyone—to come and solve the issue. when he looks to his right, he sees you and his face relaxes for the briefest of seconds. he shuffles closer.

“is that for me?” he asks, nodding to the wire in your hand.

“no, sorry! it’s for brian. he’s got issues, too.”

“fuck! this is a fucking shitshow!” he cocks his head toward the other side of the stage. “go give it to him then!”

you realize belatedly as you run across the stage that you’re not wearing shoes. your socks slide against the slick floor, but you manage to stay upright, your vision tunneled on brian. you try not to think of the hundreds of thousands of eyes watching your every move, wondering who on earth you are and why you’ve taken to the stage like an invader. 

roger and freddie are still going, riffing off one another to keep the energy high. they’ve started some sort of call-and-response game with the audience, so when you make it to brian’s side, you have to shout to be heard. 

“ratty told me to give you this!”

brian’s angry, in rare form. his jaw is clenched tight, his temples throbbing. he looks ready to burst, and you wince when he grabs the wire from your hand. “for fuck’s sake, [y/n]! what is going on tonight?” he rips a wire from his guitar and replaces it with the new one.

you can only offer him a paltry shrug. “couldn’t tell you.”

fiddling with an amp behind his back, he gives his guitar a few experimental strums. sound blasts through the amps, and you resist the urge to lift your hands and cover your ears. relief surges through your veins; you give him a thumbs up. at the same moment, deaky plucks at his bass, which fills the stadium with its deep tones. 

oh thank heaven. you did not want to be in the greenroom after the show if everything hadn’t gotten fixed.

before you can turn to leave, brian grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard. your cheeks feel like they’re on fire, well-aware of the way the audience cheers as the touch lingers. you pull away first.

“thank you,” he whispers. he gives your rump a solid tap as you turn to make a beeline for the wings.

you think you’ll curl up and die when you rush past freddie and he says into the microphone, “ay, that’s brian’s girl!” he grabs your wrist and crushes you against his side, and you have the wherewithal to laugh even though you really want to stamp on his foot and run away. “she’s our little savior tonight, huh? a good luck charm!”

you finesse your way back to the wings, your skin hot with embarrassment, and flip ratty the bird as you make your way to the greenroom.

november, 1978—st. louis

there’s a show on thanksgiving day—sold out, much to everyone’s surprise—but after the concert, you gather around a long table in the hotel conference room. the carpet beneath your shoes is a pale purple, the table flimsy, the chairs uncomfortable plastic. someone’s laid a brilliant white tablecloth with a traditional thanksgiving meal, and the smell of roasted turkey and sweet potatoes and stuffing warms any of the cold still lingering on your body. you sit, squeezed between brian and crystal, across from anna, who winks at you as she lifts her cup to receive a helping of red wine.

“i’m fuckin’ famished.” crystal doesn’t wait for everyone to be seated or gerry to say a few words of toast. he grabs the basket of rolls and hands you one.

rolling your eyes, you take it and place it on the side of your plate. it’s the hotel’s china, a cream with mint trim. “you could wait and try to pretend like you have good table manners.”

beside you, brian snickers into his cup—a mug, really—of wine. his arm is slung over the back of your chair, his fingers circling lazily on your shoulder. you shift in your seat to lean into his touch. 

crystal pulls a face. for a moment, you think you’re staring into the face of your elder brother. that’s exactly something marcus would have done. your gut clenches, and you have to look away, reach for brian’s knee, before you begin to cry. how long’s it been? three months? you miss the sound of your mother’s voice, the way your father worries after you in your flat. you miss it all; you always will.

“excuse me, excuse me. i’d like to say a few words.” gerry stands at the head of the table, tapping his fork against his cup. lingering conversations fade as everyone turns to face gerry. “not one for speeches,” he starts.

“then sit down!” it’s john, from the end of the table, who interrupts. veronica elbows him hard, and he doubles over in a combination of a laugh and a wheeze.

gerry smiles through tight lips. “thank you, veronica. as i was saying, i’m not one for speeches, but i think tonight’s as good as any to tell you how happy i am to be a part of this. we’ve got a hell of a lot more to do, but i’m thankful for what we’ve accomplished so far. anyway, that was shite, but it’s how i feel. eat up. happy thanksgiving.”

there’s a chorus of happy thanksgiving and glass clinking against class. you sip at your wine and smile to yourself. you’d thought of what it would be like to celebrate thanksgiving before, but never imagined it would be like this. you wouldn’t have it any other way. not with roger slingshotting a green bean across the table or freddie grilling dennis about what type of butter he used for the mashed potatoes. 

you fill your plate, thankful, among other things, for the chance to eat a full meal alongside your new family. there’s a deep satisfaction in your chest. though there’s some part of you that still feels ridiculous wearing checkered trousers and dark turtlenecks, you think you feel more at home here than anywhere else.

“[y/n]?”

lifting a bite of cranberry sauce to your mouth, you turn your head to meet brian’s eyes. he’s leaned forward, his chin dipped. beneath the table, his fingers settle on your thigh, and he squeezes gently. you quirk an eyebrow as you chew, waiting for him to speak.

“i’m glad you’re here.”

you swallow, put your fork down, press the hand that’s on your thigh, smile. “i’m glad i’m here too.”

something stiff and slimy hits your forehead. you jostle in your seat with a gasp. a green bean lands in your lap, and you look up, eyes wide. across the table, anna’s laughing behind her hand, roger grinning widely.

“roger!”

he shrugs. “sorry, love, couldn’t help it. perfect target!”

“if i didn’t respect all the hard work poor dennis put into this meal, i’d shove your face in that bowl of potatoes,” you warn, pointing to the bowl of starch in question.

roger frowns, though his eyes sparkle with mischief. “brian, control your woman! she just threatened me!”

brian, wisely, lifts his hands in surrender, leaning back in his chair. “oy, she can handle herself, mate. don’t drag me into this.”

from his place beside roger, freddie slaps a hand on the table. “no fighting at my thanksgiving or i’ll kick you all out and eat by myself!”

“would you all please shut up and pass me the turkey?” crystal leans into your arm space, reaching in vain for the plate of meat just out of his grasp.

rising, you hand him the plate and cross to the front of the table. you clap your hands together to grab everyone’s attention then place your hands on gerry’s shoulders.

“i think you all know what time it is,” you say, grinning as a few of the roadies groan and duck their heads. you lift your camera. “squeeze in and look pretty.”

heart clenching as you look through the viewfinder at the collection of people you hold so dear, you snap your picture and sit down. without hesitation, brian takes your hand in his, and you sit together, hand in hand, for the rest of the meal.

december, 1978—london

you would be lying if you say you aren’t surprised when brian invites you to his parent’s home for the holidays. the tour has a month long break now that the american leg is over. once it starts up again in january, they’ll be off, gallivanting over continental europe. truthfully, you’d assumed you wouldn’t go back on the tour. you’d assumed you’d continue to crash on anna’s couch, make a few extra dollars at the diner, maybe look into enrolling in a few classes come spring.

you’d assumed the fairytale would be over.

there’s nothing official between you and brian. sure, you love him to bits. when you wake up in the morning, roll over, and see his sleepy eyes already looking at you, you know that for the rest of your life you will never feel for someone the way you feel for him. if he asked you to stay with him forever, you would. if he asked you to marry him, you would. you’ve known him for only a handful of months, but, fuck, he owns you. time doesn’t seem to matter when love’s involved. still, he’s never really put a label on what you are. not that he needs to; you’re just as fine without one. but with the break and then the touring starting up again, you’d just thought that would be it. he’d find another tagalong because lord know he’s could have his pick of the litter.

but he seems genuinely offended when he asks you to come home for christmas and you confess, “oh! i thought that you wouldn’t want me now.” the words sort of fall out of your mouth in a tumble, before you can really consider what you’re saying, and your hastiness shows because his forehead creases in a deep frown.

“why would you ever think that?” he asks it in the middle of the airport baggage claim, with the crew and band milling about, waiting for their luggage. it’s quiet, some ungodly hour in the morning, so you wince when he speaks a tad too loud for your liking.

“i just thought that...” you shrug and look away when his frown deepens. “don’t look at me like that, brian.”

“like what? pissed?” he scoffs. “i’m pissed ‘cause you know how i feel about you, [y/n]. at least i thought you did.”

you’re saved having to make a response by freddie dropping the last of your bags at your feet. he kisses your cheek, wishes you a happy christmas, and asks you take a dramatic photo of him leaving the airport, headed out for a night on the town all by his lonesome because his friends won’t join him in the fun. you oblige, though your heart isn’t in it because brian radiates frustration at your side and you’re jetlagged. you just want to go to sleep, really. it’ll be better in the morning.

after wishing well to the rest of the group, you follow brian out into the cold. it’s frigid, and a gentle snow has begun to fall, glittering in the harsh lamplight. you stamp your feet to try and generate some warmth in your legs as you wait on the curb for the cab. the tension between you grows thicker with each passing moment, but you can’t find the words to say. 

in all honesty, you figured he looks at you as nothing more than a good time. and that’s okay with you because it makes things less complicated. you aren’t sure what you will do if he actually wants you, wants you for good. because it’s always in the back of your mind—how you don’t belong here, how you don’t belong with him—and if he feels something more than a general liking for your kisses or your ass or your tits, you don’t know what that will mean for your future. it scares you. so you say nothing, and he says nothing.

the cab pulls up the side of the road, and the trunk pops open with a soft whoosh. the driver hops out, rambles something about how big of a fan he is and how brian is such an inspiration, and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you lug your bag to the trunk and dump it in unceremoniously. you slide into the backseat of the car, cross your arms over your chest, and sulk. brian follows suit, sulk and all, seconds behind you. 

the driver either ignores the tension in the backseat or is oblivious because when he takes the driver’s seat and turns to ask you both where you’re headed, he’s all smiles and flushed cheeks.

brian doesn’t answer. neither do you.

the driver’s smile begins to fade as the moments pass by. 

“you really didn’t realize that i love you?”

you suck in a sharp breath at brian’s confession, eyes darting to his, which bore so deep into your soul you wonder if he can see into the very depths of your heart. you wonder if he can see the way you’re at war with yourself. there’s part of you that wants to jump his skinny bones and forget everything you left behind; that part is dangerously close to breaking through the surface. but you care for him enough to shake your head in an honest answer. he sighs.

“well, i do.”

“oh,” you whisper, turning your face to your lap. “sorry.”

there’s an edge to his voice when he speaks again, and it makes you squirm. “that’s it? just sorry?”

you force yourself to meet his eyes. it’s hard to make out exactly what he looks like in the dim lighting of the cab, but you know he’s not happy. “i didn’t want to assume anything,” you admit. “this is all terribly out of character for me.”

“what is?”

you know he won’t give the driver an address until you speak the truth, so you close your eyes and grit your teeth. “all of it—you, queen, the tour. i have absolutely no idea what i’m doing or how i’m supposed to act.”

“you’re supposed to act like yourself, [y/n]. that’s what i love: you, not what you think you’re supposed to be.”

swallowing hard, your eyes slide back to him. his shoulders have dropped from their tense hunch, and the lines in his forehead have smoothed. he looks more tired now than anything else.

“if i’m being honest,” he continues. “i think i’ve loved you since you called crystal out on the tour bus that first night.”

you smirk, remembering the way you thought he’d turned to glance back at your after your outburst. lip caught between your teeth, you shift in your place to face him better.

“if i’m being honest,” you say. “i think i’ve loved you since i stepped on your stupid clog in that disco.”

he doesn’t laugh like you thought he would. his eyes just dart back and forth between yours for a moment before his hand slides across the bench to skim your splayed fingers.

“so, christmas at mine?”

you nod, chest soaring when he scoots closer, his warmth invading your cold bubble. “christmas at yours.”

december, 1978—london

freddie throws a new year’s eve party, and you all but have to drag brian to it. all he wants to do is stay home and fiddle with the telescope his father got him for christmas, but all you want to do is go to freddie’s party with the man you love and kiss him as the clock strikes midnight. you end up cutting a deal: you’ll both go to the party but leave right after midnight so he can catch what’s left of the night sky. 

as you dress in a decidedly not-winter-appropriate outfit, you tease and tell him he’s such a grandpa. he just pushes his hips against your backside, pushing you into the bathroom counter, and you gasp at the feeling of his desire pressed against your leg. you have to brace your hands on the countertop when he leans over your shoulder and nips at your ear, muttering, “don’t think grandpas get riled up like this, love.”

now at the party, leaning against the wall with a flute of champagne in your hand, half-listening to veronica’s story about john attempting to cut his own hair, you can’t stop ogling brian from across the room.

he stands beside roger and some business executive from the record label. he’s wearing the suit jacket you like: it’s black with white pinstripes. it’s buttoned halfway up his chest, but, as is customary, the crisp white dress shirt beneath his jacket is barely buttoned at all. you can make out the outline of his sternum, a silver necklace dangling against his skin. his trousers are dark and tapered along his narrow waist and legs. he looks good enough to eat, and you still hum with the electricity he’d shot through you back in the cramped bathroom at his parent’s home.

mumbling an half-hearted apology to veronica, you set your empty champagne flute on the marble mantlepiece and cross the floor with purposeful steps. it’s rare you get like this—so worked up you might explode—but with the recent revelation of his feelings for you and the way he stands there, so nonchalantly beautiful, you think you might burst if you don’t do something.

sidling up beside brian, you curl your arm around his elbow and smile at the men with whom he’s in conversation. roger grins right back, like he can read your mind and knows what you’re up to; the business executive’s eyes falter a moment too long on your chest, but that’s fine because at least it means you look good. you can work that to your advantage.

“mind if i steal him for a moment?” you ask, already tugging at brian’s wrist, question dripping with sugar and honey. 

the business man’s eyes flick up from your cleavage to your face. “well, we weren’t exactly—”

“go ahead, love.” roger waves you off with a wink. “i can finish up with mack.”

mouthing a thank you to roger, you curl your hand around brian’s and pull him down the crowded hallway to a small coat closet. there’s heavy jackets and fur-lined coats strewn about the room, bags and purses and briefcases too. it smells slightly musty despite it being the largest coat closet you’ve ever occupied. you don’t waste a moment. with one hand, you shove the door closed and with the other you grab the lapel of his jacket and pull his mouth down for a bruising kiss.

brian laughs against your teeth, his hands skimming around your waist to settle in the small of your back. “what on earth’s gotten into you?”

you shake your head. the strap of your dress, thin as it is, falls down your shoulder as you trip over your own feet in an effort to perch yourself on the single bench in the room. “nothing,” you huff. “just want you ‘s all.”

he helps you with the stubborn zipper that runs along your spine, his mouth working on your throat, still chuckling. “i can work with that.”

january, 1979—berlin

anna studies you from across the room, one leg dangling over the other. she picks at her nails while she stares, her eyes narrowed in thought. you let her inspect you for a few moments, but her stare soon becomes too much to handle. her eyes are heavy and intense, so you slam your book shut.

“what?” there’s an edge on your voice, but she doesn’t take notice, just shrugs.

“do you think you’ll get married? you and brian?”

with a sigh, you toss your book to the coffee table and swing your legs to the carpet. “that’s a ridiculous question.”

“no it’s not!” anna’s eyes follow you as you pad across the floor to grab an apple from the buffet along the wall. “it’s obvious you love each other.”

leaning against the table, you bite into your apple. music from the stage filters through the air vents, attempting to drown out the thoughts swirling through your head. you might let it, too, but anna’s question pricks at the girlish ideas of marriage you’d buried so long ago.

“me and roger,” she continues. “i know we won’t get married. he’s an epic shag and almost too much fun, but i don’t love him. i mean, i do, but not the way you love brian. and he definitely doesn’t love me the way brian loves you.”

you arch a brow. “i didn’t realize everyone had so many opinions about my relationship.”

“sure we do. crystal’s started a pool on when brian will actually pop the question. my money’s in the spring. i think i picked april fifteenth. we’ll be in tokyo then and they’ve got gorgeous cherry blossoms. can you imagine how romantic that’d be?” 

you do imagine it for a moment—him bending down to one knee, cherry blossom trees swaying with a gentle breeze, your hand clasped in his, finger weighed down by an engagement ring. you fiddle with your ring finger, feel the emptiness there, and wonder what it would be like to actually, truly marry him. you’d say yes, if he asked, but that would also mean giving up any lingering hope of returning to your natural life, wouldn’t it? you still aren’t sure if you can do that. 

besides, you know he isn’t going to ask. there’s no reason for him to. he loves you; you love him. that’s it; that’s all it needs to be.

february, 1979—zurich 

you’re walking hand in hand along a quaint street in zurich’s city center. the air is cold, but brian’s hand is warm, and you feel impossibly safe by his side. not for the first time, you have to pinch yourself. before leaving home you’d rarely traveled and never extensively, but in the six months you’ve been away, you’ve seen more of the world than you ever dared dream you would—and it’s all because of him.

you slide your hand from his palm to the crease of his elbow and lean against his side. he glances down at you and moves his arm around your shoulders. he smells like laundry detergent and roger’s cigarette smoke. the scent makes your head dizzy with affection, so you have to ask him to repeat himself when he speaks.

“how much film have you used up? for your camera?” he asks again, drawing you out of the path of a jogger. 

you tally the sacred tubes tucked neatly in your suitcase. “four canisters so far.”

he smiles, clearly proud of himself. “i guess i did pretty well with that gift, then.”

rolling your eyes, you poke his side, but the grin on your face is secure. “don’t flatter yourself. i don’t want your ego getting too big.” looking away from his pretty face, flushed with chill and sparkling with amusement, your steps falter. “oh, that’s nice!”

you say it before you can stop yourself, but the jewelry displayed in the window of a small accessories shop truly is nice. there’s a wide array of necklaces, bracelets, and rings sparkling in the overhead light. just the sight of a diamond ring makes your heart flutter, and you think back to your conversation with anna in berlin. you pull your eyes away from the wedding bands and focus on the necklaces. 

brian steps behind you, circles his arms around your stomach, and settles his head on your chin. “do you want something?” his breath tickles your ear, and you immediately shake your head.

“no, just looking.”

he squeezes you against his body in protest. “come on. let me get you something.”

“brian, it’s too much.”

“it is not! you haven’t let me get you anything this whole time!”

you turn around in his arms and plant your hands on his lean chest. “i don’t need anything. you’re present enough as it is.”

he huffs. “that’s shite. we’re going in there and we’re not leaving till you pick out something you want.”

in the end, you choose a necklace with a pearl set against a fanned-out silver flower. it’s dainty, light against your collarbones, but it reminds you of brian. pearls are formed out of grit and determination, just like he is. it’s a silly metaphor, but when you see the necklace for the first time, that’s what springs to mind. you don’t tell him as much. you just let him pay the shop woman and hook the necklace around your neck.

later, when you’re lounged around the hotel lobby, waiting for the boys to finish changing from the show so you can go to dinner, crystal points to the necklace.

“new bling?”

you touch the pearl with your fingers and nod. “he insisted.” you level him a pointed stare. “i heard you’ve got a bet going on as to when brian will ask me to marry him.”

crystal has the decency to blush, and he swings his legs over the arm of his chair so he can sit straight. “yeah, well, we gotta do something to keep entertained.”

“i want in.”

he laughs, loud and echoey in the sparse lobby. “what?”

“you heard me: i want in.”

“you think he’s gonna ask?”

you shrug. “maybe. a girl can dream.”

shifting, crystal unearths a square notebook from his back pocket. he reaches for a discarded pen on the glass coffee table at his feet and puts the cap in his mouth while he flips through the pages of his notebook. “what day you want?”

“what day’s not taken?”

“uh... march first. we’re in paris then.”

“fine. put me down for march first.”

crystal pencils your name in and opens his palm. “it’s forty pounds to enter.”

you startle forward, sputtering, “forty pounds?!”

“you’re getting in pretty late, sweetheart! take it while you can.”

“how much do i stand to win?”

he calculates slowly, mumbling, “forty times twenty-eight... about five thousand.”

you scoff, shaking your head. “i don’t know whether i should be offended or impressed.” withdrawing your pocketbook, you slap the forty pounds in his palm. 

he curls his fist around the money and shoves it in his pocket. “thank you and good luck.” he winks as the boys round the corner from the elevators, talking quietly amongst themselves.

brian comes to stand behind your chair, his hands on your shoulders. he glances between you and crystal. “what’s going on? you look like you’re up to no good.”

rising from your seat, you grasp his wrist and kiss the back of his hand. “oh nothing. crystal was just brushing me up on my maths skills.”

buzzing with giddiness, shocked at yourself but not unpleased, you grin wider when you hear crystal whisper to freddie, “she took march first” on your way to the car and freddie says, “dammit it! i got february twenty-eighth. he likes the first of the month.”

february, 1979—madrid

you stare at the calendar tacked to the dressing room wall. it’s your birthday.

you didn’t expect to feel so sad. freddie’s planned a party for this evening, something outrageous and ostentatious, and you’ve been anticipating it all week, but now that the day is here, you don’t feel excited or thankful or even the slightest bit happy. you just feel empty.

if you were home, where nature intended you to be, you’d likely have woken up to a flurry of happy birthday text messages. your roommate rachel might’ve made you breakfast in bed, and you’d have gone to dinner with your family before returning home to open presents. it would have been simple, easy and uninspired, but just the way you like it.

this morning you’d woken to brian pressing a kiss to your temple as he rushed out of the room, already late for a day set aside for brainstorming the new album. he couldn’t help the schedule; that’s just the way it fell. so you’d gotten ready by yourself, eaten by yourself at the hotel’s cafe, read by yourself on your room’s terrace. crystal had shouted his well-wishes on his way out of the hotel by the time soundcheck rolled around; anna had brought you a muffin as you slid into the car beside her. you knew you would celebrate later as freddie had promised, but that didn’t stop the ache, the yearning, in your chest for something more familiar. now standing in brian’s dressing room, alone and in silence, it takes everything you have in you to not break down and sob.

you miss home. you miss your parents. you miss your brother and sister. you miss your phone and your keurig that takes too long to pour and your subscription to netflix. as much as you love brian, you miss where you belong, the time in which you belong.

you don’t realize you’re crying until the door opens with a click, and brian steps in. he’s halfway through a sentence about wanting to find something to eat before the show starts when he sees your tears and stops talking. rushing to your side, he takes your shoulders in his large hands and bends to catch your eyes.

“[y/n]? what is it? what’s wrong?” he sounds worried, painfully so. this must be the first time he’s seen you cry in such earnest. sure, he’s seen you shed a few tears on occasion—when you’re irritable and he’s being stubborn; when roger and crystal’s antics make you double-over in laughter; when he does something particularly endearing—but he’s never seen you like this.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and shake your head, tears flowing all the more. you wish you could unburden yourself and tell him the truth. he deserves that. but you can’t answer his questions. you don’t know what’s brought you here or why, and he’ll probably only think you’re crazy. you think you’re crazy.

he stops asking you what’s wrong and leads you to the couch. the faux-leather squeaks as he sits, drawing you to his lap, your head cradled beneath his chin. he rubs soothing circles up and down your back, humming, until you’ve settled enough to blow your nose and wipe what little makeup remains from your eyes.

you exhale, sitting upright in his lap. he has one arm draped over your hips, the other still working along your spine. you can feel his eyes searching your profile, as if he’s trying to discern the cause of your turmoil from the patterns on your skin. 

you don’t say anything. you just twist and press your mouth to his. 

god, you love him. it’s not the fact that he’s brian may and that’s he opened up a world previously unknown to you. it’s him: his height which makes you feel safe, his hands which love you so well, his intelligence which dazzles you day after day, his kindness, his vulnerability with others, his wit. you love everything about him and more.

but you don’t belong here. the thought has been plaguing you since you arrived, and you suspect it will haunt you until nature returns you home—if nature returns you home. you are meant for the days of roaming wifi and overpriced coffees on every street corner. you are meant for skinny jeans and simple eye makeup, youtube and internet shopping. 

you miss it all, but you love him so dearly—would marry him, and have his children, and die by his side if he asked—but you don’t belong here.

your mouth moves rough across his as you straddle his hips, hands clawing at the hair around his shoulders. you’re crying again. you can taste your tears, salty and warm, and you wonder if he tastes them too. he kisses you despite the tears or maybe because of them. whatever; it doesn’t matter. you just want to forget, to feel good, to feel him.

pulling back, you breathe heavy, chest brushing against his. his eyelids are heavy with lust, his throat flushed. he lifts a hands, brushes his palm down the side of your face, his thumb swiping out to wipe away a tear. 

“what do you want?” he asks.

you take the moment to memorize his face, every line, freckle, and marking. you run a finger long his lower lip and whisper, “you.”

he frowns. “you have me.”

a lump rises in your throat, and you push it back before meeting his gaze. “always?” you aren’t sure what you mean by always. your head is so muddled, so torn, it likely doesn’t matter what you really mean. just as long as he answers the way you want him to.

he does. 

“always,” he says, and you sigh in relief before kissing him again.

march, 1979—paris

march first, the day you picked in crystal’s proposal bet. 

it’s drizzling, but you insist brian accompany you to the louvre on your last afternoon in france. together, you race to the museum, hair damp and frizzy, laughing as you check your coats and grab maps of the exhibits. you wind your way from room to room, commenting on the masterpieces hanging along the walls. brian listens as you spout the wealth of useless knowledge you’ve stored in your head for a later date. he asks questions; he nods and hums in approval; his hand rests in the curve of your back.

by the time you reach liberty leading the people, you’re sure he’s as bored of hearing your voice you are. you pause, study the painting, and sigh in contentment. the room is quiet, only an older couple in the far corner, standing side by side. the man is much taller than his wife, like brian’s taller than you. the woman leans into her husband’s touch when he presses her shoulder, and you wonder absentmindedly if you will experience old age alongside brian. 

“i want to give you something.” brian breaks the silence with a voice that is on the edge of trembling. 

you look up at him, brow furrowed. “you know i don’t like when you give me things.”

“i think you’ll like this.” he gasps his right hand and twists at the ring on his pinky. as you watch his movements, shaky and unpracticed, your heart stops in your chest. 

oh my god.

oh my god.

oh my god.

the words thrum through your veins like a mantra. the air in your throat goes cold, your eyes glued to his hands. you think you might faint when he grasps your left wrist and places the ring in your palm. mouth open, you stare at it: it’s silver with a flat face, small and plain. there’s something engraved on the smooth circle and, after you blink your tears away, you see it’s a flower with three drooping bell-shaped buds.

he notices your inspection and nods to the ring. “it’s lily of the valley, supposedly may’s flower of the month, or so my mother has always believed. you saw our house. she’s obsessed.”

you swallow past the moisture gathering in your throat and look up, unable to form a sentence. he shoves his hands deep in his pockets and shrugs.

“it’s not so much of a proposal as it is a promise.”

“a promise?” is all you can manage to squeak.

“i want to marry you one day,” he says matter-of-factly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like it’s what he was born to do. “but you know how things are right now. we’re busy and money’s tight and—”

“okay,” you breathe. 

his brow puckers. “what?”

“i said okay. i’ll marry you—one day.”

his lips spread in the most heartbreakingly beautiful smile, and you know for a fact that you are doomed: doomed to love him forever and always, until you’re both dead and buried and the world continues to turn even though you’re gone.

“well, mr. may, are you gonna make me put it on myself?” you wiggle your hand and pass him the ring which he dutifully slides on your middle finger.

still holding your hand in his, he leans down to kiss your forehead. “i’ll put a proper ring on your finger one day,” he mumbles against your skin, clasping the back of your head to his lips. “promise.”

as you stand in the middle of the louvre, held in the arms of the man you love, you remember: you’re five thousand pounds richer now. you won the bet. the thought makes you laugh and hug him all the tighter.

april, 1979—toyko

if you had known nature would choose that day make her mistake right, you likely wouldn’t have gone back to your hotel room for your sunglasses.

but you didn’t know, and it was painfully sunny outside. 

freddie suggests the group takes a walk around toyko to enjoy the sights and the last of the cherry blossoms before the evening’s soundcheck. though you’re tired from a late flight, you aren’t going to turn down an afternoon of simplicity, not when the tour is so close to finishing and you might never experience this feeling of family again. you’re walking with crystal out of the hotel, bag slung over your shoulder, camera around your neck, arguing with him about whether or not the clouds in the distance mean rain. he says yes; you say no.  

“it’ll just pass over us,” you say, shielding your eyes from the sun. “it’s too bright to storm.”

“clearly you’ve never been to japan before.” he pauses when you stop walking, turning to look over his shoulder while you backtrack toward the entrance.

“i’m gonna pop back inside for my sunglasses anyway. i’d rather have them.” you wave your hand. “don’t wait for me. i’ll catch up. tell brian i’ll be there in a minute.”

he shrugs and pops a toothpick in his mouth. “you know freddie’s a fast walker so be quick.”

nodding, you turn fully on your heel and rush back into the building. the lift is too slow, so you take the stairs two at a time. by the time you reach the door to your room and finesse the key into the stubborn lock, it’s raining. you groan, thumbing your nose at the rain-stained window, but grab the sunglasses anyway before racing down the stairs.

your camera bangs against your chest, your bag slapping against your hip. the stairwell is cool concrete, and the sound of your shoes echoes on the stairs as you wind down the floors. 

thunder booms overheard, and you gasp, stalling on the steps. it sounds close. maybe you should have grabbed your umbrella...

reaching the bottom of the stairs, you pull the door to the lobby open and stumble into an empty concert hall, all too familiar and entirely unwelcome.

your heart plummets to your stomach.

“oh fuck.”

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay​ @grigorlee​ @teenagepeterpan​ @just-my-sickly-pride​ @perriwiinkle​ @ubernoxa​ @anunknownnebula​ @coincidence-ithinknots-blog​ @captvinswaan​ @ineloqueent​

[automatic-external-defibrillator]

My Best Friend, the Demon 1/4

Based off of this post. Also I'm really sorry if you didn't want this. (It's finished! Part 2, part 3, and Part 4 are out) THIS IS NOT MEANT TO BE SHYAN.

“But sir!” a small man cried, exasperated.

“No buts! Convince the dead to come back, or be banished!” the larger of the two commanded. The smaller man sighed dejectedly.

    “Yes, Satan.” He bowed, leaving soon after. Once he left the castle gates, he was immediately met by another man.

    “How’d it go, Ryan?” the man asked. “What was the summons about?”

    The other, Ryan, turned to him, sighing. “I have to go to the surface, convince some wayward spirits to come to hell. Same shit Brent went to do,” Ryan explained. “Not having horns or a tail is going to throw me off, dude.” Upon mentioning these, he anxiously ran a clawed hand over his smoothed-back-looking horns while his spade-shaped tail curled loosely to the front.

    His friend scoffed. “Better than me. Other demons see my tail shape and refuse to even look at me. I can’t even get a job around here!”

    Ryan gave him a sympathetic look. “You know there are crescent communities. You’ve no reason to stay here while I’m gone.”

    “Yeah, I guess it’ll be better for me. Stay safe, Ryan.” His friend left and Ryan headed to the surface to begin.

~~~

    It’d been a month since Ryan came to the surface. In that time, he managed to land a job at a place called Buzzfeed, as per his friend Brent’s idea. About two weeks into said new job, he’d had the idea for a thing he called “Unsolved”.

Brent had agreed to do it with him, as long as they did a segment on crimes. Brent was always fascinated with the cimes humans committed. They pitched the idea and they’d filmed about 8 episodes of the crime segment, “True Crime”. Today they were filming the first episode of the “Supernatural” segment, the topic being “the Men in Black”.

It was also Brent’s last day on the surface, meaning if Ryan didn’t find someone to film with, Unsolved would be over before it even began. Ryan sighed as he compiled his notes, still not entirely used to not having claws. Brent pulled him aside.

“I found someone to take my place,” Brent started. “His name is Shane Madej. He said he’d do it because he wants to, and I quote, ‘fuck with the human embodiment of sunshine’.”

Ryan smiled, a look of disbelief gracing his features before he burst into a fit of laughter, Brent joining in soon after. “You didn’t tell him, though, did you?” Ryan asked through chortles.

“No, no. I’d never risk that secret getting out. Satan’d have our heads,” Brent chuckled. “I just laughed and said okay.”

Calming down, the two went to film the episode, Ryan feeling more relieved than before.

~~~

The next morning, Shane was pulled from his thoughts by the incessant beeping of his alarm clock. Unfurling one of his long arms, he smacked it, shutting it off. “How the hell do humans do this every single day, and why am I subjecting myself to it?” he grumbled to no one.

He all but rolled out of bed, stretched, and got dressed in his signature button-up shirt and pair of jeans. He was taking over for a demon co-worker of his who had returned to hell today. He’d asked him about a week before he was to leave, and Shane said he’d think about it. To help him make his decision, he watched what was available of this “Unsolved” show, and decided he’d fuck with this overly positive son of a bitch.

He’d heard from Brent that Unsolved was planning to start a whole “are ghosts real” bit and also that Ryan, his co host, was an avid believer in the paranormal. Thusly, Shane decided to play the unrelenting skeptic.

Shane went to work, and when he got there, he headed up to where his new desk would be, and to meet the poor, unfortunate soul he’d be working with. Ryan was already there when he arrived, too chipper for Shane. Especially at 8 AM. He wanted to ground pound the guy, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t. This guy was human and no match for Shane’s demonic strength.

“Ah, you must be Shane! I’m Ryan Bergara,” Ryan introduced, standing to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Shane managed, sitting down with a coffee. The room fell into an awkwardly tense silence, as they were the only two there.

“So, uh,” Ryan started, trying to start a conversation, “what caused you to agree to doing Unsolved?” Shane could hear him tapping his knees, anxiously awaiting a response.

“Brent asked me to about a week ago. Poor guy, what happened to him,” Shane answered, faking a sigh when he said the last part.

“You make it sound like he died. He just moved to help with his family,” Ryan chuckled. Shane sipped his coffee. Is that what his cover story is? he wondered.

“You heard what happened to his mom though, right?” Shane asked, deciding to start the fuckery now, and judging by Ryan’s confused look, it was working.

“No?” Ryan questioned, drawing it out as if to say “go on”.

“Yeah, she has a brain tumor. That’s we he moved,” Shane “explained”. Ryan, still looking confused, just slowly nodded and turned to do something on his phone. Shane took this opportunity to text Brent.

Shane: Man, this guy is fun to mess with.

Brent: Don’t mess him up too bad though

Brent: He’s still a good friend of mine

Shane: Is he always this chipper at 8 am?

Shane: Because if he is, we’re gonna have some problems.

Brent: No, it’s only when he’s excited or anxious about something

Shane let out a small laugh at that. “Poor little anxious baby,” he mumbled to himself with a small smile.

“What was that?” Ryan inquired. Shit. Shane forgot where he was for a moment.

“Nothing of concern to you, Bergara,” he snarked. Ryan looked slightly taken aback. His brown eyes seemed to turn black for a second, but when Shane did a double-take, his eyes were still brown. Did someone accidentally inject him with heroin? He figured it wasn’t that, as a lot more would be wrong than just his new co-worker’s eyes, so he chalked it up to paranoia and continued on with life. “So, what exactly do you do on this show?”

“Oh, uh, basically I research topics and you just kinda react to them. Although, I did get approval to go on location for the episode after today’s filming session,” Ryan explained, perking up slightly.

“What’s today’s topic, then?” Shane asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, if I told you, how would you give a genuine reaction on camera?” Ryan bantered back. “Fake surprise?”

Shane gave him a look that said “fair enough” and shrugged. “You got me there, Mr. Tanned Man.”

Ryan looked at Shane for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Mr.一 Mr. Tanned Man!” He wheezed. “That’s good. That was一that was good.” Ryan wiped a fake tear from his eye.

    Shane sat there smirking at the man. He had to protect this bright ray of sunshine. He could see why Brent took a liking to him. He was a genuine person with a great laugh. Damn, he liked that laugh. It reminded him of a warm summer’s evening. He vowed to be the funniest bastard alive so he could hear that laugh more often.

    A voice pulled him from his thoughts. “-ane? Shane?” Ryan was waving his hand in front of his face. “Are you listening?” Shit, he was staring.

    “Yeah, sorry. Lost in thought there for a bit,” Shane blinked. “What were you saying?”

    “I was saying that Mark is here. The cameraman?” Ryan said that like he was trying to jog his memory. “We can start filming now. You can help edit while I research the next topic.”

    Shane nodded. “Right, yeah.” As they got up to go film, Shane realized he got himself in some deep shit.

~~~

    Hiding being a demon just got a lot harder.

    Ryan and Shane were at a church about to meet with a certified exorcist to talk about ghosts and other spirits that might be roaming around. Ryan had done the introduction outside and now they were headed into the chapel to talk with a man named Father Thomas.

    Ryan was panicking, as he’d never been in a church before. He’d been on the surface for a month, give or take a week. Shane eyed him quizzically, and Ryan knew he had to calm down as to not raise suspicions.

    “What’s wrong there, buddy? Never been to a church before?” Shane asked jokingly.

    “Yeah,” Ryan answered.

    “Yeah you have or yeah you haven’t?” Shane questioned, raising an eyebrow at the shorter man.

    “Yeah I haven’t,” Ryan clarified. Shane stopped while Ryan continued walking.

    “Never?” he asked, wide-eyed. Ryan hesitated a moment before nodding.

    “I don’t think一” Ryan cut himself off before he finished his sentence, almost revealing his true nature. “I don’t think my family was all that religious.”

    “Do you not remember them or something?” Shane asked, catching up to Ryan in two strides thanks to his long legs.

    “Or something,” Ryan muttered. Shane, catching on that Ryan didn’t want to talk about it, dropped the subject.

    The two walked into the sanctuary silently, and sat in a pew to talk with Father Thomas.

    After that mess was over, the two headed down to the Winchester House. Once at the maze of hallways, stairs to the ceiling, and doors to death, the two got to ghost hunting. Ryan gave a synopsis of the place and they soon made their way to the basement, the alleged most haunted place of the house.

    Ryan was quick to search for any lost spirits of the house to convince, hoping to fill his quota quickly and return home, much like Brent had. Fortunately, Shane had the idea to split up first.

    “Alone, how about? I’ll go first,” Shane suggested. Ryan nodded, gladly letting him go first, as he was absolutely terrified of the place. Ghosts had nothing to lose, so they didn’t care if they hurt someone. Soon, Shane’s time alone ended, and Ryan was next.

    Ryan set off to find some spirits. For the first five minutes, Ryan didn’t find anyone, but he managed to find a woman in Victorian era clothes at around minute seven. She seemed scared of him, turning to leave before Ryan called softly to her.

    “I just want to talk,” Ryan stated, eyes turning black. “I’m here to request that you go to hell. I have my orders, and I will not leave until you do.”

    The woman, still looking frightened, nodded, warily looking around before fading from sight. That was easier than I expected. Ryan thought to himself. The interaction lasted for about a minute, so Ryan still had two minutes to see if there were others.

    Unfortunately, Ryan didn’t find anyone other than the woman, so he went back to the group consisting of Shane and Mark.

    “How’d it go, Bergara?” Shane asked, bemused at the smaller man’s terror before heading down. “See any ghosts?” Shane used a weird version of Goofy’s voice when he said ghosts.

    “Nope, but we still have two more places after this,” Ryan countered, cockier than he’d been the rest of their time here. Shane looked at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he raised his eyebrows.

    “Where to next then, buckaroo?” Shane asked as they exited.

    “Oh jeez, next we’re headed to Mexico to view the Island of the Dolls,” Ryan stated.

    “Spooky,” Shane commented, “but neither of us speak Spanish.”

    “We’re meeting up with someone from Buzzfeed Mexico,” Ryan told him. They’d reached the car and packed everything, their next location being a hotel until their flight to Mexico the next day.

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Never Replace You

This third series reads as follows:

Shattered … Desolation … Determination … Us and Ours … Ratty Towels … The Sleepover … Skinner and the Punch … Oregon … Impossibilities … Something from Nothing … Out of the Car … Partners ... News

@today-in-fic

First series … Second series

*********************

“No. I’m just going to quit. It’ll be easier. What did you say I should become again? Cooker of books for your dessert shop?” Throwing himself down on the couch, he bounced up again, hand gripping his hair, yanking several times, pacing twice around the table before coming to a stop by the window, “seriously? How much math does a bookkeeper really need to do these days? There’re computer programs and calculators and sharp pencils. The accounting practically does itself.”

Scully wanted to throw a few of those sharpened pencils at him but she refrained, “would you sit back down, please?! You’re annoying the hell out of me and I’m already hungry. Just … sit … and be quiet.”

He did not comply, wandering the room instead, “we’ve read through every one of these backgrounds twice already and each one is worse than the last. I give up. They’re all terrible and dangerous and from what I can tell, not open to even the remotest of extreme possibilities.”

“Neither was I, Mulder, and look how well I turned out.”

“You have never once agreed with one word that’s come out of my mouth regarding anything in seven years. I haven’t convinced you of a damn thing.”

“But you’re still alive.”

He had absolutely no response to this and having the sneaking suspicion he may have somehow lost his argument surrounded by hypnotic voice and reverse psychology, he finally sat down, elbows to knees, “can’t I just deputize the Gunmen as one entity, have them dress all in black so they’re interchangeable and do some funky poaching in the dark of night with you monitoring the camera I have attached to my head? Is that so much to ask?”

“And what would their name be?”

“I don’t know … Frolangers, maybe?”

Scully really was going to hit him, “neither of us is good at diplomacy on an empty stomach. Do you know if we have anything for dinner?”

“Not a clue. We were arguing too much yesterday to remember to shop; I think we ordered from the diner.

“I want pancakes … and bacon. Lots of bacon.”

Knowing this evening would be shot to hell if he didn’t get some food in both of them, he moved again, wandering to the pantry and digging in, “we have pancake mix,” moving to the freezer, “and while we do not have any bacon, we have a crap-ton of sausage, what the hell, was it on sale or something, and a bag of chicken nuggets.”

Scully was beside him in a heartbeat, stomach angry, cravings real, “where do we keep chocolate chips?”

“Do we own chocolate chips?”

“No self-respecting Scully goes without at least one bag of them in the house.” Unearthing from a lower cupboard, she held them aloft, “chocolate chip pancakes it is. Find me a frying pan, please; if I don’t eat in five minutes, I’m going to pour the chocolate directly down my throat.”

She was scary.

It amused him.

Soon, pancakes were being doused in syrup and coated with a thick layer of butter, soggy as an eight-hour rain day with maple-y goodness. Scully, carrying her plateful and another bowl of sausages to the couch, settled in, eyeing Mulder’s plate as he devoured his first bite mid-route to his spot beside her, “you going to share at all?”

“Eyes on your own plate, Agent.”

“You have one more pancake than I do.”

His grin came on so suddenly that the sausage piece he’d just bitten off rolled from his mouth back onto the plate, “let’s negotiate at the end and I might be persuaded to give you a bite or two.”

“I’ll trade you some dessert for it.”

She was smiling all the while and he stopped mid-pancake cut, “we have dessert?”

And the smile shifted to mischievous in an instant, “you’ll like it.”

He gave her the extra immediately.

He was not disappointed by the five minutes of grinding followed by the 10 of straddling sex with files scattered and syrupy-chocolate kisses abounding. As she lay against him, putty in his hands, malleable and soft, exhausted and spent, he whispered in her ear, voice low, “I can never replace you.”

Snuggling deeper into his chest, she managed to find the words to tell him, “you have to because I can never replace you.”

Pulling one of the myriad of blankets heaped around the room over them both, “we will find someone tonight, I promise.”

&&&&&&&&&&

2am rolled up after another 20-minute turned hour 15 power nap and Scully looked at him with rimmed eyes, dark and exhausted, “there is not one person in here with even the remotest possibility of doing what we do.”

Hating to admit defeat, especially when he knew how much she had wanted to find at least one person in the pile, “we can go through them again, I mean, maybe something will jump out that we haven’t seen the last four times.”

She dropped her head back to the arm of the couch, feet wiggling until they were under his warm and cozy butt cheek, “that would just give me more of a headache and besides, if I didn’t like them the first time around, the fifth won’t suddenly, magically endear them to me, either.”

“Then we need to call Betsy, ask her to use her powers for good instead of evil and have her persuade Uncle Skimmer that he’ll have to be my partner until further notice but right now, we need to go to sleep.” Standing from their paper-whirled cocoon, he gathered bowls, stray dishtowels, candy wrappers and mugs, “because I need you and a bed and the feel of warm body and fuzzy flannel.”

Deciding defeat wasn’t so bad after all, she rolled off the couch, standing and swaying, “I can do that.”

He moved her down the hall, hands on hips, steering to clear a stack of shoes and a pesky doorframe, “What will we call it?”

“What?”

“Our donut shop? I was thinking ‘So Good You Could Donuts’.” A solitary chuckle told him he’d done good, “or maybe ‘Go Nuts Donuts’.”

“Just get in bed.” Finally settled, half-snoozed, half-mind-racing, “Donutty?”

“You realize that sooner or later, that will have to happen, yes?”

“G’night, Mulder.”

“G’Donut, Scully.”

&&&&&&&&&&

The following morning, after meeting Maggie at church and taking her out to breakfast, the pair of them yawned their way through coffee until Skinner showed up, having been called out for some other agent’s issue. Coming into the kitchen, he stopped when he saw them, “did I lose four hours from the front door to here?”

Maggie stood, kissing his cheek, “no. Dana and Fox came to church and took me to breakfast and now I’m trying to keep them awake long enough to finish their coffee before I send them for a nap.”

Skinner eyed the file carton innocently shoved in the corner of the kitchen, “up all night with those?”

Mulder nodded, “yeah. I’ve been through that stack so many times I can recite each file by memory.”

As he collected his own coffee and sat down, “find any?”

“No and therein lies the problem.”

Turning his judging eyebrow from Mulder to Scully, “you couldn’t talk him into any of them?”

“It was me, Walter. Mulder wanted to go through again and I just …” giving him an embarrassed look, “I don’t see myself trusting any of them.”

Skinner looked at Mulder, only half-joking, “what the hell have you done to her?”

Mulder decided to take the humor side and respond in kind, “do you really want to know?” That killed any type of serious mood as Maggie blushed, Scully blushed, Skinner blushed and Mulder continued, “anyway, we figured maybe you could look through them, tell us if you have any more info that might change our minds?”

He didn’t get up, instead leaning back in the chair, glasses removed for a moment or two to rub his eyes, “can you give me half-hour for a shower? I’ve been in Arlington most of the night with a rookie who shot his partner and is now backpedaling his story.”

Both nodded and once Skinner stood up, Mulder spoke, “I always forget you have other agents to deal with besides us. This guy hasn’t knocked us off the top of your ‘pain in the ass’ scale, has he?”

“Oh, no, Mulder. You two are too far up on that list for any mortal to reach.”

Once he was gone, Scully looked at her mother, “is he officially moved in here yet?”

“No sugar coating today, I see.”

Grinning at her mom over her edge of her mug, “just curious if I should start knocking on all closed doors from now on.”

“Yes, dear, please do.”

&&&&&&&&

They spread out the files in the living room until people began showing up and once everyone left again, the files came back out. By 10pm, Mulder had a headache the size of the Washington Monument, its pointy little end jabbing behind his eye, “I’ll work alone. I’ll just avoid cases where I have to travel and the ones around here will be background checks and witness follow-ups; hell, I’ll do other peoples background checks and witness follow-ups. It’s fine.”

Scully’s hand, already on his thigh, tightened its grip, “you will hate your job in under three days.”

“But I’ll love my kid and you forever so it’s not that difficult of a choice in the end.”

Skinner took one last shot, hoping to break one of them, “will you just talk to this Doggett guy? I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew him in the Marines and he’s got an excellent history.”

Mulder nearly caved but Scully spoke first, “and he’s got a rec letter from his friend in the DoD. He was a no even before we began this insanity.”

Skinner flopped back on the couch, hating them both … Mulder flopped back on the carpet, hating the world … Scully sat their quietly, eyeing her mother reading her book, “what do you think, Mom?”

Placing her finger in the pages, carefully closing the book but keeping her spot, signaling this would not be a long conversation, “I think that only you two can judge who you work with but if Fox needs a partner in order to keep you out of the field, I would like to vote that Walter goes on out of town assignments when you have them but for local work, keep it to your self-defined mundane nightmare of non-threatening inquires.”

She re-opened her book.

She did not look at Walter.

Walter, sitting there, felt his finely-honed decision-making skills caving to the reality of his personal life and looking from the man who irritated him to the ends of the Earth to the woman who was carrying the grandchild of the woman he felt certain he would eventually marry or at least live with for the next 70 years, realized that he had people he had to watch out for. Also realizing as well that this might only mean one or two trips out a month, he justified by labeling it field reacquaintance and skill improvement, “two out of town cases a month at most, understand?”

Scully stood, turned, wiggled herself in between her mother and Skinner, hugged him as awkwardly as possible from the side, “thank you, Walter.”

“You don’t have to hug me, Scully.”

“Is it making you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Another 10 seconds, then I’ll leave you be.”

When she finally let go, he discovered he kind of missed her.

[bittysvalentines]

Upwards and Onwards

To: @nevermindedanyway

From: @jlzsoftie

Hi! I really hope you enjoy your gift and have a wonderful Valentine’s day! Much love <3

Warnings: mentions Jack’s OD

__________

Four days before Jack and Bitty come out, they leave early for Canada with Shitty and Lardo. It’s been planned for months now and everyone agreed that a few days as far away as possible would be for the best. The Zimmermann family cabin seemed like the obvious choice from the start, with its lake and swing set and just enough reception to make a phone call but not enough to load an article, and yet it took a while to convince Jack to go. It’s been a while since last time and he didn’t know if he wanted to risk tainting every happy memory, but Bitty managed to convince him eventually.

Jack tries to tell himself that it’s just another trip, just another weekend with his friends like all the times they went skiing or surfing or exploring, but he knows it’s more than that. And it deserves to be more than that. It’s huge. Everything has its time, good and bad, and everything that coming out entails isn’t an exception. It deserves memories too.

“This is gorgeous, Jack,” Bitty says on day one. The sun is shining just high enough for the water surface to catch it and it looks like a photograph. Like a picture perfect photograph. You can see the lake from the porch where they’re standing but that’s the only view besides trees that you get for miles in that direction. They’re not too far from the main road on the opposite side though, no matter how isolated it feels.

“Yeah, glad I brought my camera,” Jack says and puts his arms around Bitty’s waist from behind. He places a light kiss on the top of his head and then relaxes.

“I think we’ll wanna remember this. I think it’ll be good,” Bitty confesses. They’ve avoided any predictions thus far, but Jack’s gonna let this one slide. Mostly because he agrees.

“I don’t think we could forget it even if we tried.”

————

Day two and three are spent hiking and catching up. They pick a decent trail and walk until they don’t want to keep going anymore because it’s no longer about getting anywhere in particular. Shitty and Lardo tag along the first time, and it’s the most fun all of them have had together in months, but they stay at the cabin when Jack and Bitty decide to go again the next day.

An hour or two into that second time around they’re sitting on rocks with their backpacks to the side and looking at the view. Most of today’s hike was spent going uphill and now they can see the top of the small town church they passed on their drive here not long before turning onto the dirt road. Bitty picks up a blue flower, “to match your pretty eyes, Mr. Zimmermann”, and puts it behind Jack’s ear. Jack just thinks ‘this is what happiness is’ and kisses him breathless right there.

————

Day four is spent trying not to worry. He gets a text from George in the afternoon that tells him the plan is working so far, plus a ‘You’ll be out in less than 24 hours. I’m so proud of you’, and Jack can’t be sure exactly when she sent it because of the bad reception, but he sends back a thumbs up and turns his phone off.

No one mentions what’s about to happen tomorrow but they all know they need a distraction so they start a bonfire before it even gets dark. It’s a suggestion out of nowhere and no one has any objections. Jack pulls out some old patio lounge chairs from the shed and cleans them off while Shitty and Lardo gather every blanket in the entire cabin. Bitty brings out the food and beer just in time to sit down and they settle in together as the sun goes down.

“And then,” Shitty stops to laugh as he’s trying to tell the end of a very long story. Jack’s heard it before so he’s already laughing at what’s about to come while Bitty and Lardo can’t keep it in just from watching them. “And then he said… ‘dude, this is Harvard fucking Law, I don’t fucking care anymore’ and jumped. And the guy next to me sighed and was like ‘I really hope he defends me in my murder trial’ and jumped too, like what the actual fuck were they on?”

Jack can’t breathe at this point, he’s laughing so hard. Bitty’s throwing his head back onto Jack’s shoulder, laughing almost as much, and clutching the blanket around them like it’s going to keep them from falling out of the chair. Jack suspects Lardo’s probably heard it before too because she’s practically living with Shitty at this point even though she has her own apartment closer to work, but she’s still laughing the hardest.

“Harvard Law sounds ridiculous,” Bitty says when they’ve all calmed down. “We’ve gotta come visit next semester.”

“You better.” Shitty points a finger at them jokingly and then pops a piece of chocolate from the smores tray into his mouth.

It seems like the laughter ended up tiring most of them out and not even thirty minutes later both Bitty and Lardo are asleep. Bitty’s holding onto Jack instead of the blanket now and Jack gets stuck watching him like he always does. When he snaps out of it again he catches Shitty’s stare and knows he’s about to ask. He can feel the question buzzing under his skin and he’s not ready but he also never will be.

“So, now that Bits is asleep,” Shitty says and casually drinks the very last drops of beer left before continuing, “how’re you feeling about this, dude?”

Jack’s smile falters a bit but he immediately picks it up again when he realises Shitty’s just being genuinely curious. They haven’t talked about it much, especially not one on one, especially not with everyone at their busiest, and maybe they should’ve but. Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve. The outcome will still be the same at the end of the day. At the end of today.

“It feels good. The timing feels right and we don’t have to deal with it for another couple of days now so… good.”

Lardo moves around a bit in her chair and they both look at her twisting and turning for a second before settling in again. Shitty’s smile is soft and comforting when his eyes are on her, it always is, but then he turns back to Jack.

“No, how does coming out feel? Forget about the other shit; reactions, time, whatever.”

Jack knows he’s allowed to take his time answering. He’s never been very good at expressing himself when he’s feeling everything at once and Shitty, in his own way, is the same way. Jack gets quiet and thoughtful while Shitty gets loud and regretful. Both have their consequences. This time though, Jack tries not to think too much.

“You know, right before and after I overdosed I couldn’t imagine myself making it past twenty. I wanted to, more than anything, but I wasn’t supposed to-” he stops himself because it’s impossible to describe how much he thought his life was over when everyone else thought it had just begun. “I don’t know, I just never thought I’d see happy days again, you know? It was too messy to ever imagine any other future than disaster after disaster and now… I’m so happy to still be alive. I’m happy I got to have all of this.”

“So… you’re not scared about tomorrow?” Shitty holds his beer tight between his hands and leans forward. He looks pleasantly surprised and hopeful.

“Oh, I’m scared shitless,” Jack whispers and brushes his fingers through Bitty’s hair; smiling again. The light from the fire dances over Bitty’s freckles, flickering from dot to dot as the smoke rises upwards and onwards. “But I’m happy too. No regrets.”

“No regrets,” Shitty repeats a few seconds later.

They bask in the quiet for a while after that. The only sounds around are coming from the fire and the woods and Lardo occasionally snoring. Serene doesn’t even begin to describe it but it’s the closest thing to words that Jack can think of. The chaos and the judgement is so distant that he’s almost forgotten about what’s about to go down in just a few hours.

Eventually Bitty blinks awake though and lifts his head off of Jack’s chest to look up at him. Then there’s a yawn and a stretch and a ‘can we go to bed?’.

“Of course, bud,” Jack says and manages to get up on his feet with a lot more grace than expected while still carrying Bitty in a mess of blankets. The ground under his feet is still a little damp and slippery from some rain that fell earlier so he’s extra careful on his way towards the cabin, praying that he can carry him through this without falling flat. “See you tomorrow, Shits. Goodnight!” he whisper-shouts back towards the fire when he makes it to the porch.

Inside, under a ceiling that still holds glow-in-the-dark stars and posters of hockey glory, Jack dumps Bitty onto their bed and begins to remove his clothes. Bitty’s giggling and trying to convince Jack that he doesn’t have to but he’s also letting him do it. Suddenly, tomorrow feels easier.

“You’re the best, honey.” Bitty sighs and closes his eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Bits.”

————

“Jack?” Bitty asks into the dark, their legs tangled and Jack’s head on Bitty’s chest right above his arms around his waist. Light rain is hitting the window and it’s the sound of a storm approaching. Jack feels ready for it.

“Yeah?” It’s sleepy but aware.

“I’m really, really happy you’re alive, too.”

Jack just holds him tighter.

————

Monday morning comes and goes and the world hasn’t ended yet. The rain killed the fire before time could though and the woods are louder than the night before; full of things that have woken up too, but Jack is still happy. Scared, but happy.

[sending-the-message]

The Thing On the Side of My House by MrClarenceWorley

I was out with this girl I met through a free dating app and the evening had been going surprisingly well, considering. I had recently moved and was telling her about my new place during dinner when my date commented that she would love to see it sometime.

Imagine my surprise when I jokingly suggested that we stop by on the way to bring her home and she replied with, “That works.”

I pulled up in front of my place just as my date finished detailing her theory about the movie we had seen before dinner. She turned to look at the two-story duplex and nodded.

“Nice… which one’s yours?”

“The left side,” I said and began to open my door.

I felt a hand clamp around my arm as my date suddenly shouted, “Wait!”

“Why, what’s up?” I said, still clutching the driver’s side door handle as I turned to find the girl looking more than a little spooked.

“Who’s that on the side of your house?” she asked, her voice trembling nervously.

“Where?” I replied. Following her gaze, I squinted into the darkness lining the narrow grass alleyway between my duplex and the neighboring house.

Alleyway Photo

“Right there,” she said and pointed a finger at the alley. I peered into the dark for another beat and shrugged. My date glanced back at me and furrowed her brow. “You really can’t see him?”

I shook my head and the girl let out a frustrated scoff as she began to dig through her purse. She retrieved her phone and snapped a picture of the alleyway. She then zoomed into the photo she had just taken and handed the phone to me.

Closer Alleyway Photo

“See?”

It took another beat for my brain to fully process what I was viewing but then sure enough, I DID see. I saw the figure clear as day, standing there against the side of my house. No, not “against”...

They appeared to be sliding THROUGH the brick wall. Here’s a brighter, slightly magnified version of the above photo with the figure outlined in red so you can see exactly what I mean:

Brightened Alleyway Photo

Apparently, taking a picture of it had drawn the figure’s attention and I looked up from the phone to find it was now stomping toward us on oddly jointed legs. As my date saw this, she blindly shot out a hand and grabbed me by the arm again, her eyes fixed on the nearing silhouette.

I started the car and was already shifting into drive as she screamed, “GO! GO! GO!”

We peeled out of there at roughly the speed of sound and once my heartrate had settled enough to let me properly navigate, I drove my date back to her place. She still seemed pretty shaken up as I was walking her to her door and she asked if I would mind sticking around for a little bit, just until she could calm down.

I told her that might not be the best idea, explaining that the figure in the alley appeared to be coming out of the wall connected to my bedroom and if it was after me specifically, then I was the last person she wanted to be around right now.

"Good point,” she replied and hurried inside her apartment before shutting the door and promptly locking it.

I waved at the closed door and said, “I’ll call you.”

I heard her muffled response just as I was turning away…

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

I shrugged as I started back toward the car, muttering, “Fair enough.”

I went to a 24-hour IHOP, where I sat sipping stale coffee until sometime after dawn that next morning. In the cold light of day, I then headed back to the duplex and did a thorough sweep of my place. It appeared to be completely free of shadowy figures, so I went outside and started to walk the length of the alley where we had seen the one from the previous night.

I paused to examine the spot where it had appeared to phase through my bedroom wall. Streaked across the brick surface was a thin black trail of what looked like soot. The substance left a dark red smear across my fingers when I touched it.

As I headed back inside to wash my hands, I happened to glance up at the neighboring house and spotted something that made me halt… There, mounted beneath the rain-gutter, was a small security camera aimed almost directly at the stain on the wall outside my bedroom.

I waited until a more reasonable hour of the day and then headed over to the neighbor’s house, fully prepared to explain what I had seen the night before and ask if I could take a look at the footage from their security camera, but no one came to the door when I knocked.

I glanced inside the porch window and saw a room completely devoid of furniture. The floor was covered in a thin film of dust. There was no car in the driveway and I didn’t remember seeing one in the week I had been living nextdoor.

I asked the couple renting the other side of my duplex and they said they were pretty sure the house had been empty as long as they’d lived there. I then asked if they had a ladder I could borrow.

I used the ladder to get a better look at this mysterious security camera and then, Googling the model number on its casing, I learned that it was a type of cloud-camera that wirelessly transmitted its feed to the internet via a local wifi connection.

After several hours of very uninteresting internet detective work, I finally figured out how to gain access to the account linked to that particular cloud-camera and it was here that things officially went from "sort of weird" to "balls-ass, nuts-to-butts Crazy Town":

The secure profile page I was lead to had several URLs listed which linked to five different camera feeds in total. The one transmitting a live image of the side of my house was the top link and I scanned it briefly before backing out and clicking on the next URL.

Wherever this second camera was located, it had to be inside somewhere. Possibly underground. Definitely someplace dark. I could make out a series of pipes jutting up passed a bulky metal shape that was only partially illuminated by the fractured beam of a very dim overhead light.

I eventually realized that I was looking at some kind of industrial boiler. Just then, the shadows lining the left side of the boiler seemed to shift and my heart began racing until I realized it was just a rat crawling out into the light.

The third link showed me an ancient willow tree draped in Spanish moss. The tree had a massive knot at the center of its trunk that looked large enough to fit a person inside. A strange feeling came over me as I peered into the darkness just beyond the knot’s gnarled oval rim and I promptly closed the window before clicking on the next link down.

The shot from this camera was a lot tighter than the previous ones. Judging from all the black stagnant water and overturned pews littering the frame, I was looking at the dilapidated interior of a partially flooded church. I studied the church feed for a few more moments before closing it and I was about to click on the final link when I realized I had lost control over the on-screen pointer.

For several seconds, all I could do was sit there in stunned silence and watch as whoever was remotely operating my laptop began the process of wiping the entire hard drive.

When I finally snapped out of my stupor, I powered down the laptop and unclipped the battery on the bottom. I tossed the laptop out the window of my car as I was speeding down the interstate a few minutes later. I had no idea where I was going, but I was sure of one thing: there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d be sleeping at my house tonight. Or possibly ever again.

I called my best friend Hunter and told him the whole story in one long, breathless monologue. I’m not sure how much of it he actually believed but Hunter could hear the desperate tone in my voice and offered to let me crash at his place. Of course, he had me recount the whole ordeal a second time once I got there.

He definitely didn’t seem anymore convinced when I was done but Hunter could tell that I certainly believed what I was saying, which was good enough for him. That night, after a bit of tossing and turning on the futon in Hunter’s living room, I finally managed to drift off into an uneasy and dreamless half-sleep.

Then, at around 3AM, I suddenly woke for what initially seemed like no reason. I had rolled over in my sleep and opened my eyes to find that I was facing the door to Hunter's Bedroom. The door had been closed when I went to bed. Now, it was open.

Peering through the ajar doorway, I could see that Hunter was also awake and sitting up in his bed. He was glaring back at me, his eyes wide with fear as he mouthed the word…

Run!

A sudden surge of adrenaline sent me leaping up from the futon and I started to sprint toward the exit in what felt like slow-motion. After an eternity of fumbling with the lock on the front door, I finally managed to retract the deadbolt and yanked the door open to find two figures blocking my way.

They were both wearing black hoodies and their faces were hidden behind identical black gas-masks. I had just enough time to think to myself...

What’s with the gas-masks?

One of the figures raised a gloved fist to my face and then opened his hand, releasing a small plume of opaque white smoke directly into my mouth and nostrils and just like that, everything went dark...

When I came to, I still felt pretty woozy and it wasn't until I saw the industrial boiler in front of me that I was able to shake off my residual stupor and force myself to sit up. Everything came back to me then and I realized the figures at Hunter's door must have brought me here, to the same boiler room I had seen on one of their camera feeds.

I turned and scanned the dimly lit space until I spotted the cloud-camera mounted to the wall directly behind me. It was only then that I finally took a moment to contemplate WHY someone would have cameras set up in such a creepy location.

The camera I was currently staring at emitted a sudden whirring sound as it turned to look at something to my left. That was when I finally noticed the heavy thud of approaching footsteps from that same direction.

When the hunched figure shambled out from behind the boiler a moment later, I had just managed to squeeze myself into the gap beneath a low-hanging pipe that spanned the length of the back wall.

I didn’t have the best view of the figure from my hiding-spot but I could see that the large burlap sack they were dragging along behind them was covered in a mosaic of dried blood-splatter.

This sack currently contained what was very obviously a human body and judging by the way it kept twitching, one that wouldn’t be alive for much longer.

A voice that resembled a rusty door hinge spoke a string of what might have been words, though they sounded unlike any language I was familiar with, and then there was this purple flash that was so bright it hurt my eyes.

I turned away for a moment and when I looked back, I glimpsed the figure entering what appeared to be a long corridor composed entirely of writhing tentacles and screaming, lipless mouths…

I blinked and the figure was gone. The industrial boiler had resumed its place where the portal was a moment earlier. I waited another beat just to be safe and then started to worm my way out from under the pipe.

Using the early morning sunlight that had started to filter in from outside, I was able to find my way up to the dilapidated building above the boiler room. The place was what remained of an old grade-school that clearly hadn't been in use for some time.

The first exit I came to was chained shut from the outside but luckily someone had already punched out the window on one of the double doors and I was able to climb through it without much trouble.

I emerged onto the school's overgrown front lawn, feeling suddenly very aware of the fact that I wasn't wearing any pants. An understandable mistake, considering I had forgotten them last night at Hunter’s while fleeing for my life.

Of course, that didn’t make my present situation any less awkward. Luckily, it was then that I heard someone honk their horn and turned to see an ecstatic Hunter waving at me from his car, which was parked in the adjacent lot.

I sprinted over and opened the passenger door to find my jeans lying folded on the seat. I raised both hands in celebration as I saw this and shouted, “My fucking hero.”

On the drive back to his place, Hunter explained how he woke up with a note taped to his forehead that contained the dilapidated school’s address and a message which read:

YOUR FRIEND NEEDS HIS PANTS.

When he saw that my jeans were still there but I wasn't, Hunter started to freak out and immediately drove to the address on the note.

“I was about to go inside and start looking for you when you came stumbling out like that... Just how drunk did we GET last night because I don't remember a goddamn thing.”

Clearly, whoever was behind all this had left me my own message when they abducted me and stuck me down in that boiler room. One that essentially said...

STOP SNOOPING AROUND OR YOU’LL END UP TWITCHING INSIDE A BLOODY BURLAP SACK!

Deal.

[lostinfic]

Nubivagant 3/3

(adj.) wandering through or amongst the clouds; moving through air; from the Latin nubes (“cloud”) and vagant (“wandering”), c. 1656.

Summary: Based on the movie “A walk in the clouds” but on a sheep farm in the north of England, at Christmas. During the war, Betty ran away from her grandfather’s farm with a man. Now that he’s left her and she might be pregnant, Betty must go back and face the family she abandoned. When Colonel Mercier finds her crying at the train station, he offers to pose as her husband. Tags: Hurt/comfort! fake married! sharing a bed! huddling for warmth! and many more! Pairing: Jean-François Mercier x Betty Vates Word count: 6700  Rating: Mature Part 1 |  Part 2 |  Ao3

December 24th, 1945

A ledge ran the length of Marnie’s kitchen, from the top of the cupboards, over the door frame to the window overlooking the backyard. As far as Betty could remember, the containers stacked on it had fascinated her: opened tin cans, glass bottles in green and milky white, ceramic jars with cork stoppers, earthenware pots glazed like the sea in winter, even old snuffboxes, and in between them, seashells, wooden thread spools, pine cones and chipped porcelain figurines, mementos gathering dust. From the ledge hung copper pots, tea-stained cups and bouquets of dried herbs tied with string. She used to imagine her grandmother was some sort of witch. As random as this assortment looked, Marnie knew exactly what each contained. She reached for a small wooden box and sprinkled its content in her boiling pot of soup without a second look.

The scent of vegetables and broth filled the room. The same, and only, Christmas record played on a loop in the living room: “Silent Night”, “Adeste Fideles”, “O Little Town of Bethlehem”, “O Holy Night”, “It came upon a Midnight Clear”. The same record every holiday season. Unconsciously following the rhythm of the songs, Betty sprinkled salt and mixed butter and flour together to make dough.

“Remember before the war,” Margaret said as she chopped carrots, “when Daddy took us to York one Christmas.” At the time, their father had already enrolled in the British Expeditionary Forces and knew he might leave his family soon, but hadn’t told them. He had wanted to make their last Christmas together special.

“The funfair!” Betty said. “Remember the ice rink with that huge pine tree in the middle. And you fell arse over kettle!”

“Oi! You can talk, I remember how scared you were in the chair-o-plane.”

“Only at first,” Betty retorted. Vertigo had struck when her feet had first lifted off the ground and she’d tried to grab her sister’s hand. But then the exhilaration of flying had overcome fear. Her sister and grandmother recounted other souvenirs of Christmas past, but Betty kept thinking about that feeling. Her pulse quickened, and she smiled at the memory. The next best thing to falling in love.

Betty’s gaze slid to the window, seeking Jean-François’ tall, lean frame through the mist. He walked out of the barn, carrying a ladder. She’d found some old clothes for him, denim trousers and a wool jumper she’d knitted herself quite a few years ago.

For all his distrust of the newcomer, Grandpa Marshall didn’t hesitate to ask for his help. One might say, he was abusing it even. Jean-François worked harder than anyone.

Grandpa Marshall held the ladder as Jean-François climbed up to the barn. Some roof shingles had come loose during last night’s storm.

“He might just win your grandpa after all,” Marnie said, looking over Betty’s shoulder. “Honest, when I first saw him I didn’t think he had it in him for hard work.”

“Me neither.”

“Where are you gonna live?” Marnie asked, cleaning the sink. “England or France?”

“I— I don’t know.” Betty wiped her hands on her apron, and looked around for something to do.

“Didn’t you talk about it?” she insisted.

“He wants to go back to France, see what it’s like first, you know, after the war.”

Marnie sighed. “Don’t tell your grandpa. You in France, Sarah, Margaret and Eric going back to Leeds like your aunts… He still blames me for giving him only daughters and granddaughters.” She left the kitchen, shaking her head and mumbling.

Betty sat at the table, a massive sturdy thing, its scratched surface a testament of its age. In the family for generations, it had seen every meal, every quarrel and celebration, even some amateur dental surgeries and a birth.

Betty sprinkled flour on the table and rolled the dough which Margaret placed into pie pans. Her mother added the sweet apple and raisin filling, Sarah didn’t say a word, lost in her own world as she often was.

Jean-François’ hammering echoed inside the house. Betty imagined this becoming her daily life. Cooking good, hearty meals, the kind rationing had prohibited for the past years, while her husband worked outside. They would manage the farm together, the money, the cattle, the sales. Her grandfather was more of the “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it” persuasion, and that had served him well, but times had changed, people and their needs too. Betty had so many ideas to improve the business. She wanted other breeds of sheep to diversify their production and merchandise. They could sell woollen garments in London, in the shops.

“I reckon it’s flat enough now,” Margaret teased. Betty had absentmindedly rolled the same piece of dough for the last five minutes.

“Sorry.”

“I can’t believe you still look at your husband like that after two years, it’s like you met yesterday.”

Betty babbled some answer. She couldn’t deny she was falling for her pretend-husband.

Jean-François had said he hadn’t loved anyone else in the eight years since his wife’s death, and here she was, fancying another man two months after Craze had left her. What would he think of her changeable heart? Of course, the circumstances were very different. And if she was honest, her feelings for Craze had dwindled many months before he left, she’d stayed with him out of necessity with a good dose of delusion.

“We all did it,” her mother said, out of the blue.

“Did what, Mam?”

“Left home for a man. I did it for your father. Margaret did it to get away. Look where that took us. I bet you thought you was different.” Beside her, Margaret snorted, a jeering little sound.

Not so long ago, Betty would have endured, accepted even, her mother’s words. Now she didn’t know how to deal with the anger it aroused in her. She fought the urge to run away. “Maybe I wouldn’t’ve been so easily convinced to leave if you didn’t say things like that to me all the time.” Her voice quivered, and she quickly lowered her gaze, but she stayed on her chair and squeezed the dough, hard enough to tear through it.

 The fact that it was Christmas Eve made no difference to the sheep, so on top of preparing tonight’s party they had to get on with their usual chores. In between, hanging stockings and stirring the Christmas pudding, Betty fed the animals and gathered eggs. She didn’t meet Jean-François all day and started worrying he was avoiding her. Last night she’d heard him arguing with Grandpa Marshall, saying she was kind and strong, but after she feigned sleep and moved closer to him, he left her bed. Then this morning, it looked like he was trying to sneak out even though he denied it.

At the end of the afternoon, when he headed up to their bedroom, she followed him. His duffel bag was opened on the bed, and he was placing clothes in it. Her stomach dropped, suspicions confirmed. “If you wanna go so much, you just need to say. M’not keeping you.”

“I said one more day and I’m staying, well, two more days. No train on the 25th, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” She’d known right when they’d first discussed it that no trains operated on Christmas day. “So you don’t want to go?”

“I was looking for this,” he explained, holding up a camera. “I thought my sister would like it. But perhaps your family would too. No husband would come empty-handed to meet his new family in-law for the first time.”

“A camera? You sure?”

“I can buy another one for Gabrielle. I noticed there are no recent portraits of your family on the walls. I could take some pictures later when everyone is dressed up for church.”

“Dunno how Gramps will feel about that. It’s an expensive gift.”

“Would it make him feel better if I told him I… borrowed it from MI6?”

“You didn’t!”

He shrugged with a little grin. “I had it for a mission and forgot to give it back.” He opened a flap at the front of the camera and pulled out a retractable lens. He raised it to his eye. “Smile.”

“No way! I look awful,” she replied, smoothing down her hair. The shutter clicked. “You rascal!” She ran to his side of the bed, and he jumped out of her grasp. Another click. “Stop it!” she demanded, laughing.

“Last one.” She pulled out her tongue, but he took another photo anyway. “I’m sure they will be beautiful.”

Betty shook her head indulgently. “You’ll have to tell us how to get the photos developed, before… you know.”

Jean-François put the camera back in its leather case and sat on the bed. He smoothed his trousers unnecessarily several times. “I should be honest with you,” he said at last. “You’re right, I was trying to leave this morning.”

“Oh. I… I understand.” She turned her back to him and fiddled with objects on top of the dresser. “I mean, Gramps making you do all this work and you’ve more important things to do, I’m sure, with other people.”

“No, that’s not it. I’m worried that the longer I stay here…” Their eyes met in the mirror above the dresser. “I’m afraid it’s making things more difficult.”

“Difficult how?” she asked, joining him on the bed.

“With you family. And between us.” He relaxed his leg, and his knee touched hers. “Elizabeth, the more time I spend with you—”

Margaret burst into the room. “Come! Quick!” Betty and Jean-François ran down the stairs with her, and followed her outside.

Eric had fallen through a hole in the upper part of the barn. He clutched his leg, screaming in pain. They cleared the wooden planks and hay that had fallen over him, and carried him to the house on a makeshift gurney. He didn’t bleed but might have broken a bone. They fussed over him as they waited for a doctor.

Betty never found out the end of Jean-François’ sentence.

After the doctor’s visit, Jean-François showed the camera to Grandpa Marshall, and they spent the afternoon photographing the homestead. The old farmer glowed with pride, planning to send these pictures to newspapers and to family members abroad.

They ate cabbage soup for supper, leaving room in their stomachs for treats later on. As the women did their hair and make-up in preparation for Mass, the men shaved and took out suits they only wore once a year. Presents appeared under the tree, and carollers sang on the streets. Neighbours and friends came by with homemade gifts. The excitement in the air was tangible. Betty felt like a kid again. She and Margaret, ran around with curlers in their hair, laughing at the smallest things as they searched for something to wear in lieu of lipstick. “I can’t wait until we have mascara again and proper stockings,” Margaret sighed.

“Me too,” Betty replied, but she wasn’t really listening, instead examining her appearance in the mirror. “I can’t wear this.”

“You have to, we need to leave soon and Gramps wants a nice photo of us all before.”

Betty searched every closet in the house and found a green dress with a tulle skirt. Still struggling with the back zipper, she joined her family in the living room. “Can someone help me with this?” Her heart skipped a beat when she felt Jean-François behind her, his hands rested on the small of her back. He jiggled the stuck zipper and leaned in to get a closer look. His breath tickled the skin between her shoulder blades. He had to reach inside the back of the dress to fix the zipper, and when it finally moved, his fingers slid slowly up her spine with it. He swept her hair aside so it wouldn’t get caught in the metallic teeth, and his touch lingered on the nape of her neck as he closed the button at the top of her dress.

“All done,” he said, hands still on her.

“Thank you.”

Marnie’s giggles effectively ended their moment. “Look up,” the old woman said. As the whole family stared, Betty realized they were standing right under a branch of mistletoe.

“Come to think of it, we’ve never seen you two kiss,” Grandpa Marshall said.

Betty and Jean-François exchanged a look. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she covered her mouth with her fingertips.

“What do you say, ma belle?”

This was her only chance to kiss him, but she tried for nonchalance. She shrugged. “Tt’s tradition.”

“For the sake of tradition,” he agreed, cupping her cheek. Betty wet her lips, her heart pounded in her chest.

“What’s going on here?”

Betty startled, recognizing the voice. Two men came in, Donald and his father, Grandpa Marshall’s best friend. Salutations and cheers followed their entrance.

“Who is this?” Jean-François asked in a low voice, still toe to toe with her.

“He’s the man I’d’ve married if I’d stayed.”

“I see. Perhaps it can still happen for you.”

He walked away, but Betty grabbed his arm and pulled him back to her. She lost her nerves, and Jean-François looked at her with eyes full of questions.

“I don’t want him,” she said.

His hand returned to her cheek, and she grabbed his tie. The smallest smile graced his lips before he gently pressed them to hers. They kept the kiss chaste because of their audience, it still left Betty weak in the knees.

“Do you think we have convinced your family?” he asked, his mouth just an inch from hers.

“Not sure yet.”

He chuckled and kissed her again.

“Alright, enough of this,” Grandpa Marshall said, pushing them apart. “We’ve a picture to take.”

The whole family gathered in front of the Christmas tree, Jean-François adjusting their positions to fit in the frame.

“Jean, come here, with us,” Marnie said, Grandpa Marshall grumbled but she shushed him, “let Donald take the picture.”

*

The whole village, hundreds of people, gathered on the parvis of St. James church. Men smoked while women talked, and children chased each other overexcited to be up so late. The night was alive with lights and laughter that eclipsed the stars.

At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the tall doors, Betty slowed down. “D’you think he knows we’re not really married?” she whispered to Jean-François.

“Who?”

“God,” she replied as if it was the most obvious thing.

“Do you not want to go inside?”

She gave this some thought. “That’s probably worse, innit?”

“We’re not doing anything an unmarried couple should not do.” Satisfied with his answer, Betty took his arm and they walked up the stairs.

Marnie told him the railway company had built the church for its employees in the 1880s. The interior design reminded parishioners of that fact: red and yellow brick walls, pews like benches in the station waiting room and a font cover shaped like a railway engine wheel.

The real centre of attention that night was the choir of boys and men, in white robes, each holding a candle, the only light in the church. Their voices was but a hum above the chatter.

With every person they met, Betty had to explain she wasn’t, in fact, dead as her grandfather had told everyone. She seemed relieved when the service began.

Mercier wasn’t the most religious man, but he took some comfort in the thought that something as horrible as the war they’d lived through had a larger meaning. That his survival and the death of his friend were not random. This Christmas, more than any other one, invited to contemplate life and death and one’s place in it all. As the reverend spoke, he saw it in the faces of everyone around him: the frowns and the knitted brows, the teary eyes and white knuckles. Gratitude and grief, sadness and relief.

He reached for Betty’s hand, and wondered when doing that had become so natural.

The Marshalls were generous people, after mass, they opened their door to everyone. The house filled with friends and music: violin, guitar, accordion and bagpipes. The living room became a dance floor and the windows fogged. He took off his tie and jacket. There were flapjacks and hot cider, and Betty’s arms around his waist. She introduced him as her husband to anyone who asked. They called her Mrs. Mercier. And he played along. They both did. Perhaps a little too much. He hoped these people would never compare the stories they told them or they would find some serious discrepancies. The story of their wedding, in particular, they embellished with every repeat. What started as a “short civil ceremony”, by the fifth time had become “a gorgeous ceremony at St Paul’s cathedral, with the French National Orchestra playing as I walked down the aisle. Jean-François had just helped them escape the Nazis, you see.” A good undercover agent would never do such a thing, but it made Betty smile so he didn’t care.

When old neighbours told him embarrassing stories about Betty’s youth, he noticed she hid her face against his arm, so he encouraged them to continue. More than once, young Betty had gotten in trouble when trying to help. “Oh, you must have been, six or seven, when you fell off our apple tree,” a woman remembered.

“Said she was trying to return baby birds to their nest,” a man added.

“I still got a scar,” Betty said, pointing a faint line on her arm.

He touched it carefully, and hated Craze for abusing her big heart.

“You have scars too, don’t you?”

“A few. Here.” He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and pulled the lapel away to expose his collar bone. Her fingers danced along it, slipping under the shirt to touch the spot of raised, pinker skin. He could smell the cinnamon on her breath, and he wanted to kiss her again.

She dropped her hand and gaze. “Want something to drink?”

“Yes, whatever you can find.” She walked away so quickly she bumped into her aunt.

Mercier ran his hands down his cheeks with a groan. He had to pull himself together, he was here to help Betty not make things harder for her. Despite that good intention, when she came back and found her seat taken, he patted his knee in invitation.

“You sure?”

“You would not be the only one.” Around the room, three other women sat on their husband’s lap. “If you don’t want—”

“No, no, that’s okay. That’s the normal thing to do.” She sat sideways of his knees, keeping most her weight on her own legs. He wanted to pull her closer, feel her full weight on him. He drank instead. The Jubilee Stout she’d brought him tasted of roasted grains and licorice, and made him long for a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon or a fine Cognac.

Betty discussed with Mrs. Jeffrey, the woman they’d met at the train station on their arrival. As Betty talked, she relaxed further against him, and he drank some more to keep his hands off her. “So, I never got the full story of how you two met,” Mrs. Jeffrey said.

Mercier began to tell the story he’d prepared. “I was chasing after German spies who’d tried to pass off as French refugees.”

“Goodness gracious, German spies? Here?”

“Yes. They lured me into a trap, and when I escaped I had to hide. I found a place in the woods, behind the farm.”

“When I found him… I needed help,” Betty said, and Mercier frowned at her deviation from the story they’d agreed on, but she continued. “I’d hurt meself. In the forest. I’d slipped on the rocks, in the river, you know the place.”

“Beside the old bridge, yeah? Our Johnny fell there too, nearly drowned, he did.”

“Yeah, that’s the place. Well, you see, Jean-François he didn’t have to help me, could’ve ignored me, kept hiding, but he didn’t. He rescued me.” She cupped his cheek tenderly, and, never breaking eye-contact, he placed a lingering kiss on her palm.

“And you helped me too, to recover from my injuries,” he said. “I knew I had to go back to London. Duty called, but I didn’t want to go. The more time I spent with her, the harder it became to leave. So I asked her to marry me. I would have waited,” he added, also going off script. “If she’d wanted to stay with her family. I would have understood.”

Mrs. Jeffrey dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “You two are so sweet, I wish you a lifetime of happiness.” She pinched their cheeks and left.

Betty sunk against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Are you tired, ma belle?”

“A bit, yeah. It’s past two am.”

They fell silent, observing the people around them, some celebrating, some snoring. They didn’t interest him as much as Betty, her warmth through his clothes, the faint scent of soap on her skin, the tiniest of freckles on her nose. Desire pooled low in his stomach.

“Jean-François.” She had a hand on his, not just resting there but pushing it away lightly, and he realized he’d ventured quite high up her skirt.

“My apologies, I— I think I need some fresh air.”

Mercier welcomed the night air and its cooling effect on his ardour. He rounded the corner of the house and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. “Merde.”

He kept thinking of Olga, A.K.A. the countess, “am I overplaying my part?” she’d asked on their last meeting before she was killed.

Laughter and songs came through the window. Every person Betty had introduced him to as her husband she would have to tell he’d left her. The lie had gotten out of proportion and would make life harder for her rather than easier. This was why he should have left earlier.

The back door opened, he heard voices but didn’t see them from his side of the wall. “What’s the deal with Betty and that husband out of nowhere. Thought you was gonna marry her, Donald.”

“I was. Dunno what she’s thinking, takin’ up with a stranger. This land could’ve been mine. Now it’ll go to some French knobhead. She’ll never fit here with a man like that.”

*

The last guests left past 3am, and Betty searched around the house for Jean-François. She hadn’t seen him in the last hour. Not since she’d stopped his wandering hand, she hadn’t minded it, it just wasn’t the right moment or place for that. She hoped he wasn’t upset. She asked Marnie and Margaret, but they hadn’t seen him either. He wasn’t in the bedroom nor the washroom.

Finally, she found Jean-François asleep in an armchair in the closed summer kitchen. He looked too peaceful to wake him up, besides he’d have to get up in just a few hours for farm work. It was cold, so she covered him with an afghan blanket and brushed stray hair off his forehead. She laughed softly at his gaping mouth.

The old floorboards creaked, and Grandpa Marshall sidled up to her. Thumbs hooked under his braces, he considered Jean-François then his granddaughter. “Does he make you happy?”

“Jean-François— yes.”

“You sure? You don’t look it, not always. What happened, Betty?”

“It’s war, Gramps. Death and… and deceit. I can’t be the innocent girl I was before and that’s alright.”

“Well, war was easier to live through here. We was safe.”

Betty sighed and walked away, picking up empty bottles and glasses as she went. Her grandfather followed her to the kitchen. Of course, he had to pick a moment when she was sleepy and he’d drank to talk. She wiped her hands on a tea towels. “Dunno what to tell you, Gramps. I know I let you down. I can’t explain why I did what I did. Not entirely… Will you ever forgive me or d’you want me to leave?”

He sat down at the table, groaning at the ache in his joints. “To be fair, I knew it was coming,” he said.

“How d’you mean?”

“You don’t say much, luv, never have, but that don’t mean there’s nothing going on in that nugging of yours. With you father’s death, and you mother’s… You needed something else.”

“I do love the farm so very much, though.”

“I know. I know. Just tell me you found what you was looking for.”

“A bit, yeah. I know a thing or two about meself I didn’t know before.”

“And you found him.”

“I’ve still got a lot to think about.”

“Dunno thinking so much will do you any good, but you do what you gotta do.” He stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You can stay here as long as you need too.”

“Yeah?”

“Come here, my lil’ chicken.” He gave her a hug, and for a brief moment, she felt like the happy child she had once been.

Grandpa Marshall went to bed, and Betty looked out the window with an unburdened heart.

“You would have let me sleep in that chair all night?” Jean-François asked, he held the afghan around his shoulders which made him look like a tall child.

“Didn’t want to wake you. You coming to bed, then?” They walked sluggishly up the stairs together. Jean-François collapsed on the mattress.

“Your family certainly knows how to throw a party.”

“You had a good time? Did it take your mind off your family?”

“Yes… Of course, now I’m thinking about them.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry!”

“I’m joking.” He crossed his arms under his head, stretching his torso in a way that pulled his shirt out of his trousers, and her eyes lingered on that sliver of skin. “Betty?”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“Do you need help with your dress again?”

She didn’t. “Yes, please.” She sat on the edge of the bed, and he rose to his knees. She let him brush her hair aside.

“I think I heard you reconcile with your grandfather,” he said, opening the top button.

“Yeah, I think we’re on the right track.”

“I’m happy for you.”

He pulled the zipper all the way down, knuckle dragging down her spine as he did it. She stayed on the edge of the bed, dress sliding down her arms.

“D’you think I should tell them the truth?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.

He’d laid back down already, eyelids drooping with sleep, but he made an effort and propped himself up on an elbow.

“Why do you want to tell them? Don’t do it for me.”

“No, I mean, I do hate that they don’t know what you’re doing for me, but I’ve just realized I’m gonna have to lie to them about it all me life.”

“I shouldn’t have made you lie to them.”

“You did the right thing. Not sure I’d’ve taken that train without you.” She squeezed his hand. “I just feel I should be honest.” She sighed, too sleepy to consider the matter further.

“That’s very noble of you.”

She admired his ring on her finger. “Yeah, I reckon I should be knighted too.”

Jean-François chuckled and pulled on her hand so that she fell on the bed beside him. “I dub thee: chevalière de la Lune.” He patted both her shoulders then booped her nose.

They rested their heads on pillows, blinking slowly, smiling at each other. They should change out of their clothes before falling asleep, but she didn’t have the energy to stand up.

“Can you hold me? Just for a little while?” Betty asked.

“Sure.” He opened his arms, and she snuggled up to him. His hands rested on her back where her dress gaped.

“Happy Christmas,” she whispered. She pecked his cheek but he turned his head at the same moment and their lips met. They froze until Jean-François moved his lips, and she returned the kiss. A gentle kiss, sleepy and unhurried. Afterwards, she kept her eyes closed for a second, savouring the tingles on her lips.

Betty rested her head on his chest, and they fell asleep in their fancy clothes.

*

Sunlight danced behind her eyelids, shifting yellows and whites, compelling her to wake up. Although she resisted the pull of the morning, she became more aware of her surroundings, of the soft rise and fall under her cheek, of a heartbeat where he ear rested, of an arm over her. She smiled and pressed her nose to the soft cotton of his shirt. And she thought there would be no more war if everyone had such lovely mornings. The thought made a giggle bubble her throat and her stomach vibrated with it against Jean-François. He inhaled deeply and tightened his arms around her. “What’s so funny?” he mumbled.

“Nothing.”

Unpleasant sensations eventually caught up with her: full bladder, pasty mouth, pins and needles in her arm. He protested when she moved, but eventually let her go. She tiptoed to the washroom so as not to get caught by her family, she had every intention of going back to bed. She rinsed her mouth and freshened up with a flannel. The floor was cold under her bare feet and she rushed back to the room to dive under the covers. Jean-François was still in bed, but she thought she could smell mint about him.

They lay face to face, and she removed one of her hair from his shirt as an excuse to touch him.

“I could kill for a good cup of coffee,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Too much to drink?” She rubbed his forehead to alleviate the headache. He leaned into her touch until his head rested on her pillow. She ran her fingers through his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut.

“I only had two beers, but I didn’t get a lot of sleep. And I love coffee.”

“You can have a coffee tomorrow. You’ll be in France.”

His eyes opened, he searched her face, his brow furrowed. She shied away from that inquisitive gaze, tucking her head under his chin. He smoothed strands of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingered on her jaw. “I want you to come with me to France.”

She stilled. She couldn’t have heard him right.

“Please say something.”

She looked up at him, and she found in his eyes the same sincerity and concern that had touched her at the train station. “You really mean it.”

“Yes… I think I could use someone with me. And you are so very lovely to be with.” Betty smiled wide behind her fingers. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes! I mean, it’s only polite I return the favour.”

“This is not about politeness.”

Betty’s heart swelled in her chest, pushing laughter up her throat. She couldn’t stop smiling.

“May I kiss you again?” he asked.

“Oh, please do.”

From the way he wet his lips and looked at her, she knew this kiss would be different. A spark flared in her stomach. He brushed his nose down the slope of hers, and the first press of his lips was a featherlight caress. Without the pretence of mistletoe and her family watching, he took his time, building up the kiss. With each touch, the spark in her grew. Her mouth parted on a sigh, and he sucked on her bottom lip. Their legs entwined and fingers tangled in hair. He deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth, letting his hunger take over. And she welcomed it. He held her so tight, this fingertips reached her ribs.

In the last months, with sadness and anger plaguing her heart, intimacy had been far from her mind. But now, her body awoken from its hibernation, desire returned to her cells, and her pulse thumped between her legs. She canted her hips, pressing against him. The kiss turned messier. Wet smacks and panting breaths filled the room. She clawed at his shirt as if to rip it off him. A groan rewarded her ardour.

Jean-François pulled away suddenly. His eyes were wide, his lips kiss-swollen.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m finding it hard to keep my promise to stay out of your knickers.”

“Oh, sod that promise.” She tugged on his collar to bring him back to her, and he laughed against her lips.

Jean-François pulled her dress down to her waist, his mouth following the fabric, pecking down her neck, across her collarbones, licking at the lacy edge of her bra. She removed it as fast as she could, and he kissed the red indentations left from sleeping with the bra on, a tender touch on each side of her breast then to the soft undersides, until her nipples were hard enough to graze his teeth over them.

Betty arched into his touch, trapping his leg between hers, squirming with a delicious sort of restlessness.

His hand sneaked under the layers of tulle, caressing her thighs and dragging his nails in a way that turned her skin to gooseflesh. She spread her legs without a moment of hesitation. He cupped her sex over her underwear and she bucked into his hand.

“Betty?”

“Keep going.”

His fingers slipped under the fabric, and he quirked an eyebrow at her readiness. He removed his hand from under her skirt, showed her his glistening fingers.

“I like you,” she said shyly.

He gave his beautiful fingers a lick. “You like me a lot.”

She hid her face in the crook of his neck and he kissed her hair. “It’s okay, ma belle.”

His light strokes of her folds became bolder, and she soon forgot her embarrassment. “Like this, please.” She guided his touch to a spot that made her gasp.

He moved faster, and she fisted the sheet. “Oh, God.” He studied her, the way she bit her bottom lip and squeezed her eyes shut, learning what elicited shivers and gasps.

“Look at me.” She opened her eyes, and he added a finger with a twist of his wrist that made her cry out. She put her hand behind his neck, bringing his forehead to hers. Their breaths mingled as her body went taut. And he swallowed her moans of release.

Betty fell against the pillow, every muscle felt like jelly. “Thank you.”

He chuckled at that and lay beside her,tracing lazy patterns on her stomach and chest. He was still completely dressed but his hair was a beautiful mess.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” she said, “I just need a minute.”

“I will be right here when you’re ready.”

“I bet you will.” She kicked off her dress and knickers. “Can I... be on top?”

“Hop on.” She chuckled as she straddled him. 

She began with his wrinkled shirt, exposing his chest. Licking her lips, she caressed his flat stomach, the shelf of his ribs, the sparse hair on his pectorals. She was already rolling her hips where he bulged, and took some perverse pleasure in soaking his chic trousers. She inched lower down his legs and unbuckled his belt slowly, then dragged the zip down even slower. His groan of impatience was delicious, she stroked him through the cloth, enjoying the way he hardened under her palm.

“I didn’t know you were such a tease,” he said.

“It’s not teasing if I see it through, though.” She flashed a mischievous grin.

He pulled her in for a kiss, nipping at her bottom lip. She rubbed her nose along the stubble on his jaw, smelling his skin, faint traces of woodsy cologne and his natural musk. He gripped her hips, tried to tug her down on him, but she resisted.

“Just wait a minute, you’ll love this, I promise,” she said, and started to kiss down his body.

Her hot breath, inches from his pants made him twitch and hit her chin.

“You deserve a reward, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to.” And she found she really meant it. She wasn’t trying to please him beyond her own comfort zone, she was being honest. He already knew everything about her and had never once judged her, she doubted this, of all things, would be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Betty kissed his hip, and he caressed her hair, and oddly chaste gesture given what she was about to do.

She pulled down his pants, just enough to release his cock and lick the length of it. He raised himself up on his elbows to watch her. His eyes were dark, his mouth agape, holding his breath until the next touch. She revelled in that look, this beautiful man who desired her.

She gathered saliva in her mouth and kissed his tip, she let him push up past her lips. His stomach flexed with each panting breath. She sucked on the head, and he cursed in French. She released him returning to teasing licks.

“Are you enjoying torturing me?” he asked.

“Immensely.”

“I’ll get back at you for this. There are so many things I want to do to you.”

“Tell me,” she asked, returning her mouth to his cock. He sucked in a breath and tried to focus on describing all the places where he wanted to make love to her, starting with the train to Paris. His voice was lower, rougher than usual, his French accent thickened. She could feel herself swelling and slickening, the throb of her own arousal as she imagined it with him.

She bobbed her head faster. He’d stopped talking now. Her free hand rested on his thigh, and he laced their fingers together. When his grip tightened, she stopped. “You can finish like this,” she said, “or we can continue.”

“Continue.”

She straddled him again. He didn’t penetrate her, but let her glide up and down his cock, coating it in her wetness. She caressed her breasts and rolled her hips languorously. He swallowed hard, and she watched the muscles in his neck work. It aroused her as much as the friction between her legs. When he rubbed his thumb over her clit, her rhythm faltered. She braced herself on his shoulders, grinding faster. The old bed squeaked and rattled. He licked the sweat up her neck and kissed just below her ear.

“Jean-François, I need…”

“What do you need?”

“I need you, in me.”

He rolled over her. He cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes in a way that made a lump rise in her throat.

She wrapped her legs and arms around him, holding his as close as possible as he slowly pushed in her. They moaned in unison, and he stilled, filling her. He throbbed and swelled in her. His breath was ragged, his teeth were at her shoulder. She needed him to move but she treasured this closeness, this unity. She kissed him, pouring her heart and soul into it.

When they parted, there was marvel in his eyes. He rested his forehead on hers and started moving, careful, sensuous rolls of his hips meant to make her feel every inch of him. And they lost themselves into each other.

*

When they finally left the bedroom, the table was already decked with the best china and Christmas crackers for lunch. The pudding steamed in the copper boiler used to heat water for washing, turning the kitchen into a sauna.

“About time,” Marnie said. “Help me with the mutton, will ya.”

“Sorry, we overslept.”

“Didn’t sound like sleeping,” Margaret muttered.

Betty joined her grandmother at the counter, even the men helped prepare the meal.

As they sat around the table, paper crowns on and laughing at Grandpa Marshall’s stories, Betty’s eyes drifted to the window, to the Howgill Fells awash with sunlight and the sheep grazing peacefully. It felt familiar and new at the same time. She would return here, of that she was sure. Under the table, Jean-François laced their fingers. Whatever 1946 had in store for them, they wouldn’t go through it alone.

Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for more of Jean-François and Betty in 2018 :D

[fanfics-for-you-too-blog]

Not safe

Request: Anon Hi can I request an arrow one shot where the reader is Oliver and Thea’s little sister who gets attacked or injured and their siblings comfort her but also get super protective??

Don’t be shy to request things! if you request please request in my asks, it will be much easier for me to keep up with them thank you!

Oliver x Thea x Sister! Reader

Word count:  1611

Warnings: Almost dying, Like one curse I think

Y/N: Your Name

Y/S/N: Your Superhero Name

This is flashbacks! 

A/N: Sorry if this isn’t the best! Thank you so much for requesting! <3

(Not my photos, credit to whoever made it!)

Being the little sister of Oliver and Thea queen was hard enough, but being the sister of The Green Arrow and Speedy was even harder. It took so long for me to convince them to join team Arrow and once I did I had to start by just staying behind with Felicity, don’t get me wrong I love her but I wanted to be out with the team and help fight! It took months of me annoying Oliver, with Thea’s help, and months of Oliver saying it’s too dangerous or I’ll become a target and I should be lucky he lets me help at all. I understand he’s just protecting but I can be an asset to the team! “Ollie, please! Just let me help, you let Thea go out there!” “Y/N, I worry about Thea being out in the field all the time. Thea was in the Lazarus pit and she has a darkness in her that she uses to fight! Yes, it’s not a good reason but it helps her stay safe.” “Come on! So I’ll have to die and come back to life just so I can get in the field!” “You know that’s not what I meant!” Oliver sighed. Thea walked up to us, ready to break out an argument if needed. “Thea tell Ollie he’s being unreasonable!” “Ollie you are being a bit overprotective, we know she can handle herself.” He sighed again. “Come on just give her a chance.” “Okay, fine but if you get hurt then that’s it you’re not going back out there ever!” I smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Ollie! I love you!” I hugged him and then turned to Thea. “And you, I love you too!” And hugged her too.

Now I’ve been on the team as Y/S/N, and we’ve been doing great! Taking down bad guys was better than I thought it would be, I love feeling like I’m doing something with my life. Everything was just amazing until something happened. I was hanging out with some friends for the night since the team didn’t need me. We went to the club and they had a few drinks, I only had two I didn’t want to get drunk. It was getting late and I told the girls I was going home since I had stuff to do tomorrow. I was walking down the street texting Thea asking how her night was going when I was hit over the head and crashed to the ground. I looked up to see who the hell just hit me but black dots had started to invade my vision and I blacked out before I could see who it was.

I woke up tied to a chair and a killer headache. “Ah look who finally awake.” A deep voice flooded my ears along with heavy footsteps. A tall black man appeared in front of me wearing a pair of brass knuckles. Tobias Church. “Morning Y/N or should I say Y/S/N.” He said with a sickening smirk, how the hell did he know my name!? “This can be easy or hard depending on how you answer.” He stepped closer to me and I noticed there was a camera recording us. “Where is the Green Arrow?” He asked, his voice calm but his eyes were dark. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I answered. “A smartass, now that’ll get you killed girly.” He punched me in the stomach causing me to cough. “I’ll ask one more time nicely and then it’ll get hard.” He growled. “Where is Green Arrow?” I looked up at him with a hardened gaze. “You’ll never get it out of me so do your worst.” I growled back. “With pleasure.” He smirked and started to beat me.

*Oliver’s POV*

I was with Thea when I got a call from Felicity. “Hello?” I answered. “You need to come to the Arrow cave now.” She said panicked. “What? What’s wrong?” I asked worriedly, causing Thea to look at me confused. “It’s Y/N…” Those were the only two words I needed to hear. “I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone, standing up and grabbed my jacket. “What’s wrong?” “Y/N’s in trouble we need to go.” Thea got up in an instant and also rushed to grab her jacket.

We got there as fast as we could. “What happened? Where’s Y/N?” I asked worry clear in my voice. “Look at this…” Felicity turned the T.V. on and there was my youngest sister being tortured by Tobias Church. “Oh my God…” Thea looked away while my eyes remained trained on the screen “Where is this coming from?” I asked the worry being replaced by anger. “I’m still working on that, I’ll have it in a few minutes “Call the team, Thea, let’s suit up.” We got ready and waited for the rest of the team to show up. “Got it!” Felicity shouted. “She’s in an abandoned warehouse I’ll guide you how to get there.” “Let’s go.” I said and walked out.

Once we all got there we split up Thea and I on one half and Laurel and John on the other. “Oliver, you need to calm don’t do anything crazy or Y/N could be in even more trouble.” Thea said after I killed a few of his goons. “She is going to be fine Speedy! Now let’s go!” We both made it to the main area of the warehouse “We’re in position arrow give us the signal and we’ll go in and take this guy down. John said. I shot an arrow just passed Church’s head. “Oliver!” John shouted. “Ahh looks like our special guest has arrived.” He smirked while wiping some blood from his hand. “Let her go!” I shouted walking out arrow at the ready. “Haha, I have no need for her anymore so might as well put her out of her misery right?” He laughed pulling out a gun. I shot my bow aiming for the gun but he moved his hand out of the way. “That wasn’t very nice, take care of the others, the green arrow is mine!” Church shouted and a huge fight started. Speedy, Black Canary, and Spartan took down his thugs easily while I was taking care of Church but he managed to get away, I would have gone after him but my youngest sister needs me. “Y/N? Y/N can you hear me?” I asked while holding her head up to look at me but her eyes were closed. I quickly checked her pulse and thankfully it was there just barely but it was there. “We need to take her to the hospital now!” I shouted. John untied her and I picked her up. I rushed her to the hospital dropped her off then we went back to change. “Did you get him? Is Y/N okay?” Felicity asked but I just walked away to get into normal clothes. “Tobias got away but Y/N’s in the hospital.” I heard Thea answer. Once I was changed I went right back to the hospital.

*Time Skip a Month*

*Y/N’s POV*

I woke up to a steady beeping and when I opened my eyes I was blinded by an annoying white light causing them to close again. I groaned and opened my eyes again this time prepared for the light. “Y/N?” I heard my name and looked over to see Oliver sitting in a chair. “Hey, what happened?” I asked sitting up forcing me to inhale sharply. “Hey take it easy ok?” He said helping me sit up. “Hey look who’s awake!” Thea said smiling as she entered my room. “So what happened? I remember getting beaten but the rest is a blur.” I said. “Tobias Church kidnapped you to get to me and almost killed you! This is exactly why I didn’t want you on the team or to even know about this!” Ollie said. “Ollie…” “No Y/N you almost died! You’re off the team, you’re going to live a normal life and not be in danger!” He said raising his voice. “No way! I’m not gonna let assholes like Church scare me!” I said. “You almost died for fuck sakes Y/N! You are not going to be apart of this anymore!” “That’s not fair!” “Y/N, I agree with Ollie, you almost died and we don’t wanna lose you…” Thea chimed in. “But I don’t wanna lose you guys either.” I said tears forming in my eyes, the only reason I wanted to join was to make sure I didn’t lose them. “You won’t lose us ever, Y/N I promise.” Ollie said. “Please don’t push me away from this. I can’t stand not know if you’ll come back or not, or if you’ll get seriously hurt or not...please, please don’t let me go.” I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “We’re never going to leave you.” Ollie said. “We’ll always come back.” Thea said smiling. “But you’re still not coming back, you need to live a normal life, for me please.” Oliver begged. I sighed and nodded.

After that incident, I was pretty much under 24/7 surveillance. I knew this would happen but I just wish they wouldn’t be so overprotective. Even after Church was found dead they still kept a very close eye on me. I love them I do but they are the ones that told me to try and live a normal life, how can anyone do that while being watched pretty much all the time? Might as well get used to it for now.

[themirthfulroadrunners]

Adventures Are Us

             Anxious to be off, we left home in the dark a full hour ahead of our loosely held departure time and headed for the heart of the Rockies in Colorado. This trip we turned north at a small town in Texas east of Amarillo. (We’ve already been to the Cadillac Ranch). The scenery was nice, a pleasant break from the freeway monotony. For my money, I’d give the entire Texas panhandle to Oklahoma. And while we’re at it, give the northeast notch to Arkansas. And while we’re still at it, Arkansas may as well take the boot-heel back from Missouri. There. We can deal with straightening the rest of the country later.

           We blinked at Walsenburg, CO and missed our exit – and very glad that we did. After spending the night in Colorado City, we drove a back road across the Wet Mountains. We’d only once before seen so many deer! The previous occasion was on a dirt road in the Ozarks. But these were mule deer – in excellent health, I might add. I wish we’d had a camera ready for the three bucks we spooked in the road around a curve. Any of the three would have been a trophy, their antlers rich in velvet.

           Around another curve we were surprised by a rock castle, a work in decades of progress by a single old man, a Mr. Bishop. We didn’t meet him, but did an old timer that arrived for a re-visit. Bishop did all the designing, welding and rock work himself. Every tower had stairways within. The place was amazing! I don’t know how eccentric the man is, but I liked his signs.

           As always, the first sightings of mountains were picture-inspiring, if not totally picturesque. But as it turned out, we were glad of the photos that we took in light of the fact that two fires had ignited near our destination, even closing the freeway westward at our very exit on I-70. The close one began with only 1400 acres, but is currently over 30,000 acres, filling the air, as well as the house, with smoke, and rudely obscuring our beloved mountains. The fire farther west eliminated the possibility of enjoying well over half of our planned excursions. But we were able to get to a town we missed on our last Colorado trip (see blog:  Rocky Mountain High). Fairplay is listed as a ghost town in a book that we used as a guide. The little town had a restored section, but as we’ve discovered, if there are utilities available, every ghost town has become home to those willing to commute, live on whatever stipend they get, or make a living off tourists. Fairplay, though, is worth the time if you are nearby. Our visit, though, coincided with the closing of I-70, which forced travelers to reroute westward. Many cajillions of them ventured south from the freeway through Fairplay. And many of those thought Independence Pass was a good idea. There were so many 18-wheeler issues that the authorities closed that route to everybody, cancelling one of our few away-from-smoke excursions. It put us in mind of a trucker dude following GPS up Mt. Nebo in Arkansas. He was high-centered on a switchback and was waiting on a tow truck, blocking the entire road. Another GPS follower was down the inside gorge of a switchback on Hwy 23 - called the Pig Trail in the Ozarks. We managed to get around him.

Picture above is the old jail at Fairplay.

           On this trip we house sat in a McMansion on a golf course. We were daily reminded that we would never live in a house with stairs. Let alone a 3-story. It was fun watching golfers. One gal hit a tee shot directly into a pond about 80 yards away, where she immediately sent a second try. Another golfer dribbled his drive about forty yards. The most fun was a foursome of teenaged boys. They hit ‘em sideways, and every-which-ways, even kicked ‘em, not bothering to ever get the balls into the holes. No doubt they were not paying for their experience.

           Cars with Colorado tags, excepting the ubiquitous Jeep Wranglers and pick-up trucks, have been 99% foreign-made in this region (Vail, Aspen, Breckinridge). And among the pick-ups, the American brands had strong competition from Nissan and Toyota. I guess these folks have a different concept of loyalty and patriotism than I.

           And speaking of cars, our Ford Edge, Sparkly, thoroughly enjoyed his rutted dirt road trip into the mountains (no matter how Debbie worried about him). That road travelled thru cattle ranches, including the Hardscrabble Ranch. (Turns out there are several Hardscrabble Ranches.) I’d sure like to see cowboys try to drive the cattle from the very steep Aspen woods and piney mountain ranges. Speaking of … we did see horse-back cowboys moving cattle somewhere near Pueblo.

           As we do, though this year from the drive-up window, we enjoy local cuisine. I had tacos that reminded me very much of the local favorite plaza in Matamoros, Mexico. At another, where the gal answered my question that, “Yes, everyone living here must be a skier,” we got the best soft-serve ice cream ever. Unfortunately, Debbie got chocolate, a rare treat for her, which prevented me from finishing hers, as is our custom.

           Driving eastward, away from the smoke (we thought), we drove to Mt. Evans, the tallest mountain that you can drive to the summit. Hah! – closed due to Covid19! Oh well, we still got a very nice mountain hike, and at a resort a great lunch and blueberry pie.

In the restaurant on Mt. Evans

           Our house sit included a parrot, a creature Debbie would like very much to have put on a spit. In addition to its 50-100 word vocabulary (wish I could put a video here), it has mastery of human sounds. It can mimic a variety of computer and iPhone toots, beeps, and whistles. It can make the submarine sonar sound that puts you right into the movies. Unfortunately, it can also convince you that the house is afire with its spot-on smoke alarm shrill.

(Just kidding!)

           As always, we had our eyes out for old school houses, churches, and bridges. And wildlife. Believe it or not, we spied a wild bear walking railroad tracks. By the time we could get turned around and back to him for a picture, he was, of course, gone. He was brown, but more than likely a full-grown black bear by the way he lumbered.

           Steamboat Springs was more our way of living, more home-like than the Idaho Springs – Vail corridor along I-70. Steamboat Springs retained a semblance of the historic town … and a Kum-n-Go and a McDonalds. Alas, no Sonic. There was a very nice waterfall hike nearby that would be fabulous in May or June.

           But as if to cap off our adventure, a fire erupted just off the highway where there had been none as we had just traversed the area that very morning. It was close enough to see the somber, higher-than-tree-top flames.

           Hoping for clear mountains, we plotted our return trip through the central part of the state. Nope, smoke all the way. We really felt for the folks that not only had to suffer the economic losses related to Covid-19 closures, but then weeks and weeks of fire and smoke. Recovery from a mountain forest fire takes over 50 years.

           But alas, we are who we are, adventurers! Fortunately, the home owner opted to cut her trip short. Unfortunately, it was because she was forced to evacuate her airbnb due to the California fires – a true irony.

           Next stop, the New Mexico Rockies near Sante Fe. Yay! Adventure on!

[justa-mysticmess]

hi dear anon~! this request is so interesting and honestly had me so excited to get to it because being muslim this one should be pretty easy for me fingers crossed lol ahh hope you like this, and so sorry for the usual lateness pretty please pray for my assignment to go well and for this semester to end quickly!

Jumin

easter was coming up

where jumin never really cared much about the holiday before, he was positively excited to spend it with mc this time

it was amazing how one’s thoughts on holiday’s could change within a year

left work early on palm sunday to give mc a surprise visit before taking them out for a fun day because our man never left work early

succeeded in surprising mc by being at their door at noon

bae, seriously, i’m overjoyed to see you but it’s s u n d a y morning

tries not to be offended

fails miserably coz mc proceeds to glomp him in a tight hug and tell him they’re just cranky when they are woken up which jumin actually did just now but shhh

jumin’s seated comfortably on mc’s favorite couch and told to make himself at home while mc takes their morning shower

decides to make mc blueberry pancakes for breakfast because they have a busy day ahead

sticks to making soft fluffy pancakes and provide chocolate, honey and maple syrup for mc to choose from when he doesn’t find blueberries

could totally order the ingredients needed but has come to know not to do shit like that for mc all the time

jumin’s a good boy

mc exclaims loudly, the last of their pancakes escaping their mouth in a mess, when he explains what day it is

confused because does mc not want to go with part of the day’s plan because of their religion?

no, no of course i can visit your church with you but juminnn! i did not know!!

mc is shook

they never knew how almost every day around easter was so special??

jumin is really happy he didn’t accidentally offend mc by planning a visit to church without asking first

mc was such a gift with their easy temprament and how unjudging they were

perhaps he should surprise mc with pentecost too?

nah, that didn’t feel right; he would tell mc about it beforehand so it wuld be a win-win

Hyun/Zen

zen hadn’t been so excited for a holiday in quite a while

but this time he was! because he had mc to celebrate it with!

he prepared his outfit well before a week 

that’s also about the time his patience finally cracks and he needs to talk to mc about it

so he calls them up to ask them to the harvest full moon

he’s a bit put off by mc’s baffled response but quickly reminds himself since mc is kind of new to korea it’s normal for them to not know about such holidays

just like zen doesn’t know about the holidays important to mc and their religion

he likes how fascinated mc sounds and feels like he is soaring when their fascination turns into excitement for spending the day with him!

he’s even more pleasantly surprised when mc calls him to their house to help them pick an appropriate outfit for the harvest moon

with attitude like that, any holiday with mc would be a blast, he could tell!

Yoosung

yoosung was ecstatic!

why??

because october 3rd was coming up!

which meant national holiday!

so when mc scolded him for skipping class when he called to meet up, he was perplexed!

was it not the third today??

but everywhere he looked, couples roamed happily, and he even caught a conversation or two of how relieved they were for the third of october!

it actually still took him checking again a few times to realize that no! he was right about the holiday!

quickly called mc back again and tearfully told them that their prank was really mean on him!

but mc was even more confused now and asked him to start form the beginning

when finally the matter is clear, yoosung is so relieved he was right, and mc is embarrassed for having forgotten the october 3rd holiday

they still manage to have a lovely day though, and yoosung teases mc about their little nagging before seeing them off

Saeyoung/707

seven knew that mc was muslim

he also knew that mc was pretty clueless about religious holidays

but he didn’t judge them for it, for they were often clueless even about their own religious holidays, which he honestly found kinda cute funny

of course, he would endlessly tease mc about it!

he was looking for another way to prank mc, when the perfect idea came to mind!

so he patiently waited for the rest of the month of october to pass by~

sure enough, mc was still fast asleep after their exhausting rewarding time trick-or-treating on halloween  night in full costumes! fun times!!

saeyoung took some mercy on his sleeping s/o and decided to wait till sometime after noon to put his prank to action

as he crept into their room without a sound, he made sure he was hovering close by as he flung the curtains aside and bathed the room in bright warm sunlight!

mc groaned, obviously annoyed at being woken up and instead turned to sleep again

but they sleepily turned towards the window and the light bothered them!

seven doesn’t know exactly what mc saw through their blurry vision, but their slitted eyes widened in fear and they s c r e a m e d

saeyoung was still teasing them by dinner time

and he was still dressed up as a saint till then

mc wanted to throw a log at him!

Jaehee

mc knew christmas was sometime in december

but they could never seem to remember what date exactly!

jaehee didn’t mind at all!

she actually found it somewhat endearing

especially because mc was so good at remembering important things most of the time!

however, she was a bit surprised when mc greeted her on the first of december, decked in full santa costume!

the fake beard actually made jaehee laugh

she was just glad that the customers in their coffee shop were their regulars and also adored mc

they laughed along with them both and told mc how cute their whole outfit was!

jaehee decided she needs to come up with a creative way to teach mc the christmas dates so that it catches her interest~! 

nevertheless, it’s a very happening and exciting month for them both~

V/Jihyun

jihyun wanted to do something special for august 15th

he didn’t know if mc would be okay with it

but he knew he would be the happiest if they agreed

he kept the latter part to himself when he approached mc with the question though!

he knew mc had a hard timekeeping up with all the catholic holidays, and he didn’t mind at all

they were inquisitive and respectful and always asked questions

v started off by telling mc about the assumption of the blessed virgin mary

when he told mc he wanted to spend the day photographing mc dressed as the virgin

mc is aware of his antics by now and is not really surprised by his request

which surprises him pleasantly to know that mc knows him so well 

they have such a nice day, which is filled with pleasant surprises

what surprises jihyun most is when mc takes the camera and asks to photograph him 

Saeran

after having been rescued from the cult and having had therapy, saeran would usually run away from religious activities

he hated how saeyoung managed to convince him to do something with mc for december 8th 

it doesn’t have to be religious, his devious brother had said

he still felt iffy about dragging mc out on feast of the immaculate conception day

it was laughable that mc was clueless about the event but had happily accompanied him

he felt happy for that

but when mc asked for the thrid time what was up with him and he admitted it was a religious holiday, mc dragged him right back home and they spent

the holiday at home, marathoning horror movies and eating from tubs of ice-cream

[askthealaskan]

Portland to Portland

The United States has a homeless problem. You can’t just label it and put it in your mental file cabinet anymore. It’s too much a part of everyday life in the streets of all of our cities. People living under bridges, on park benches, in cardboard boxes, or in doorway alcoves. We have become numb to it all.

To actually do something one must be brave enough to admit that as species on this planet we have an obligation to our fellow humans. How humans care for there own reflects on all of us a as worthy species to inhabit this plant. People avoid what they can clearly see every day. They put off doing something by the situation for very good reasons- they might see themselves if they look too close

Portland Oregon is where my doctor is based. It is also where my son lives at the moment, so I stayed two days with him before I picked up Morrison. Several years ago he had a very bad eye injury that was handled very well by the doctors at OHSU in Portland. I decided to give the neurology department a try.

When I got the call that the injury occurred I was traveling for work and didn’t pack anymore clothes or medicine that I needed, not expecting the extra trip. Eventually I reached point that my personal hygiene needed attention. So I headed to the mall in downtown Portland.

I was shaking pretty good and didn’t look too spiffy in my disheveled state when I went through the doors of the mall. From the crowd that went in through the door the security guard pick me out and confronted me. I was literally flabbergasted. From all that she could tell the security guard had profiled me as a homeless person. For the first time I felt indignant discrimination and shame. I gathered myself and looked her straight in the eye and told her I was looking for underwear and where might I find it. She quickly caught on that I was a paying customer. But if I had to endure this profiling everyday, I might give into it’s expectations. At first I was distressed that I was mistaken for a homeless person. Then I shifted to seeing it from the other side , the homeless persons side. After the housing crash of 2010, a lot of people who flew by a certain lifestyle became homeless. They may act the same way, dress the same way, or even say the same things, but now they have no home.

They keep up appearances and would never think of themselves as homeless. Being homeless in America is really not an economic measure. It’s is more like living life as an “untouchable” in India. It’s not a measure of wealth any more. Being completely broke and not having a home is not the worst thing that can happen to a person. Living a flashy lifestyle that deceitfully pays for itself by picking the pockets of others is far worse. Yet these people are more socially accepted than the homeless?

There could be a day that our Great Pumpkin has his taxes revealed and we find out he is below the level of our homeless. Or when we consider the idea of changing the Whitehouse function from its current use into a homeless shelter to meet the growing demand.

These thoughts were refreshed upon walking the streets of Portland Oregon. four days later I’m in the other Portland , Portland Maine on the East coast in a Portland Maine laundry mat. It’s pouring down raining and I m downtown picking up one of five drugs that I use to function to some degree.

I notice a little laundry mat nestled between Walgreens and a grocery store. It’s raining very hard as I head to it early morning. I entered the door to the sound of Billie Idol’s “Give rebel yell” playing in the background and was welcomed by squat elderly lady with a smile with spunk. She is talking with short man with pious looking appearance. I try my best to reach “spunk” level in my response.

The Parkinson’s has made it harder to manifest my emotions with facial manipulation. The docs call it the Parkinson’s mask. It gives me a disadvantage meeting new people and that all important 1st Impression. How I’m feeling at the moment may not be reinforced by my facial expression. I come across as unempathetic or unfriendly. It’s especially hard if you have a dry wit sense of humor that requires l lot of nonverbal cues to interpret. I like to think I do.

There were two ladies doing their laundry. An African American lady who looked like she needed to be somewhere else doing something more important. The other lady seemed to be a traveler. She didn’t act like a local but was comfortable with where she was like travelers do.she was writing notes and waiting for her clothes to dry.

I look to find a washing machine and see that the first three are broken. Each broken machine labeled as such by a taped over yellow sticky note.Moving past them I see one thats working but it is right next to the distracted lady’s washing Machine. If I chose that one I might just have walked up and said “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a laundry mat like this”. I look past her and see a promising machine between two broken ones near the back of the laundry mat.

I can feel the eyes of Pious man watching me slowly make my way to the machine. I find one and load it up and see the man walking toward me. He’s holding an open bag of potato chips in front him walking toward me and saying “food, it’s food” like I was a dangerous hungry savage that he was trying to convince not to bite. Oh jeez I think to myself. He’s either a monk from the church a block away or he has Down’s syndrome. I’m not sure which it is so gratefully tell him no thank you but too many salty chips isn’t good for me. He is taken aback at my response.

He seems to be disappointed in my not taking it and gives me another chance like it’s the last I’ll get at getting it. He seems to think I’m being ungrateful at the offering of food just because it wasn’t the type of food I liked. I look over to the spunky lady for a clue but she doesn’t help me. He leaves the bag half way between us and backs away. I watch him retreat back to the doorway.

From the way he talks to Spunky in kinda of stilted perfunctory manner, it leads me to think he is playing the role of concern benevolent righteous caretaker. Spunky talks with him about the w eather but it’s clear the conversation is shallow. He’s doing his assigned call s and she seems to know exactly how long the conversation will last. Soon he says he’s leaving because the rain has let up but it hasn’t really.

I finish loading and start walking toward the coin machine when Spunky stops me and says that the coin machine has a trick to it and rushes over to insert my bills for me. I thank her but she doesn’t go too far way as I insert my coins into the machine. I get three in but the fourth coin won’t go in. I see her coming over like she knew what was going to happen before it did. There’s a trick to it she says, and rolls up her fist and gives the coin box a sharp jab that would make a boxer proud and a quarter sheepishly drops out into the return box. “You can’t do it too slowly or too quickly” she says.

I walk around the room a little bit. The rain is thundering down now and I have no reason to be out in it so I stay put. I start to notice other taped yellow sticky notes. They spell out policy that you can tell come from unpleasant real life experience. One sticky note mandates that the restroom is for “employees only.” The word “sorry” in written on it apparently later in after thought with another colored pen like it was admitting it was a cruel thing to do but pleading that we really aren’t that bad.

One sticky note outlaws washing any baby diapers in the washing machine. That one provokes a nasty visual.

Another sticky note declares that the management is absolutely not responsible under any circumstance for anything you have lost or have stolen. There are eight security cameras up near the high ceiling but they all appear to be aimed at the closed door near the front of the building labeled office. None of them aimed at the sitting area for customers. They not only warn you they don’t care if you get ripped off they back it up with how they operate.

Spunky has grabbed a rag and is cleaning off the folding tables with a spray bottle of cleaner. Not that I’m not appreciative of that but the tables look pretty clean compared to the floor that is caked with dirt. I notice a mop in bucket in the far corner that doesn’t look like it been used lately. The floor is well worn 12 inch Formica tiles that were popular in the last century. The edges are starting to slowly be worn away leaving smooth curved black on the corners.

A man staggers in with a small bundle of dirty laundry. He looks like just pulled himself out of a mud hole. He is soaked with rain or something else. His blonde hair is matted and uncombed. He walks toward the travel lady who is still at her small table. Spunky intercepts him, “sir there is a machine over here”. She directs him to busy lady’s house evacuated machine.

Despite wearing a belt, His very dirty pants are falling down off his waist threatening to expose us all to see a sight none of us wants to see. He keeps pulling them up. The radio is playing Madonnas “Like a Virgin” but this guy is nothing like a virgin. He has seen hard times but in no way does he seem threatening. He places a small bundle of clothes in the machine and strips down most of what he was wearing and puts it in as well. He obviously wasn’t playing the game anymore. I could picture him cleaned up, in a suit, with a job and a boss, trying make it in a society but why in a world where the wealthy buy their candidates and make the rules. This guy has long ago checked out.

Saggy pants man sits down on the bench across the room. After a bit I sit down on the adjacent bench a little while later. He looks over at me and I nod at him in acknowledgment of his presence. He looks away and before I could engage him in conversation he has put his head back and is sleeping.

I spot some reading materials , a few women’s magazines, and books for young bored children. I spot a possible book about lighthouses. That might be interesting I think to myself but realize after I pick it up that it is religious propaganda about seeing the light of god.Religion lost its place in my world when it became political.

My clothes are clean and I take them across the room to the dryers. About half of them are sticky note tagged “out of service” . I choose one and start loading it. I hear Spunky say something to the dirt man. She is not happy with him sleeping on the bench. He staggers over to check on his load. His stagger doesn’t seem to be drink induced, nor the effects of illness, it seems to becoming from weariness or exhaustion.

I have filled the machine and I’m about to put in quarters when I swear I was hit in the head by a raindrop. It happened again and I look up to see a bulging round spot on the ceiling of Abestos panels that you see so often in offices with fluorescent lighting. There are several spots but none are a big as mine. I warn Spunky that the roof is leaking and dripping through the ceiling. I quickly move my stuff to a safer machine.

Spunky calls her boss who says she’s on her way. It’s the second time she has “been on her way” but No one hurries to get to this place. The ceiling tile slowly sagging and it will unleash an unwelcomed shower on somebody unaware.

My load eventually gets dried and I fold it military style like a saw saggy pants man man fold his earlier. I wondered if he had any idea that I learned something from him today and it wasn’t just how to fold clothes. I gather up my clothes and turn to the door. The sun has popped out and there is a chance for a new start on a better day. I wish the it were the same for Saggy Pants man.

[aniallstory-blog]

Chapter Seven

Luckily for Niall and I when Maura was picking out a house, she made the wise decision of finding one with a guest room on the opposite side of the house to hers with it's own en-suite bathroom. That meant that whenever we visited her we had far more privacy than we did at his dad's or my dad's house. We'd been staying with Maura for a week already and still had a few more days to go so the extra privacy was much appreciated.

It had been a great week up in Mullingar. Niall had chance to relax a bit even though he had the occasional Skype conference and still spent hours scribbling in his lyric notebook as he tweaked songs and I was soaking up life in Niall's hometown. It was similar to Holmes Chapel in some ways, but very unique all the same. We spent hours just wandering around town, me with my camera out taking advantage of the beautiful place and Niall telling me all about his many childhood adventures, still coming up with stories I hadn't heard before even after all the times I'd been here. Much to our surprise the fans had left us alone for the most part too. We hadn't bothered to keep our escape from London off social media, but other than the many locals who were eager to catch up with Niall no one had bothered us.

I was sitting on our bed that night, leaning against the headboard as I scrolled through my phone when Niall came out of the shower.

“What're you doing tomorrow?” I asked, letting my eyes roam over his bare, wet chest.

“Nothin',” He answered with a smirk, catching my eye line. “Got something in mind?”

He dropped his towel so he could pull on a pair of boxers and for a moment I almost forgot what we were talking about.

“I think your mum and I are going to look at a few wedding venues tomorrow,” I explained, looking back to my phone so I wouldn't be distracted by his body. “I'd really like it if you could come?”

Niall's smirk fell and he suddenly looked a lot more tense than he had moments before.

“That'd be nice,” He said despite his tone conveying that he felt otherwise. “Just let me check my phone, see if I have anything going on.”

He picked his phone up off the nightstand and started scrolling through while my stomach turned. After our conversation while he was in New York and our amazing week together here, things seemed to be going well. I'd convinced myself that my worries were completely unfounded and all in my head, but I also made sure not to bring up the wedding. Now that I had and Niall reacted less than enthusiastically my worries were back with full force.

“Ah, shit,” Niall mumbled as he locked his phone and put it back where he'd grabbed it from before climbing on to the bed next to me. “I got a phone meeting tomorrow with management so I won't be able to.”

“What time?” I asked quietly as he nuzzled into my side, draping his arm over my waist. “I'm sure we can work around it, none of the venues are too far from here.”

“It's not until noon and ya know how these things are, could last hours once they start talkin'. You should go without me,” My heart sank. “Take loads of pictures and we can look at them when we get back to London, alright?”

“Alright,” I said quietly, knowing that if I spoke too loudly my disappointment would be obvious.

“Hey,” Niall said softly, angling his head so he was looking up at me with his chin rested on my shoulder. “I do wanna come, promise. Just don't want ya to miss out on seein’ a great place because of me meeting.”

“I understand.”

I didn't and it was obvious.

Niall gently took my phone out of my hands and put it on the nightstand next to his before turning off the lamp and snuggling back against me. I turned onto my side so he was spooning me and he nuzzled into my neck like he always did.

“Love you, Ava,” He mumbled into my skin as he pressed a soft kiss against it.

“Love you too, Ni,” I replied softly, cursing myself for not having the courage to bring up the concerns that I had once again.

-

The next morning I set off with Maura fairly early. We stopped in town for a quick brunch before heading off to the first place. It was described as an 'alternative' wedding venue and that seemed like what we were looking for. Neither of us were religious enough that we felt getting married in a typical church was necessarily the best choice. We had one picked out in London if we couldn't find anything else, but we had agreed to scope out other venues to see if anything stood out.

We met with the woman who would be showing us around and I was quickly impressed. The chapel was made out of tin giving it a very rustic, unique look and it wasn't very big which would force us to keep the wedding small like we'd hoped despite our already growing guest list. The next part she showed us was the boat house. A small little building on the edge of a little lake where we could serve drinks and appetizers after the ceremony. It was adorable and if the weather was nice, it would be great for people to relax outside. The last part of the tour was the barn where the meal, dancing and the rest of the festivities would be held. I was instantly in love with it. It was set up for a wedding the following day and it was gorgeous.

“What do you think?” Maura asked once the lady gave us a moment to discuss.

“I love it,” I gushed. “It's beautiful and quaint and just the right size for what we need. I don't think I could have designed something more fitting for what I wanted than this place.”

“Oh good, I'm so glad!” She beamed. “It's a wonderful venue and I know costs aren't an issue, but it's a great price and it never hurts to save money where you can.”

I nodded in agreement as I looked around.

“Do you think Niall would like it too?” I asked, my heart clenching slightly at the fact that he wasn't here to fall in love with it too.

“I say if he can't be arsed to help you look at venues then his opinion doesn't count for much!” Maura said sternly, having already given Niall a lecture this morning when she realized he wasn't joining us. “But yes, I think he'll love it. It's quiet and out of the way, simple and not too much fuss. Everything he would look for.”

“Perfect,” I smiled, having thought the same thing.

After deciding this place was a top contender for our wedding venue, we went back to discuss with our guide about dates and what amenities would be provided before heading off to check out a few other places we'd had planned that day.

-

We went to three other venues and none of them even came to close to the first one of the day. We were driving to the last one on our list, discussing what kind of food should be served when something caught my eye in the parking lot of the golf course next to our final destination.

“Maura, slow down for a minute,” I requested as I used my hand to block the sun from my eyes. “Is that Niall?”

Her head turned in the direction I was pointing as she slowed and eventually indicated to turn into the parking lot.

“Yes, my dear,” She confirmed with a sigh. “I believe it is.”

I checked my phone and my heart sank. Since we'd set off so early today, it was only one o'clock which pretty much confirmed the suspicions I'd had the night before that Niall had created this meeting he supposedly had to get out of coming with us to look at venues.

I hurried out of the car as soon as Maura had stopped, catching him as he warmed up with a few practice swings on the course while he waited for whoever he was with.

“Niall?” I called out as I walked towards him. His head snapped around to look at me as he lowered his golf club, his eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights or a child caught stealing a cookie. “I thought you had a meeting at noon?”

“I did!” He insisted. “It finished early. What're ya doing here?”

“It's barely one o'clock now, Niall,” I pointed out. “Unless your meeting was only ten minutes, I'm starting to think it didn't happen.”

I heard someone snicker from behind me and turned to see Bobby and Greg walking across the parking lot towards us.

“Someone's in trouble,” Greg practically giggled causing Niall to shoot him a glare.

“Course it happened, love. Why would I lie about that?” He asked, still not convincing me. “Just wasn't very long, s'all.”

“I told you all the venues were nearby, you didn't think to call us and see if you could meet us somewhere?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, not able to hide my annoyance anymore.

“Me Dad called before I had chance and asked me to join him and Greg for a game of golf,” Niall explained. “Haven't seen much of him this week so I didn't want to disappoint him.”

“Oy!” Bobby shouted over, drawing my attention once again to the two other Horan men. “Don't blame me for this, son. I didn't know ya had other places t'be.”

“What about disappointing me, Niall?” I asked, my voice much calmer than it had been moments before as I realized the edge of a golf course in front of his family was not the place to work out our problems. He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly closed it when he realized he had nothing to say. “Have a good game. I'll talk to you when you get home.”

I turned and headed back to Maura's car, ignoring Niall calling my name as I went.

-

We ended up skipping the last venue since my mood was not very conducive to picking out wedding venues after my run in with Niall. I was frustrated with him, but I spent the rest of the afternoon looking over the pictures I'd taken from the venue I loved and my excitement quickly took over.

I wasn't the first bride in the world to have a fiance who wasn't interested in planning a wedding. I knew he loved me and I did believe he wanted to marry me so if helping with the planning just wasn't his cup of tea then I could deal with that. Sure, I was probably making excuses for his hurtful behaviour and sweeping issues under the rug, but Niall had a lot going on in his life and maybe I just needed to be a little more patient.

By the time he got home later that afternoon and crawled onto the couch next to me, curling up against my side like a puppy that had just been scolded for peeing on the rug, I didn't have the heart to start an argument. His quiet, but genuine “I'm sorry”, a few kisses and a sudden enthusiasm to look at the pictures I'd taken that day was all it took to win me over again and stifle my anxieties for the time being.

[raybansandcoffee]

Chapter 27: Never Enough (One Direction)

Harry

“So Nate, are we going to have an almost choking on jewelry incident again tonight?” He flipped Annie off from across the table. “Nope. We aren’t actually here on Valentine’s Day this year, so you two missed out on me giving her jewelry.” “What did you get her?” I asked. Due to Nate’s case and my work in LA we had been in Los Angeles for Annie’s birthday. I felt terrible about it. She always spent her birthday with her friends. We were either in London or here in Paris with Nate and Kim. But this year because of my commitments we weren’t able to do that.

“He got me a vintage sapphire and diamond cocktail ring.” She held her hand out to show us. It was a very nice ring. Nate had always been hesitant to buy jewelry for Kim on his own. Evidently, the first pair of earrings he bought her she hated. So he always made sure if he was gift giving he had Lyla, Lizzy, Annie or me with him. I remember when he had asked me when we were out to dinner one night to meet me while the girls were at work the next day and help him shop for an engagement ring. We were lucky that we didn’t get caught by photographers or both of the women in our life would’ve been emotional. It was the first time we’d hung out just us guys which was a bit awkward. I don't often go jewelry shopping with my mates. He had spent the entire time being half mental trying to pick between two rings and finally made me pick. I talked him through the decision so he came to it on his own with a little coaching. He was one of three boys, he didn’t have sisters who taught him this stuff. I was lucky I’d had Gemma over the years. She’d always taught me how to pay attention to what women did so I could get the right thing. Which was good because the woman in my life was overly opinionated and if she hated something I gave her was happy to close the box and hand it back. “You did a nice job, mate,” I said smiling. He mouthed out ‘Lyla’ and I quietly chuckled. “So are we going to grab cocktails somewhere or are we heading back to our hotels. You two have an uninterrupted night of sleep ahead of you.” “We could grab a bottle of champagne and share it in our room,” Annie said smiling at me. I loved her smile. Her tiny dimple showing on her right cheek, her blue eyes sparkling. She hadn’t stopped smiling since I told her I was done waiting and it was time to get married. She didn’t stop smiling when her parents all three cried knowing that she was right and they wouldn’t be able to be here for the wedding. Surprisingly her Dad even cried a bit. I know that Dads all dream of walking their little girl down the aisle and I hated that I was robbing him of that. But we knew he wouldn’t get on a plane to fly to England for what Annie was calling a shotgun wedding. I kept reminding her that we didn’t have a baby on the way, despite this book being her baby. I promised him that we could go to the church in her hometown where her Grandparents and Great-Grandparents were married, the one she had her heart set on getting married at when she still lived at home, and he could walk her down to the aisle to me, even if it was just the three of us in the building. He replied by telling me that he had handed her over to me years ago and wished me luck. I know that despite her protests that there is a part of her that is sad that we decided to elope. She wanted to get the big dress, though she swore it wouldn’t be traditional, it would fit her personal style. She wanted to have all of her friends in fluffy dresses and watch her niece and nephew dance around like lunatics. We’d attended a fair number of weddings in our time together. Watched our friends all get married, some of them twice, and we just happily sat on the sidelines knowing that when the time was right it would happen. I was watching her sleep in Fiji while we were on vacation when I decided it was time. She looked so peaceful. So calm. She was rarely like that anymore. Always worrying about her career and mine, the book making things worse. She’d been like this before. Leading up to the first tour of our relationship, with the help of Lizzy, I’d convinced her to leverage what she was doing with her blog to make some money on it. Lizzy told her to follow me and go on the road, to watch out for Lyla, and see the world or at least part of it while she was at it. Frankie told her that her job would be waiting for her when she got back. She was hesitant. She didn't want to use our relationship to make money. So Lizzy and Frankie agreed to keep paying her and she would keep doing the social media for the bookshop and the pub. That finally got her to agree. She’d be earning her own spending money rather than relying solely on me to pay for the things she purchased. She came with to South America. Together we saw Machu Picchu and Christ the Redeemer. We danced in the streets of Buenos Aires in the moonlight as my Broadway-loving lady serenaded me with the music from Evita. We got drunk on caipirinhas and made love as the sun came up. She and Lyla grew even closer. It was the first time that it was just the two of them and not Kim, Lizzy, and Niki as well. She documented our life and travels on her blog. She photographed me on stage and told me that she fell more in love with me every night when I took the stage because I made so many people happy, just by being me. We survived the first part of the tour and she survived on the money she was making. I was sure it was going to work. She had no choice but to go to Ireland with me. The whole gang of misfits she called her friends were headed to the shows. Frankie, Niki, and Niall were excited to show her their home, even if none of them grew up in Dublin. She was determined she was going back to London after that trip until my Mum told her that she needed to be in Manchester to meet my Aunts, Uncles, and cousins. She still hasn’t ever been able to say no to my Mum. When we arrived home, she told me she wasn’t coming with me anymore. She felt like she needed to work and help pay our bills at home, something we’d fought about since she moved in. My heart broke getting on that plane for Sweden without her but I knew that my stubborn girl was not to be pushed to make a decision. I woke up the next morning and went about my day while constantly checking my cell phone for any message from her. It was mid-show that I realized she was down in front of the barricades with security and her camera. She told me that when she cried the whole night because she couldn’t sleep without me that she finally realized I was right, something she rarely, if ever admitted, even to this day. So she packed a bag, bought a ticket and told Niall to get her into the arena. By the time we hit our next stop she had already arranged sponsors for her blog and her anxiety started to decrease about money. Lizzy and Frankie both jumped on board. Weekly book recommendations with links to buy it online from the bookshop and regular videos of her making drinks in O’Brien's and if she was on the road she was in her cut up O’Brien’s shirt as I videotaped her. The first video she’d done was of those caipirinhas and now O’Brien’s was the only Irish Pub in all of London where you could get a Brazilian drink. It was when we got to Paris and I saw the way her face lit up seeing this city again that I realized for the first time that I wanted to marry her. I claimed to have work and snuck out of our hotel before the sun was even able to make an appearance for a private appointment at Tiffany & Co. I explained what I wanted, which wasn’t in the case, and they agreed to custom make an engagement ring and have it ready by the time we reached Italy and then our first night of our holiday, in front of my band and her friends I dropped on one knee and asked her to spend forever with me. The ring made her hesitate less about accepting money from me. We were going to spend the rest of our lives together and that ring meant that. I could’ve put a hair band around her ring finger and it would’ve meant the same but she deserved the dream ring and the dream proposal. I’d hoped originally that she’d get the dream wedding too. Maybe even convince her family to come to England and get married in Holmes Chapel. Or ship my whole family to the US and that church in her hometown. But then life happened. The band decided to take a break. I filmed a movie and recorded a debut record at the same time. All the while she was writing and still managing a social media client or two. She’d do speaking engagements on how to leverage social media to make money off of a blog. We worked and focused on our dreams, knowing that we’d eventually get married. We went through some of the happiest moments in life together and through some of the hardest. There wasn’t a day that I questioned if she’d be there to hold my hand, to listen and offer advice when needed or if all else fails make a crack about me having no magic due to being a Styles and not a Potter. I was her proofreader, her production assistant, and her knight in shining armor all rolled into one. We loved each other with everything we had no matter what. Then last fall she got the opportunity to publish this book. She’d always wanted to be an author, had even tried to write a novel once but chickened out on shopping it around. A friend that worked at a publishing house approached her about her photography and she jumped at the opportunity. I asked if I could write the introduction to the book. It was that night in Fiji, where I couldn’t sleep and she lay beside me as I wrote her introduction, that I knew I was done waiting for the time to be perfect, I just wanted to marry her. It was what I’d known in France that first trip, in Italy when I proposed, and if I was honest to myself what I knew when I walked in that little bookshop for the first time. I didn’t care whether she was in couture or converse, I just wanted to marry that girl. And now it was finally going to happen. “Yes, champagne in our hotel room. You two girls can chat about where we need to shop tomorrow so that you can get Kim a dress. And maybe you should buy yourself a dress,” I said raising my eyebrows at her. “I have my dress with me,” she replied frowning at me playfully. She had packed a short white, lace dress that she loved. She’d found it in Los Angeles when Lou and Gemma had made a trip to visit. She wore it with me to an award show that was a little bit more fun and thought it would be a dress she could wear for our wedding. “I still think that you should wear whatever color you want.” “What color is the dress?” Kim interrupted. “White,” we replied together. “And…wedding dresses are white,” Kim said. “I think she should wear black. When I think of the woman I want to marry, she’s still in that black maxi dress she had on the day I met her. The one with the slit up to her thigh and her tattoos on her shoulder showing.” “Harry.” She was staring me down. The tone of her voice the one she always had when she was frustrated with me. “I. Have. A. Dress.” “We can look at it when we get to the hotel and I can tell you if I think we need to find you a new dress,” Kim said. “Fine, let’s go back to the hotel,” Annie said. As we stood I helped her put her coat back on. “I love you,” I said. “I love you too,” she replied. We exited back onto the street and the car service was waiting. I would normally choose to walk through the city, as would Annie. But this trip was different. Our normal walks through cities when we traveled involved a few fans coming up and asking for pictures or autographs if they saw us. This time I wanted to make sure we avoided that as much as possible so that we were able to have the private moment for our wedding that we wanted. In the car, Annie watched out the window, occasionally snapping a photo of something that caught her eye. She almost always carried a purse big enough to fit one of her smaller cameras but tonight she was relying solely on her iPhone. I always loved when we’d get in bed at night when we were traveling or the first day home. She’d upload all of her photos and show them to me. And then I got to see the world the way she saw it for a little while. We pulled up in front of the hotel and quickly entered. I hurried to the front desk while everyone else requested the elevator. I asked the hotel to bring another bottle of champagne up to our suite. There had been one waiting when we arrived this afternoon but it didn’t take long for Annie and me to polish that off while calling our family to let them know we had arrived. We went into our room and the girls were quickly barefoot and on the couch with their iPads trying to come up with ideas of what to shop for. I sat down in the chair next to Nate. “So, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news mate, but you know you can’t legally get married in France. Right?” he inquired. He was speaking quietly so as not to disturb the girls. I laughed a little. “We do know that,” I replied. “We filed the proper paperwork back home and are going to just go to the courthouse on Monday to make it legal. We wanted to have something meaningful to both of us. We talked about it for a while too. We weighed a lot of options. Los Angeles, London, hell she suggested Vegas and New York at one point. But the reality of it is, we could do all of this without the legal part and still be happy. But for her to legally change her name on her passport we need a marriage certificate. When we were discussing eloping we decide that we wanted to do it here.” “Why? If it can’t be legal and you have to do it twice why not just get married at home?” “France, Paris more specifically, has been this place that’s meant a lot to our relationship. It was the first place we traveled together. We have so many traveling rituals that are all based on our first trip here. Her engagement ring came from Paris. It just felt right to both of us. She looked up stuff constantly when we were deciding. She cried her eyes out when she realized it couldn't be legal here. She even suggested that we just rent a flat and move here for a few months so that it could be legal. I just didn’t want to wait that long. So I convinced her that we could get married here for what we will think of as our wedding and then we’ll just do the legal bit back in London on Monday.” “I guess that makes sense. Wedding planning is a nightmare anyhow.” I chuckled a bit. Kim had been nutty planning their wedding. Her family was livid at the fact that she wasn’t getting married in the United States. She knew that their life was in London and wanted to get married there. It would’ve been tremendously difficult for her to plan a big wedding from an ocean away. She had a family member or two originally threaten not to come. But she held her ground and they all showed up. Her mother perhaps showed up too much. She made four trips in the 10 months that they planned the wedding. The last trip was for the three weeks prior to the wedding. I’d often wake up to Kim sitting at my kitchen island with Annie before 6:00 in the morning. Annie was usually slumped over trying not to fall asleep in her coffee while Kim ranted. She’d tell her mother that she had to work early and leave. I can only imagine how having a house guest for that long leading up to the most important day of your life thus far could be overly stressful. I’d learned how to make some fancy coffee drinks and a lot of breakfast options over that time period as I cooked for the girls and helped play amateur psychologist with Annie in the mornings. On top of the family drama surrounding their pending nuptials, there was a lot of work that went into the wedding. Nate’s family was huge. Each parent being one of at least four kids, his Dad the twin brother to Lizzy’s Dad. Their twins, Max and Jack are named after the Dads. The first time I met both of the Dads I was blown away, having not realized they were twins. It explained to me why Nate and Lizzy often looked like they could be brother and sister instead of cousins and why they were so close. They had been more like siblings as it was three girls in one family and three boys in the other. Kim had a large number of people making their first overseas trip for the wedding. All the work paid off. The wedding was fantastic and turned out perfect. And now they are raising quite an amazing little family. There was a knock at the door. I stood and went to let in the room service cart that had a bottle of champagne and some desserts for us. The girls finally put their iPads down long enough to let me pop the bottle of champagne and fill the glasses up for them. “What do you need me to do for this whole thing?” Nate asked me. “Just be there. We don’t really want anyone to have to do anything which is why we went with this plan. Those two I’m sure will drag us all around the city tomorrow to find the perfect dress for Kim. So perhaps we will have to either sneak away for a drink at some point or just enjoy a day of our girls playing dress up.” “That I can handle.” I looked across the room at our girls. They were back on their iPads now. Champagne in one hand and a fork full of cake in the other. “Now that we’ve found some ideas on what we should be looking at for me let’s look at something for you. I mean not that what you wear is as important as what I wear or anything,” Kim said. Annie nearly choked on her bite of cake laughing. She stood up from the couch and grabbed the dress quickly going into the bathroom to change. “Does she not want to wear white?” Kim asked me. “I think she thinks she’s supposed to wear white. When we first got engaged and she lived in that Pinterest app on the road, most of the dresses she looked at had color and weren’t white. Either something very edgy and black or sort of a pinkish color. But for some reason when it finally came time to plan something she thought she should just wear something she already owned that was white. It baffles me. It’s not who she is. I’m still shocked she actually wore it to an awards show. Don’t get me wrong, she looks stunning in the dress, but it’s just not her.” “She’s never one to do something because it’s conventional,” Nate said. “Doesn’t seem much like my girl Belle to do that.” “Not at all,” I replied. “Well, maybe the three of us can tag team her tonight and tomorrow and get her to wear something that is more fitting of her personality,” Kim said. “I mean admittedly, I’m traditional. Wedding dresses are supposed to be white. But just because I think it should be white doesn’t mean that’s the way it always has to be. She should embrace her own personality. And if you, as her groom, think she should be in something that exemplifies who she is, then she should listen to you. The only opinion that matters tomorrow other than hers is yours.” The door opened and she walked out in the dress. It was gorgeous on her despite my feelings on it being her wedding dress. It was pretty short and had sleeves that went just beyond her elbows. It was a lot of lace and very form fitting. Not something I would’ve imagined her wearing for our wedding at any point in our relationship. “You look really pretty…but no,” Kim said. I smiled. She would normally have said yes to this. The dress was something Kim had texted Annie about from her couch as she watched Red Carpet coverage of the award show that night. She had loved it and loved that Annie went so far from her normal style and wore white. “No?” Annie asked. “Nope. I mean, I love the dress. I’ve loved the dress since you text me from the fitting room and since you wore it to the AMAs but no. This just isn’t what YOU would normally pick for YOUR wedding. So let’s get something that screams ANNIE when someone sees it.” “Are we all sure about this?” she timidly asked. “Yes,” the rest of us in the room said. “Love, when we first got engaged you looked at things that were the polar opposite of traditional wedding attire. Embrace that.” “Are you really sure about that, babe?” she asked. She wanted so badly to make me happy with what she wore and it was ridiculous. “You could show up in ripped jeans and a t-shirt and I’d still marry you. Get something that is more you.” “Okay. Well, I guess we have more shopping to do tomorrow than I originally thought.” She shrugged her shoulders with a laugh. I stood and followed her into the bathroom knowing that the zipper on this dress was tricky. “You know that I’ve only suggested that you find a new dress because I love you and want you to be your authentic self when we commit to each other. If you want to wear this dress on Monday when we go to the courthouse that is fine.” “Thank you for pushing me to do what is going to make me happiest. I just felt like if we are being so untraditional that I should maybe embrace the white dress thing.” “Hell no. Embrace the be you thing you normally do.” I unzipped the dress and kissed her shoulder. “I am going to love you no matter the color of your dress or hair.” She laughed at my comment. She’d thought about coloring her hair brown again, something closer to her natural color and the color she had when we first started dating. She currently had platinum blonde hair. A month ago it was pink. Last fall it was a grayish lavender. She had been having fun and I loved that she still allowed herself to do that instead of falling in line with what a typical 37-year-old woman was supposed to do. She lived life how she wanted to live it and I fell for her more and more every day. “I had thought about having Louise change my hair color while we were home last week but we were in town for such a short period of time that I hesitated. And then thought, do I really want generations later of our family to go ‘Why did Aunt Annie have mermaid hair for her wedding?’. So I figured I’d just wait and do it this week. We’ve got a little time now that we are going to be home for a few months without any extended trips.” “You’re happy about that aren’t you?” “So happy. I mean while our house in Los Angeles is beautiful, amazing and everything I dreamed a house could be…London is home.” “I know it is. I’m excited to be back home for a while too.” I kissed her softly before leaving her to change out of her dress. I opened the door to see Kim finishing her glass of champagne. “We are going back to our room,” she announced. “A kid free night is rare for you two. Enjoy it. And by enjoy it I don’t just mean fall asleep with the TV on.” “I wasn’t planning on it mate. We will see you two in the morning to go shopping,” Nate said as they stood up to leave the room. “Sugar, we are alone now,” I called as the door shut. I heard the door of the bathroom open and turned to see her in a black nightgown I hadn’t noticed she took into the bathroom with her. “Still make my heart stop.” She blushed before coming up to me and standing on her tip toes trying to kiss me. My hands slid the silk of her nightgown before sneaking beneath it and grabbing her ass. She moaned quietly into my mouth. “You make mine race,” she whispered. I bit her lip slightly. I led her towards the bed and as my knees hit the mattress they buckled, me landing on my back with her on top of me. My hands were resting on her rib cage. She wasn’t lying. Her heart was racing. She sat up and began to unbutton my shirt before going for my belt. I struggled to get my boots off. I finally flipped her onto her back and stood so I could get rid of my boots and my pants. She crawled to her knees so she could finish removing my shirt. I crawled back onto the bed with her moving us towards the headboard. Our kisses were hungry. Our hands roamed each other’s body. We laid under the covers kissing for what felt like hours before I had enough of the foreplay. I hovered above her and looked into her eyes. The eyes I’d fallen in love with the first time I’d seen them. They changed colors based on her mood and her clothing. Surrounded by soft white sheets and her pale skin they were a light blue but shown so brightly. “I love you. Always have, always will,” I said softly before kissing her. Her breathing hitched as I entered her slowly. Her legs instinctively moving around mine and her ankles hooking together. Her hands moved from my hair to my shoulders to my chest. I felt her fingers tweak my nipples, it was her signal to me. She often played out on me what she wanted for herself. I broke the kiss and looked down at her smiling before kissing down her neck and taking her nipple between my lips and then teeth. She moaned. My pace was slow and steady. Her moan changed slightly, it was my signal. She was ready for me to speed up, I wasn’t ready to yet. “Slow down.” “But…but…I don’t want to.” “Well, I’m not ready to speed up.” “Please.” She was begging. “You feel so good. I don’t want it to end.” I thrust harder into her and held my hips against hers. Her breathing became ragged. “You're enjoying torturing me,” she said as I pulled back nearly removing myself from her before slamming into her again. “You like when I torture you.” Her muscles tightened around me. “I…I do like it when you torture me.” Normally when I behaved liked like this she could typically reach orgasm more than once. I watched her eyes roll back into her head and saw her chest rising and falling quickly. And then she hit it, her first orgasm. As her breathing slowed and she finally opened her eyes I started to speed up my movements. She glared at me. She was hoping I’d allow her to catch her breath a little before sending her into the spiral of her second orgasm, instead, I was eager to see her come apart in front of me again. “I…I…I…hate you when you do this.” “No, you don’t.” I bent down and captured her lips with mine. I inched back and opened my eyes. She was staring in them. “I love you,” she breathed. “I love you,” I replied before kissing her again. She bit my lip as I moved faster again until we both started to fall back down from our high. I laid my head on her chest listening to her heartbeat and breathing. She ran her fingers through my hair for a few minutes, nearly lulling me to sleep until she nudged me off of her and went into the bathroom. She reappeared a few moments later with her hair in a messy bun and her makeup off. She crawled under the covers next to me and laid her head on my chest. “I’m really happy, Harry,” she said quietly. “I am too. I’m glad we are finally ready to do this.” “Me too,” she responded. “Me too.” “Nate did point out that we can’t legally get married here.” “I knew we couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes.” “I told him that you really had your heart set on Paris so we were going to do it here so that our photos and our memories are here.” “I still would’ve moved here for a few months so we could’ve done it legally.” “I know, but I’m glad we don’t have to do that. If we are going to be back on this side of the planet we may as well live in our house in London.” “I know.” She sighed. “It doesn't matter where it happens really, though I am excited that we are here for it.” “As am I,” I replied. “And then on Monday, you can put on that little white dress that you think you need to wear and we can go to the courthouse and then submit the paperwork to change your passport.” “Yes, changing my passport. Annie Styles. It doesn’t sound too terrible.” “It sounds like music to me.” She laughed at me and moved to kiss me. “Let’s get some sleep.” “Okay. I love you.” “And I love you.” One more kiss and she put her head on my chest again and I listened to her breathing change as she drifted off to sleep.

Okay...so I am blown away at how the first chapter back into this has sparked interest in the story again. I wanted to give an end to this story that these characters deserved. The chapters have been coming to me easier than anything I've been writing in the last few years and it almost makes me sad that an end is coming. I'd originally intended the end to be three chapters and then got REALLY long winded with this chapter and realized it needed to be split in two. So there will be another Harry chapter coming because I'd mapped it out to be in his point of view. I don't think anyone will mind a little extra Harry. It's been fun falling back into this story.

In regards to the chapter title and song title, I felt it was appropriate to finally use some 1D songs and each of these last chapters will have a song from Made in the AM.

So let me know what you think. I'm anxious to know what everyone's reaction is to where this story is ending. Do you have any predictions for what will happen? Any thoughts? And would you be interested in a one-shot series that told the story of the 7 years that were advanced in this story? I had a one-shot series started that I intended to use to tell the tidbits of the characters lives before the first chapter of London Calling that I have a few pieces in and a lot of ideas. It could be expanded to cover the missing pieces of life before the snowy weekend and between the two trips to Paris. Let me know if you'd be interested in me expanding Always In My Head - A London Calling Series to include more stories of these characters. Always In My Head was never intended to only be from Harry and Annie's perspectives, so it could have Kim, Nate, Lyla, Niall, or anyone else from their lives. Just let me know what you think as I am on the fence of closing this up completely and moving on to something else.

As always find me on Twitter, Kik (raybandsandcoffee - that typo will forever bother me) or message me here. You can also find it one Harry Styles Fanfiction. Hell, I'll even accept emails if you prefer, you can email me at raybansandcoffee@yahoo.com (or find me on Yahoo Messenger).

[genespirations]

After a fantastic day in the Franconia Notch State Park in New Hampshire, we headed for Bangor, Maine. We did not know we would be escorted by the participants in The Great Race, an annual event involving street legal vintage automobiles. At first, I was like, “Man! Look at that Model T.” Then, it was, “Wow, that is a cool old pickup. I wonder what model it is?” In our spanking new Kia rental, we were passing these wacky racers like they were in quicksand. All the way to Bangor and the next morning along the road to Bar Harbor we passed these vintage vehicles. An old police car here. A fire truck there. Oh. My. God! Look at that ’57 Chevy! And a T-Bird. The five-hour drive along twisting state highways and county roads was made all the better by the company we kept.

  The House that Horror Built

King’s Manor

Bangor doesn’t have much going on and we were in a hurry to join the crowd in Bar Harbor (Bah Hahbuh to locals), so we determined to do just one thing before we left Bangor the next morning: take a photo of Stephen King’s house for our daughter Ashley, who loves scary books and flicks.

If I were to pick the house for the masterful, demented storyteller to live in, I would pick the one he chose for himself. It is beautiful, stately, on a quiet street in an older district…just the kind of place you could imagine disturbing scenes. It even has bats on the wrought iron gates.

Kids, do not trick-or-treat this house!

Bah Hahbuh, Maine

It was raining the morning we rolled into Bar Harbor. Despite a timely stop at an actual brick-and-mortar L.L. Bean store (it is a Maine-based company), where we made off like bandits with a few choice items, this was the first day of the trip where neither of was “feeling it.” Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was Maybelline.

Our Prospects and spirits improved as the rain lightened and we found our hotel – the Holiday Inn Resort, a waterfront property with a lobster shack right on the bay. Lobster for lunch proved the perfect way to get the day back on track. Then, it was off to walk the tourist-trap streets of Bar Harbor, do a little shopping, a little window-shopping, and a little bay-watching. A Norwegian Cruise Line ship had set anchor in the bay, which at least partially explained the crowded downtown streets. Rowing teams were in full sprint, honing their craft. Lovers, dog-lovers, and families lounged on the grassy knoll.

There was a peace amidst the hustle and the bustle.

  The Shaker Village People

It was raining when we arrived at Bar Harbor and raining when we left. We agreed that it was a lovely little seaside hamlet we were glad to have visited and convinced we would not need to revisit. Maybe we are spoiled by all those years in − and trips back to – California, we concluded.

Marked on our map of things to see was America’s last remaining active Shaker village. Here’s Encyclopedia Brittanica enlightens us on this small, strange group of believers:

Shaker, member of the United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing, a celibate millenarian group that established communal settlements in the United States in the 18th century. Based on the revelations of Ann Lee and her vision of the heavenly kingdom to come, Shaker teaching emphasized simplicity, celibacy, and work. Shaker communities flourished in the mid-19th century and contributed a distinctive style of architecture, furniture, and handicraft to American culture. The communities declined in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

The Shakers derived originally from a small branch of English Quakers founded by Jane and James Wardley in 1747. They may have adopted the French Camisards’ ritual practices of shaking, shouting, dancing, whirling, and singing in tongues. The Shaker doctrine, as it came to be known in the United States, was formulated by Ann Lee, a textile worker in Manchester. “Mother Ann,” as she was known to her followers, had a troubled marriage and had suffered difficulties while pregnant (she had four children, all of whom died young), and in 1758 she converted to the “Shaking Quakers.” After enduring persecution and imprisonment for participation in noisy worship services, she had a series of revelations, after which she regarded herself—and was so regarded by her followers—as the female aspect of God’s dual nature (e.g., male and female) and the second Incarnation of Christ. She developed an elaborate theology and established celibacy as the cardinal principle of the community.

In 1774 Mother Ann came to America with eight disciples, having been charged by a new revelation to establish the millennial church in the New World. Settling in 1776 at Niskeyuna (now Watervliet), New York, the small group benefited from an independent revival movement that was sweeping the district, and within five years it grew to several thousand members.

After Mother Ann’s death (1784), the Shaker church came under the leadership of Elder Joseph Meacham and Eldress Lucy Wright. Together they worked out the distinctive pattern of Shaker social organization, which consisted of celibate communities of men and women living together in dormitory-style houses and holding all things in common. The first Shaker community, established at New Lebanon, New York, in 1787, retained leadership of the movement as it spread through New England and westward into Kentucky, Ohio, and Indiana. By 1826, 18 Shaker villages had been set up in eight states.

They were, essentially, Quakers getting their groove on. They were Quakers with rhythm. They were Holy Ghost-filled movers and shakers. They were craftsmen par excellence and model farmers. They were…celibate.

Celibacy didn’t help the Shakers’ long-term viability. Only a handful remain.

The quiet Shaker village (there was no worship service going on) with only a handful of visitors wandering the premises was a nice, quiet respite after the crowded streets of Bar Harbor. But we must press on. Our time abroad is growing short. (I know that for most Americans “abroad” means overseas, but we are Texans and NORTH of the Red River.)

A Whoopie Pie, A Lost Purse, and a Sentimental Old Preacher

Portland, Maine’s capital city, sits on a peninsula and is a busy American eastern seaboard port of 70,000 (but a half-million in the region), with a cool, historic vibe. We arrived there in the late afternoon and would only spend a few hours before moving on. We visited the bustling fishing wharf, laughed at the name of the Time & Temperature Building, scoured the historic Old Port district, and ate a Whoopie Pie and a homemade pop tart at the gluten-free (you couldn’t prove it by me) Bam Bam Bakery.

It was late afternoon. We were hurrying to get to the Head Light, the first lighthouse commissioned by President George Washington. Lighthouses were the major reason we were in Maine. Lighthouses and lobster. The drive to the lighthouse was an unexpected delight as we drove through a fine neighborhood of older homes with landscapes bursting with bright, beautiful flowers. We slowed our roll to take it all in and decide which house we would buy if we could.

We arrived at the Head Lighthouse after 6. Donya didn’t want to carry her purse around the park. She asked me to pop the trunk so she could put it there.

Then I heard the exclamation, “Gene! My purse!”

There was horror on her face.

“What?”

“I left it at the bakery.”

I Googled the bakery. They closed at 5 PM. I called anyhow. An old-fashioned answering machine picked up. I left a desperate message, sure her purse with its treasure of money, credit cards, and personal ID was long gone. Halfway through the desperate message I was leaving, maybe the sweetest voice I ever heard said, “Hello! I’m here.”

The manager on duty was our saving grace, our angel of mercy. She found the purse sitting on the table where we left it. She was supposed to be leaving for the day but said she would stick around until we got back.

“Twenty minutes! I will be there in 20 minutes. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

We recovered the purse, found nothing amiss, and returned to the lighthouse, where we were treated to the kind of twilight beauty you just don’t see in Arlington, Texas.

The waves crashing on the rocks, the sea breeze in our face, and the lighthouse on the hill strummed the chords of my soul. Even as I write this post, I am singing,

“There’s a lighthouse on a hillside that overlooks life’s sea. When I’m lost, it sends out a light that I might see. And the light that shines in darkness now will safely lead us o’er. If it wasn’t for the lighthouse, my ship would sail no more. And I thank God for the Lighthouse. I owe my life to Him. Jesus is the Lighthouse and from the rocks of sin He has shown the light around me that I might truly see. If it wasn’t for the Lighthouse, where would this ship be?”

Here’s one of those moments that sticks a lump in your throat and places puddles in your eyes…one of those moments you want to trap in a bottle and put on a shelf, so you can take it down and relive it whenever you like.

Old Enough to Vote – for Kennebunk

Our third (and last) night in Maine would be spent in Kennebunk. Unlike the buzzing streets of Bar Harbor, we found this a quiet hamlet, a welcome respite, and a favorite stop on our journey. The next morning, we were off to Kennebunkport, the seaside beauty that we agreed we much preferred to Bar Harbor. (I know that is not politically correct. What did you expect after all these years?)

Down the winding road from Kennebunkport, we found St. Ann’s by the Sea. I am neither Episcopalian nor an old school liturgical worshiper, but I thought if a person couldn’t see God in this place, then where? Here a man does his best to impress God with amazing architecture, stunning beauty, and an atmosphere that says, “Be still…and listen.” You think that maybe you will never see anything more beautiful or reverent. Then, you step outside and see what God Himself has done.

I could no more imagine a world as beautiful, as magnificent, as orderly, as functional as without its Creator than I could imagine St. Ann’s without the architect that designed her and the builder that put her together.

Lost in the ’80s

St. Ann’s is the church home of the Bush family. Many of its finer features have been maintained or restored by gifts from the family of presidents 41 and 43. Down the road, you find the Bush family’s Kennebunkport “compound.” The main house, which is massive and beautiful, sits right at the peak of a little peninsula, hard against the sea. A string of smaller homes (each bigger than my own) is strung along the private road to the big house. Near the property, there is a pullout on the road. It provides the best view, the opportunity for photos. There, the citizens of Kennebunkport have placed an anchor with a plaque to honor their friend, George H. W. Bush.

Nostalgia settled in my bones.

I was nineteen again, freshly married, and excited to cast my very first vote. I had found a new hero. His vision of America was that of “a shining city on a hill.” He saw America’s founders the way I did, as men of vision and brilliance. He believed in individual freedom and responsibility and opposed Communism with every fiber of his being. His running mate was Bush the elder. I remembered my champion, Ronald Reagan. I thought about that anchor. Another song filled my soul and spilled through my lips…

The anchor holds though the ship’s been battered. The anchor holds though the sails are torn. I have fallen on my knees as I faced the raging seas, but the anchor holds in spite of the storm.

When we were done, before we left for Cape Neddick and the Nubble Lighthouse, I drove back into Kennebunkport and bought a Reagan-Bush ’84 t-shirt. I was only a little annoyed they didn’t have the Reagan-Bush ’80 version.

Go with the Flo

If you are ever driving along Highway 1 in Maine, south of Kennebunkport and north of Cape Neddick, and you see this little red shack on the east side of the road, where the small parking area is packed with cars and people are likely lined up outside the door, stop and get you a couple of steamed hot dogs made Flo’s way. Thank me later.

Hot dog-fueled and ready for one last peek at Maine’s coastal wonder, we stopped at the Nubble Lighthouse. I read somewhere that this is the most photographed lighthouse in the world. I read it on the Internet, so I know it is true.

One last time, we watched the waves crash on massive rocks. One last time, we stood in silent wonder, studying the lighthouse. (This one is on a little island maybe 100′ from the shore.) One last time…

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Next up, The Final Chapter. Stay tuned.

  PONDERING WHILE WANDERING – SUMMER VACATION 2018 | PART FIVE: THE MAINE THING IS LOBSTER AND LIGHTHOUSES After a fantastic day in the Franconia Notch State Park in New Hampshire, we headed for Bangor, Maine.

[fraldscenix-blog]

Abundance of Firsts

As I sit down to compose this first piece, I feel weirdly confident, happy to learn that I have specialized in controlling my life, at least during the previous month. As September starts, I also feel empowered, thankful that I’ve waited for August to start, as there are many things August excite me but it has just ended. Perhaps, my ability to juggle work, business and all things i love gives me this strange, weird emotional state. And proud that I have maximized its four weekends. Buwan ng Wika 2017, salamat at paalam.

Yesterday, August 31. I have responded to an invitation to the 11th International Silent Film Festival at Shang Cineplex. This is my 3rd year to attend this annual free admission event but this is the first time I’ve joined the organizers in the opening night cocktails. I watched its opening film, El Golfo (1918) which was accompanied by the Talahib, a Filipino rock band. This event will close on September 3. A friend asked me, “Rod, ano ba yang silent film festival na yan, bakit silent film?” Sabi ko, “Silent film kasi yung nasa screen, parang naka-mute mode, walang sound, as in silent… pero ang twist may live performance from a band to provide musical score sa film.” Sagot niya, ang cool pala, may film na, may band pa.“ Sabi ko, kaya nga simula nung malaman ko yan at libre, basta may chance ako, pumupunta talaga ako.” Before this at around 12 noon, my new passport was delivered.

August 30. Matthew Jacob’s 7th Birthday dinner. He has received a new chess set, which he and his dad, who took a leave from work, played for the first time. I asked him what happened during their Buwan ng Wika quiz bee. He said, he scored 21 out of 25 which earned him a certificate of award. At work, the SRU activity went well. Ikinatuwa siya ng madla kasi 5 days na naging 1 day activity. Ang huhusay nila. Finishing touches ko na lang pala ang kulang. Hahaha.

August 29. Emetchwhy’s nth birthday and National Heroes day. At home, i did a general cleaning. I was somewhat inspired by FB posts about de-cluttering. It was raining hard outside as if the heavens cry as I throw some old items away.

August 28. HA! Just so I thought it was going to be a rest day. I missed out the notice that I will be the escalation for an Oracle Upgrade activity. Went onsite to assist Ralph, who spoiled me with burger steak.  The activity went well. Just that it triggered my migraine.  

August 27. Tonight, Maria, Somewhere, 3 of the songs I’ve heard in non-pretentious ways with cultured attitude in Theater at Solaire as I, Teri and Ate Jules witness the Manila-run of West Side Story. We headed to MoA after the show for dinner and dessert. “Finally, insan!” quips Ate Jules. First time kasi naming manood nang sabay. We planned it since Les Mis and Wicked runs but our schedules didn’t  permit.

August 26. Yay! This marks my first time to join an AHP (Advocate for Heritage Preservation) tour. I was convinced by my former HS teacher, Fer, to try it. We had contact since Cinemalaya days. I didn’t have plans for the weekend but to work, with his convincing skills, I’ve skipped the earning opportunities for an educational, heritage tour. I have enough to tell about the tour. The experience was like having a reunion of my soul to the time of the past. The San Sebastian Cathedral was our first stop. The priest welcomed the group with a 15-minute talk about the church, the origin of Lipa City and how it got its name. Part of our itineraries were: Museo de Lipa, Casa de Segunda, Aranda Ancestral House, The-Luz-Librea-Bautista Ancestral House, Carmelite Monastery, Our Lady of Mediatrix, Most Holy Rosary Parish Church in Padre Garcia and St. James the Greater Parish in Ibaan. The sunset was so beautiful i had my camera and captured it. They say that when it is your first time to visit a church, you are entitled to make a wish. I thank the Lord that i have found a family in AHP, instead. I will have a separate post about this tour. For now, here are some of my selfies during the said tour.

August 25. I was happy to note that finally, after several attempts, I’ve captured Arcana. Hahaha. Wala, sa everwing yan. Haha

August 22-24. CM week. Ang sipag-sipag ko kayang magsulat ng script sa CAB.

August 19- 21 - Long weekend! How about a mini movie marathon to support Pista ng Pelikulang Pilipino? Sige na nga. I strike out from the list ang Hamog (kasi napanood ko na yun sa CinemaOne Originals 2015, kasabay kong pinanood ang Baka Siguro Yata, Manang Biring, Miss Bulalacao at Bukod Kang Pinagpala at yung kay Kaye Abad, di ko maalala ang title basta comeback something, ang husay nya dun eh. haha). Di rin kasama ang 1st Tofarm Film Festival entries na Paglipay at Pauwi Na dahil napanood ko na yun kasabay ang Free Range at Pitong Kabang Palay. Di ko na rin pinanood ang Birdshot kasi napanood ko na iyon as the Cinemalaya 2017 opening film. Di ko na rin pinanood ang Patay na si Hesus kasi napanood ko naman ito last year sa QCinema International Film Fest kasabayan nito yung Focus on Mike De Leon (haaaays, IDOL) at Ang Alamat ni Meng Patalo. Ang sipag kong dumalo sa mga film fest para makalimutan si E. hahaha

Natira for me to watch were: Manananggal sa Unit 23B (sa QCinema din ito last year kaso di ko napanood), Star na si Van Damme Stallone (last year din ito sa CineFilipino Film Fest), at  yung mga bago: Bar Boys, 100 Tula Para Kay Stella, Triptiko, Salvage, at Awol. Kaso ang napanood ko lang out of 7 ay dalawa, kasi naman ang DM week ko was until 20. huhuhu

A post shared by Rodel Bugayong (@fraldscenix) on Aug 22, 2017 at 12:40am PDT

August 14- 19. DM Week. Tiring but somehow fulfilling. What fulfilling? Pati ba naman sarili ko, lolokohin ko? Nakakapagod lang siguro as my body adjusts from my former body clock. Sakit sa katawan, honesto! Honesto, promise!

August 17 - Dinner with Dan and Janni in Crazy Katsu and The Baker’s Table Maginhawa bago magtrabaho. Ang saya nila kasama, namiss ko silaaaaaa.

August 13. Wow, IT Specialist by day (worked xhours for the BW Re-initialization) and Cinephile by night (Awards Night of Cinemalaya 2017). First time kong umattend ng Awards Night nang hindi nagbabayad. Haha.  Yes, our film, Ang Guro Kong di Marunong Magbasa did not win an award, pinilahan at umani naman ito ng magagandang feedback at appreciation from the movie-goers. 4 films kaming walang naiuwing award — na-zero ang pelikula nina Sharon Cuneta, Alfred Vargas, Angel Aquino at Jake Cuenca. Ooops, don’t get me wrong, please.  

August 11 -12 - I didn’t have the chance to speak out. DM for two morning shifts coupled with an OS Patching activity on the 12th? Wow. The reason: to give others the chance to rest. Just wow. Her management skills is impeccable. And my skills include sarcasm. Ang bait-bait ko kayaaaaaaa.

August 10 - We sit down in one of the offices in House of Representative, QC to discuss the next steps for the film. In attendance was Alfred, Direk Perry, our line producer, marketing team and other fellow producers.

August 9 - A heartfelt farewell to Yaggy as she takes on a different path away from IT, and to JE who moves on outside the corners of dxc. Meanwhile, our manager celebrates her nth birthday! Naiyak talaga si Bes Jane.

August 6 - After finishing the Ariba Install activity i hurriedly booked an uber ride to the Cultural Center of the Philippines for the Ang Guro Kong di Marunong Magbasa Gala Night. Noon, hanggang panonood lang ako, ngayon, for the first time, umakyat ako ng stage, yes CCP stage. Feeling prestige. Feeling lang naman. hahaha. This was the first time, after almost a year, that I have seen my former HS teacher, Fer Braganza. Nagpapicture at ni-congratulate ako. He also wrote an inspiring review about the film. Salamat po, idol!  

August 5 - Ang Guro Kong di Marunong Magbasa premieres in Trinoma Cinema 1 and Glorietta 4 with Meet and Greet. I have invited several friends, but only true friends showed up. Ayoko na nga mag-imbita. Nakakatampo. huhu. Fortunately, Trinoma Cinema 1 was almost full. Thanks Janni, Mel and son, to my family and to all who have supported the movie on its first Cinemalaya screening!

August 4 - The 13th Cinemalaya opens with Birdshot as its opening film. Thanks Direk Perry and Miss Noreen for my festival pass. First time to have a free “guest” pass.  This was the first time to venture a food stall business in CCP, called “Juice Colored.” (I will share photos on all things Cinemalaya in a separate post.)

August 3 - I decided to see my barber to avail of haircut. This was after i grow my hair for 8 months. Goodbye long hair. :(

August 2 - Ben’s birthday! But i was busy with work and bangusan. Haha.

August 1 - Mama Lyd’s Interment and our travel back to Manila.

There, I have collected many firsts, had new experiences. Thanks August! Thank you, Lord!