#any day now handsome victorian chaps any day now

[assortedantics]

I really hope that the sickness which hath just now stricken me is of the “lasts about a night and has vanished by morning” variety else I think school will kill me tomorrow.

[ladyfloriographist]

Uncommonly Pretty

Here is the first part of an Enola Holmes AU story called Uncommonly Pretty where Sherlock Holmes (played by Henry Cavill) and Dr John Watson (played by Tom Hiddleston) develop an infatuation with the Reader (you!) and naughty sexy smut ensues. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this little opening gambit!

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Warnings: Victorian-era sexism, afternoon tea interrupted

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The finely decorated knocker seemed to be nickel-plated cast iron. You stopped before the large, black, six-panelled wooden door, topped with an arched stained-glass transom, and gazed at the intricacies that some talented smith had managed to work into the metal.

The details were so profoundly handmade that you hesitated to hook a finger into it and tap it against the small iron knob beneath to announce your arrival.

However, Mrs Hudson was expecting you for tea and biscuits, and it would not do to follow up the first favourable impression you’d left on your new neighbour with a poorer second one.

Clutching a modest bundle of tea cake in one hand, you tapped the door knocker with your other, and took the polite, customary step backwards from the threshold.

Before your low-heeled, laced-up boot even touched the concrete step, the door was flung open from the inside, and Mrs Hudson greeted you merrily.

“How do you do, Miss?” she smiled over your last name, and her round face and kind eyes shone with the glow of receiving a newly formed acquaintance as a guest for the first time.

You returned her infectious smile. “How do you do, Missus Hudson?”

“Come in, poppet. Come in,” she said, hurrying you inside with eager, welcoming gestures. “I’ve warmed the pot. Here, let me take this.” She took the tea cake from your hand and thanked you graciously for bringing it.

“Thank you, Missus Hudson,” you said as you stepped inside 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson bid you make yourself comfortable while she steeped the tea; and what a fine hat that is, poppet; and did you trim it yourself; and do you take sugar, ducky.

By the time you sat opposite Mrs Hudson at her respectably quaint tea table, the woman had asked you ten or more questions and given you scarcely enough time to answer all but two of them.

“A seamstress, ma’am,” you interjected, and Mrs Hudson smiled warmly and took a sip of tea from her dainty porcelain teacup. “Millinery is a past-time but one I would gladly devote my working hours to were I able. The terms of my employment presently call for dressmaking.”

“Gifts all worth cultivating, ducky,” Mrs Hudson nodded sagely. “Two skills will serve you better than one in this town.”

You smiled at Mrs Hudson’s wisdom, and sipped your tea while you thought better of mentioning your less ladylike aspirations. Reading was one thing, but writing, researching, publishing—good Heavens, for a woman, they were all something else.

“Thank you, Missus Hudson,” you started to say, but before you could finish a loud crash sounded from upstairs.

Mrs Hudson jumped. “By George!” she spluttered, flustered as she dabbed at the tea that had spilled out of her small cup in her startlement. “Those. Oh, those boys!”

You looked to the ceiling with trepidation, and Mrs Hudson noted the alarm on your face.

She tapped you a few times in quick succession, firmly but reassuringly on the hand. “Not to bother with it, ducky. Don’t fret yourself. Those two’re always—”

A door slammed shut, and two sets of heavy footsteps bounded down the stairs that led up to the second storey apartment. Two muffled male voices huffed laughs and exchanged excited exclamations.

Mrs Hudson stormed to the door of her sitting room, which opened onto the entryway foyer, and wrenched it open roughly. “Sherlock! John!” Her voice rose as she tried to gain the gents’ attention. “What is the meaning of this? I have company!”

You snuck a look into the foyer you had earlier entered by. Two taller men towered over the shorter, heavier set, lovely Mrs Hudson.

“An experiment, Missus Hudson,” said the broader one who had a shock of dark curls, as he pulled on his coat.

“Oh it always is, Sherlock!” came Mrs Hudson’s exasperated reply.

“Ehm. Sherlock…” murmured the leaner one with shorter, gingerish-blond hair and a light smattering of stubble. His gaze was fixed on something out of your line of sight. The coat rack, perhaps.

The one called Sherlock followed his friend’s gaze. “Missus Hudson?” the brunet enquired of his landlady, one dark brow quirked and the makings of a smile teasing his features as he eyed her.

The blond turned to Mrs Hudson also, with glimmering suspicion in his eyes. “What company have we so rudely disturbed, kind lady?”

You swallowed, and sat up straighter in your chair. It would not be totally improper for Mrs Hudson to introduce you to her… acquaintances? Lodgers? The three seemed more familiar, on friendlier terms than that—and you fidgeted needlessly with the collar and tie of your blouse to right it and ensure you were presentable, for any moment now—

Mrs Hudson turned to you with an apologetic smile. “You don’t mind, do you, poppet?”

“Not at all, ma’am,” you heard yourself say—and pleasantly, too. Not missing a beat.

She gave you a quick smile, crinkling her nose, then turned back to the two tall gentlemen. With an air of feigned irritation, she said, “Well come on then!” and gestured them into her sitting room with a wave of her hand.

The men followed behind her, walking with a slow, leisurely gait that bordered on the predatory, especially in contrast to Mrs Hudson’s shorter, quicker strides as she hurried to seat herself opposite you. Combined, it lent the fellows a sense of comfortable ease to be in Mrs Hudson’s apartment, and stopping before the tea table, the faintest of smiles graced their handsome features as the pair gazed at you.

Such striking blue eyes so consumed your attention that you almost didn’t register Mrs Hudson speaking.

She had just finished introducing you, and went on to say, “this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for Scotland Yard, if you please—” the brunet man blinked slowly and smiled warmly, “—and this is Doctor John Watson, who operates a medical practice in Kensington, don’t mind if I do—” the blond subtly tilted his head to the side and smiled kindly, “both of whom reside in the upstairs apartment.”

Both of them? Upstairs? “How do you do?” you greeted them, and followed it quickly by saying, “a pleasure, gentlemen. We are neighbours.”

“How do you do?” replied Dr Watson.

“You have taken the lodging at 221A, Miss?”

His voice rolled over your last name with a deep rumble. “I have. The upstairs apartment, also,” you said, and perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the two gentlemen seemed to share a swift sidelong glance at each other before regarding you once more. Outwardly ignoring it, you said, “I arrived not three days past, and had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the kind Missus Hudson on my first day in London.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock, and the intensity of his now scrutinous gaze started to unnerve you.

“Missus Hudson is a dear friend, for whom we hold much affection,” said Dr Watson with what appeared to be genuine fondness and good feeling. Grinning, he slung a jovial wink at Mrs Hudson, who blushed and playfully dismissed him with a flick of her hand.

“You are come to the city alone?” said Sherlock, breaking through the frivolity.

“Sherlock!” exclaimed Mrs Hudson—but he continued to stare directly at you, and with a creased brow and pursed lip.

What were the chances, you consider inwardly, that so wild an assumption just happened to be correct in this instance. “Astute, Mister Holmes!” Your interlaced fingers flexed against each other in your lap. “A clever guess.”

“It wasn’t a guess,” he said, so firmly it was almost stern.

“We’d best be on our way, old boy,” John said quickly with a light tone, and he glanced between yourself and Sherlock as he pulled his gloves from his coat pocket.

“Right you are, Watson,” said Sherlock, finally tearing his attention away from you. “A fine spread, Missus Hudson,” he complimented his landlady with a smile, “apologies to have caused a disruption to your afternoon tea.”

“No bother,” sighed Mrs Hudson. “When can I expect you home, you two?”

Dr Watson blinked and opened his mouth, hesitantly, to speak, and Sherlock promptly turned from her without answering.

“Welcome to London, Miss,” Sherlock said to you with a genial nod and twinkling eyes. All trace of his prior severity had vanished.

“Most pleased to make your acquaintance,” smiled Dr Watson with bright white teeth. His eyes and mouth crinkled with the depth of his pleased, playful expression.

The pair of them made you return serve with a broad grin of your own, which you shared between them. “Quite. Thank you indeed, gentlemen.”

The pair parted your company, and as the door closed Mrs Hudson sighed and pulled a napkin over her lap. She shook her head, muttering about the impropriety of two such fine, full grown men as that, as she reached for the jam.

Outside and down the steps, Sherlock adjusted his tie and Watson checked his pocket watch, the two taking pains not to meet each other’s eyes.

After a few moments of pointless fidgeting, John cleared his throat. The case first, and this new acquaintance second. He glanced down Baker Street. “Shall we go on, old chap?”

“She is uncommonly pretty,” Sherlock rushed to say at the first opening of conversation.

“Exceedingly so,” Dr Watson said vehemently, relieved, all pretence dropped. He turned quickly on his heel to face Sherlock as if to emphasise his agreement with eye contact.

“Striking, John.”

“What are we to do, Sherlock?—"

Sherlock’s broad chest rose in a sigh.

“—The woman is our neighbour!” He quietened himself down, tossing a quick glance at the sitting room window of 221B. “She lives right next door,” he hissed. “We will share a wall, Sherlock—we have been for three days!”

“I know that, John.”

“And?”

“And…” Sherlock trailed off and squinted, looking in the same direction Dr Watson had earlier perused. Then, briefly glancing at his friend and clapping him on the upper arm, Sherlock said, “it means we shall see more of her all the easier,” and set off, strolling past John and down the street.

[alstanfordart]

No One Really Dies In Derry

From The Bradley Gang chapter of Tales From Neibolt

The lightning pulses across the gray October sky as Arthur, decked out in his spectacles he seldom wore, leans under the hood of the broken down LaSalle. George and Al stand beside him, restless eyes switching between the car's innards and the moonless cloudy night sky, with the storm just beginning to gather momentum. George has a small flashlight raised just above Arthur's head, highlighting the smoking engine.

George's wife Kitty remains inside the vehicle, fingering her compact mirror, trying in vain to powder her nose in the less than adequate lighting.

Parked just behind the LaSalle was a Chevrolet, with Joe's arm hanging out the driver window, cigar smoke clouding from his thin lips, elbow rested along the door. His brother Cal sat in the passenger seat, leaning on his hand, looking thoroughly bored with the situation. In the backseat are Marie and Patrick, with Marie leaning against his thick brown coat.

"Think we can get it going again?" George queries as he nervously casts his gaze around them, his timorous visage briefly made visible in the crack of light that splits across the sky. Marie nuzzles closer to Patrick, tucking her head down as thunder rolls above them. Patrick pulls her closer, stroking her brown curls.

"The engine's blown..." Al offers, ducking down to inspect closer.

"Aye. Seen better days, I'm sure," Arthur slams the hood down and wipes his hands with a stained white handkerchief from his pants pocket. "This ain't goin' nowhere, lads."

"Shit," George straightens as he switches off the flashlight. "What we gonna do?"

"Dunno." comes Al's simple reply.

They were safe, far away from the Lafayette city limits. After dumping the body of the banker they'd kidnapped in a swamp after collecting the thirty thousand in ransom money, they were on Route 2 in direction to a town called Derry after a brief stop in Augusta. Arthur, however, had his sights set on Bangor. When the LaSalle broke down just short of them reaching the Derry welcome sign along the shadows of the trees on the outskirts of the town.

A hush falls over the group as Al saunters out onto the middle of the road, sniffling and kicking a pebble aside. That's when he sees, in the far off distance, a pair of headlights appearing almost out of nowhere. He rushes to the driver's side of the LaSalle and reaches for his Colt .38 revolver-small and discreet, so as to be presented at the first sign of trouble.

He stands and waits as George tosses the flashlight in through the back window of the LaSalle and stands alongside Al, arms folded, not nearly as alert as his big brother.

Inside the Chevrolet, Patrick rests his hand on his Luger laying on the seat beside Marie that he'd stolen off the body of a Lafayette officer.

Meanwhile, Joe and Cal also ready their weapons, with Joe craning his neck out the window to view the car drawing closer.

Arthur casually strolls to the passenger side, eyeing his own much larger Remington 22. Al preferred a sneak up and get them approach. Arthur preferred things more direct. If whoever this was coming up the road was going to give them trouble, they would be dealt with accordingly before they even knew what hit them.

The car, a Ford Roadster, quietly comes closer, eerily serene, the headlights taking on a more orange tint as it draws near. It comes to a stop alongside the Chevrolet, the silhouette of a driver, a man with hat, is barely visible.

As he shuts the engine off, he sits a moment, George tightens his grip on his revolver as Arthur keeps watch on his Remington. Then the man leans over to the passenger side, rolling down the window.

"You needing some help there?" a gravelly voice drifts out of the Ford, a hint of a lisp making the 's' sound more like 'shum.' Al snatches up the flashlight and strolls over, shining it in the man's face and is a little taken aback by what he sees.

Scars. Thin pale scars, ever so faint, threading up the man's creamy cheeks, beginning at the corners of his mouth and ending just under the rim of his Homburg hat.

"You needing some help?" the scarred man repeats. "I've fixed a car or two here and there. I could take a look-see."

"Yeah, yeah...sure." Al replies, studying the man's features, with his square jaw and intense round eyes.

This guy looks like he knows where some bodies are buried.

Al tenses as the driver side door pops open and the man emerges, revealing an incredibly tall frame in a sleek gray suit. Certainly taller than all of the men in their group.

In fact, he was a good foot taller than Al.

No matter. If this fellow pulled any funny business, they outnumbered him.

"Here," the man saunters over to the LaSalle, popping open the hood. He reaches his long arms in and begins tampering with the wires. Not long after there's a loud 'pop' sound and the engine roars back to life, taking a few minutes to struggle before running smoothly. Arthur gives a pleased nod of his head.

"Thanks mate!" He gives the man an enthusiastic pat on the back as Al looks relieved, exchanging glances with George.

"What's your name , my good sir?" George inquires.

"Robert. Robert Gray. Although folks 'round here call me Bob."

The man shuts the hood and returns to his car, before he removes his hat to give his scalp a quick scratch, revealing a shock of auburn.

"You folks needing a place to stay for the night? Something tells me you'd rather not be in a motel. Gotta place just a mile up the road. Nice and cozy," he gazes at Kitty and Marie. "The ladies can clean up. Sit by the fire, get warm. Maybe a hot meal."

Arthur looks at both George and Al, who in turn glance to Joe and Cal, with Patrick keeping his eyes on the strange man, sizing him up.

Something not right with that fella.

"I'm pretty knackered," Arthur whispers as he tilts closer to Al and George. "And if this chap thinks he's gonna pull something, we'll handle it. At any rate, we'd have a place to lay low. If he oversteps, we'll teach him a lesson."

"Looks like somebody already did." Al retorts before turning on his heel to face the man. "Alright. One night. We'll be outta your hair come morning."

"Great!" the man replies, grinning as he retreats back inside the Roadster. Patrick is watching the man from behind the foggy glass of the backseat window, brows knotting together as the man begins to drive ahead. Arthur, Al and George retreat back into the LaSalle and follow, with the Chevrolet right behind.

Patrick taps Joe on the shoulder. He grunts in response. "What's it now, Caudy?"

"That guy, he don't look right to me. Got a feelin' in my gut," Patrick says, keeping his dark eyes fixed ahead on the Roadster. "He's bad news, I can feel it."

"And if you're right, we'll put a bullet in his melon. No big deal. Guy seems kinda dopey to me anyhow," Joe says breezily as he chucks his cigar out the window. "Not really a threat. Doubt he's ever fired a gun in his life."

Patrick is not convinced. "You saw his face. He looks like a blind man tried to take a whack at him," he glances at Marie. "And I don't like how he was lookin' at her."

Joe chortles softly to himself. Doubt she'd mind it.

At this, point, both he and Cal had secret trysts with her behind Patrick's back. He suspected she'd also been fooling around with Arthur too. An assumption born out of her comment about his "sexy" Irish accent.

Funny, Patrick was suspicious of total strangers, but not the men he'd grown to call friends.

Maybe it's because he'd never had any before. His paranoia was off-putting but also what made him so kill crazy. Handsome to look at, but underneath was a volcano. Always ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

Not tonight. Joe would see to that.

"Don't go pulling any of that shit. We don't wanna be drawing attention to ourselves here. Not in this hick place. You know these small towns. Everyone knows everyone. Just keep quiet. We don't need a repeat of Toledo."

Patrick had gone ballistic on a gas attendant he'd thought muttered some smart-ass comment under his breath. They'd sped out of there after Patrick splattered the man's brains along the smooth concrete with a single clean bullet to the temple.

Patrick sits back, roughly pulling Marie to him as Joe glances at the street sign; 29 Neibolt.

The Roadster parks in front of a large Victorian house. With the LaSalle and Chevrolet lining up right behind.

"Whoa," Cal mumbles as he peers around his brother to glimpse the place. "Seems this fella might have some serious dough."

"Looks like a dump to me." Joe replies, shutting off the engine and swinging open the door. He was not a man who was easily impressed and he'd robbed much more grander mansions than this in Danville.

"Kinda gammy looking." Arthur mutters to himself as he slides out the LaSalle.

Patrick steps out, followed by Marie, who looks dazzled, her hazel eyes wide and her ruby red lips breaking out in a smile. It was the style of house that had always struck her fancy.

"This place is gorgeous. Just look at that architecture! It's a palace!" she exclaims as she rushes ahead, making her way to the front porch, past sunflowers sprouting from the grassy front yard. Robert reaches down and plucks one, handing it to Marie.

"Sunflowers symbolize healing and good luck." he elucidates as she tucks it behind her ear. Patrick stands glaring as Joe touches his shoulder.

"Don't. It's harmless." he growls.

"Thank you. That's really very sweet, sir." Marie touches the flower.

"Sweets to the sweet, I say." Robert replies.

Patrick shakes Joe's hand off before he stalks towards the porch as everyone begins to pile into the home. As elegant inside as out, with a lovely red Victorian chaise lounge, matching camelback sofa and parlor chairs, each one sitting across from each other in front of the fireplace. The mantel boldly read 'Good Cheer, Good Friends.'

George smiles and playfully swats Robert's arm. "We're good friends now, eh, Bob?"

And friends help each other.

Too bad we don't have the means to clean this place out. The furniture would make a buck or two.

Robert merely smirks. A slow, deliberate smile as he looks at George. "Sure thing there. Why don't you all have a seat. I'll be right back."

"That's what my ex-wife said." Arthur quips as he collapses on a parlor chair, sprawling his legs out. It takes him a moment to notice; there's a fire now crackling inside. He stares at it, puzzlement blinking across his mien.

Huh, when did he do that? It wasn't going when we arrived and he didn't go near it...

No matter. Just enjoy it.

Kitty approaches the mantel, running her long shiny nails along little figurines of clowns, each made of delicate painted porcelain, juggling, balancing and one holding a bundle of red balloons.

"These are beautiful figurines." she says, tucking a tendril of sandy blonde behind her ear, bringing her blue irises closer to examine the fine details.

"Take one. Just throw it in your purse. Might as well." George blurts out. Kitty whirls around.

"We're his guests. He was kind enough to let us in here-"

"Come now, lass. Let's not pretend this bloke is an average citizen. You saw his face." Arthur offers, stretching his arms and folding his hands behind his skull, giving her an amused expression. "Looks to me like he may have been in a wee bit of trouble. He was probably acting the maggot and someone decided enough was enough. Could be a right eejit."

"Yeah," Al cradles his chin in his left fingers, massaging the dark stubble. "There's something...I gotta feeling he wouldn't rat us off. There's no way he wouldn't of recognized me, at least."

He's hiding something himself. Al could always sense them. His fellow ' bad seeds.' The people who ran in the gutters. The lowlifes. He could always pick them out.

The wanted posters were scattered across the midwest, plastered along buildings, hanging in post offices and police stations baring Al's face; wanted for bank robbery kidnapping and murder, with a reward of five-thousand dollars offered. He'd taken up with his old childhood friends the Conklin brothers Joe and Cal, who were small time, with but a few petty theft arrests between them. Patrick had killed a cop in Lafayette during their last raid and prior to that had just a few arrests for assault. He was a friend of Joe and Cal from their early gang days and they'd reconnected with him when Joe briefly did time for robbery, knocking off a small liquor store in Bloomington. He and Patrick had shared a cell.

As for Arthur Malloy, also known as 'Creeping Jesus' because he was nearsighted, he'd fled Ireland after killing a man he claimed insulted his dead sister who'd just passed away from tuberculosis. ("Kicked 'em square in the plums, then put a bullet in his brains, I did.")They'd met when Arthur was attempting to knock off the same liquor store as them and offered his LaSalle that he'd stolen as a getaway.

Patrick's girlfriend Marie Hauser had inadvertently joined the gang, initially trying to persuade him to leave, but soon became an active member. But her role was mostly cooking and washing linens, hence her much-despised nickname, "The washerwoman."

George's wife Kitty Donahue was another matter. She entered the gang enthusiastically and without hesitation, but Al has never so much as seen a gun in her hands. Not one for shooting, she'd say.

Patrick sits on the camelback, with Marie beside him, still happily fingering the sunflower. He glances up as Robert emerges, hat and coat discarded and hair combed back. He points towards the kitchen.

"This way," he says, gliding down the stairs. "Let's eat. Got some stew heating on the stove. Some wine on the table."

Arthur pauses as they all stand, the edges of his brows coming together in rumination.

When did he get that going?

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he continues on with the others, with Kitty quickly swiping one of the figurines from the mantel and tucking it into her purse. The one with the balloons.

They all settle around the large rectangular mahogany-carved table with Robert dumping a hefty spoonful of a rather unappetizing red slop into each bowl. Patrick suddenly rises.

"Where's your bathroom?" he queries curtly.

Robert points. "Third door on the right."

Patrick darkly glances at Marie, then Robert before exiting. The murmuring of the group's voices fade as he stomps up the stairs, making his displeasure with the situation known. Of course, his real intention was to inspect this place. Make sure no one was hiding anywhere. He makes his way along the house's arteries, looking in various rooms, until he hears a door loudly creak. This makes him halt, glancing over his shoulder

The door to a room across from him is ajar, the lights inside faint, but enough to showcase what's inside.

Clown dolls.

Patrick charily begins to edge towards it, his boots stepping lightly as he sneaks up. He knew that man was strange. Something off about him. This could be an ambush. Nobody is this gracious. Not in his life experience. Everyone is always wanting something from you.

"Ah-ha!" he shouts, throwing open the door all the way and leaping in. He stands a moment, surveying the area with the clown dolls of all shapes and sizes along the wooden floor. Framed along the walls; more clowns of the sad crying variety.

"Jesus..." Patrick strolls over to the windows-also baring clowns-the circus-themed stained glass were partly obscured by thin brown cloths layered thick with dust.

Heh,heh.

Patrick spins around.

Who was that?

He reaches inside his coat and grips his Luger. "Hey, who's there?"

It had sounded like a man's voice inside the room with him, but before he could comprehend where a possible attacker could be hiding in here, he sees that the heads of the creepy dolls are now all turned towards him. Watching.

Whoosh.

The cloths covering the windows plunge to the floor and Patrick flinches as he turns to face the sound.

Hee!

Patrick does another turn around to face the clowns. That one sounded like a child. Specifically a girl coming from somewhere within the clutter of the room.

In that moment, Patrick feels something he hadn't felt in ages, since he was a boy running from his father's belt; fear. A powerful, overwhelming sense that he needed to leave this room now. The instinct to protect himself had kicked in.

He dashes towards the door, coming to a skidding stop before it slams shut. His breathing heavy, his heart hammering against the cavity of his chest.

Back in the kitchen, Patrick storms in, returning to his seat, sweat pearled along his large forehead. Marie touches his trembling hand.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, fine," he breathes, wild pupils directly on Robert. "Got a thing for clowns there, Bob?"

Robert slowly chews, staring back, before loudly swallowing. "Yes, sir. You could say that...I see you found my collection. "

"And it's a lovely one. I saw your figurines." Kitty interjects.

"Pretty fuckin' weird to me. A grown man..." Patrick grumbles. "What you hidin' in here?"

Robert sniffles, nibbling on his food. "Nothing, I assure you, Mr. Caudy-"

"Oh bullshit! What are you hidin'! What's in that room you freak!?" Patrick shouts as he stands, with Marie trying to subdue him and Joe mouthing curse words, when Kitty shrieking at the top of her lungs shatters the tension.

All eyes are drawn to her as she stares gaping at her spoon. "It's a finger!" she screams, holding it out for George to take a look. Upon inspecting it, he chuckles.

"It's a carrot honey." he pushes the vegetable slathered in red sauce around on the spoon.

"I swear, for a moment it looked just like a finger! A child's finger." Kitty pants, her palm clasped to her chest.

Patrick sinks back down to his chair, not taking his eyes off Robert, who chuckles.

"No fingers. Just an old family recipe, you could say."

"And what of your family Mr. Gray? Do you have a wife? Kids?" Marie chirps, trying to calmly rub Patrick's forearm. Robert considers a moment.

"No wife. No kids."

"Had to think about it huh?" Patrick cuts in. Joe gives him a swift kick to the shin under the table. Patrick glowers.

Unfazed, Robert continues, "I live alone. Just myself. Seems I've been alone for an eternity." he chortles that last line, as he sips his wine.

"I'd die from the loneliness." Marie replies.

"Nah, no one really dies in Derry." Robert says, to which an awkward silence falls over the table.

After a few beats of quiet. "So, uh, swinging bachelor huh?" George grins. "I kind of envy you..."

At this, Kitty scowls, gently, playfully swatting his arm. Al then stands, pushing his chair out. "Well, we best be getting to bed. We got an early start tomorrow." he announces.

Robert shows them to their rooms, pulling blankets from the closets for makeshift beds on the floors of the bedrooms to accommodate all of them, with Arthur opting to sleep downstairs on the camelback. Patrick keeps Marie locked in his sights as Robert bids them goodnight, shutting off the lights.

The house falls dark, with no sound, not even the thunder could be heard. Just deathly cold silence. As each member of the Bradley gang dozes off.

Patrick, having fallen asleep with troubled thoughts, realizing the man knew his surname when he'd not offered it, is soon awakened by a pair of hands on him. Small hands, shaking him violently.

"The Hell?" he mutters, wiping the sleepiness from his eyes as he looks up. Nothing there. He sits up, glancing at a slumbering Marie as he is pulled, almost hypnotically, to that odd clown room again. Almost as if waiting for him, the door swings open. Hearing the beckoning of a little girl's voice, not very audible before, but crystal clear now.

"Molly..." he whispers as he sees a miniature coffin now on display between the stained glass windows, the clown dolls forming a pathway as he approaches.. The door quietly shuts behind him as the coffin lid creaks open. He glances down at his hands, seeing he is now smaller, childlike, around twelve. The age he was when Molly drowned.

In her coffin, her eyes are closed, her face sweet. Her skin a pale blue and her brown ringlets held by pink ribbons. Sniffling, Patrick leans in to kiss her cheek. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you." he whimpers through stinging tears. As he hangs his head, Molly's eyes burst open and she draws in a sharp breath.

"Ah!" Patrick stumbles backwards as Molly bolts upwards scowling, mouth sneering in contempt.

"Sorry for what? Hitting me in the head with that rock and accidentally knocking me into the river or running off like a coward? You didn't even try to save me, you fucking wimp."

She steps out of the coffin and leaps to the ground as Patrick watches her features distort, growing more white, her lips redder. She spreads her arms out, grinning maniacally, her angelic voice now raspy and insidious.

"Beautiful fear." she grins as she runs at him, roaring as she displays quill-like teeth, growing taller, her brown locks turning orange, her frilly pink dress becoming a gray-white. The clown dolls hiss with laughter as Patrick is backed against the door, which suddenly opens and Marie is there, screaming as the Molly creature, now a lanky tall clown with a striped face, comes at them. Patrick, now an adult man again, staggers up, terror gripping every inch of his being as he slams the door, yanking Molly away.

In the next room, George, Al and Kitty are awakened by the screams, as Kitty flips on the bedside lamp, standing just before them is the banker, covered in blackened mud and slime, his jaw dangling as he reaches his dislocated right limb out towards them. A deep otherworldly moan emitting from his misshapen mouth.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Kitty screams hysterically as George and Al reach for their guns, finding they are unable to fire.

"What the Hell! My gun is jammed up!" Al yells as they scramble for the door. Thankfully the banker zombie was nowhere near their escape route and they dash out, meeting Marie and Patrick, both holding each other. The lights above them flicker off and on, with a hideous high-pitched giggle echoing through the walls as Joe and Cal burst from their room, both looking pale.

As if they'd seen a ghost.

"That gas station worker Patrick iced? He's in our fucking room! Looking like he crawled straight outta his grave!" Cal yells.

Just then, they hear Arthur shouting. They all make their way downstairs, where Arthur is in the kitchen, his scrawny frame cowering against the wall, yelling as he points at a large boiling pot on the stove.

"I woke up and heard someone in the kitchen then I-I saw..." he stutters as he points a shaky finger at the pot. George steps over and gags at what he sees.

A head. Too disintegrated to tell the gender or age, boiling in blood. The sight and smell of rotting flesh sends George gagging and choking as he falls backwards, covering his mouth.

"Jesus fuck!"

"What is it?" Kitty demands.

"Never mind." George coughs.

Huddled together, they run towards the front door, The lights still flashing, the ugly laugh still reverberating. They all jump into their cars and by the grace of God, the LaSalle starts, engine blaring as they speed away. Some only barely clothed, with Marie wrapped in Patrick's coat that she often slept in to keep warm.

As dawn bleeds through the sky and the gang take refuge in a nearby farmhouse, the extra clothes and guns in the trunks of the cars coming in handy, The women take a calming trip to Freese's with Patrick in tow while the rest of the men went to Machen's Sporting Goods to order some more supplies. Lal, the owner, recognized Al immediately, despite the fake name he'd given; Richard D. Rader, and informed some of his buddies that he was expecting Al Bradley at two in the afternoon the day after tomorrow and just as the LaSalle and Chevrolet came into view on Main Street, the gang of Derry residents, armed to the teeth, opened fire.

As the shoot-out ensues, Biff Marlow, one of the gunmen, spies a scar-faced man in a gray suit with a sunflower tucked in the left breast pocket firing a Remington along with them. In fact, all the gunmen had spotted this complete stranger. They all figured he was an outsider wanting to join the party. Afterwards, as the bodies of the notorious Bradley Gang were on display in the bullet-ridden Chevrolet and LaSalle, Marlow watches as the man strolls away, whistling, one hand cradling the Remington on his shoulder, the other in his pocket.

Marlow could never be certain, and it bothered him for years after. Something he related to his drinking buddies while reminiscing about the killings. He could have sworn that, despite the bright sunlight, the stranger didn't cast any shadow.

No shadow at all.

[amisssunbeam]

When (and Why) Hickey Fell in Love with Gibson

Well, it all started when “Hickey” was a child named EC, possibly Edgar or Edward, probably Edward, and the last name was something common, Clark or Carter or Cooke perhaps, as they are amongst the most familiar surnames in Great Britain today.  (I myself like Cooke as his last name.  See below.)

BTW, there was a time when I was in love with Herman Melville and tried to be very good so I could go to Heaven and escort Herman to all the constant Elvis concerts being held in the serene ethereal.  (This was about the same time I mentioned “Elvis Presley” to my husband who thought I said “Melville’s Presley”, which in turn started that heavenly dream I still live in. Elvis IS Billy Budd.)  Oh, what is my point?  Melville was born in 1819, and so I have decided EC was born in 1820, making him the perfect age to set sail on “Terror” in 1845 (and helps me dope out a time-line for EC’s life).

Was EC abandoned by his mother to a foundling’s home?  I’ve no doubt; I think he lived with her long enough to bond (she a hoe; father unknown), and then she left without a word when he was three and a half years old.   And did the drunk old men and women who ran the home try to give EC any solace?  Of course not.  Plus, meals were served on a very erratic basis, which is why Edward and his analogue David Young never got very big.  But EC thought of his mother often, sometimes with an enormous anger which caused him to befoul his bedding, sometimes with a longing that causes him to dissociate completely.

Now the drunk old men and women who run the home would prefer that little Eddy not be so needy, but they have a solution.  They know a rich man called (let’s say) Captain Autolycus Wilson, who likes very young boys. (Such a cliché.)  The drunk old etcs. ask Captain Wilson if he would like to purchase, uh, sponsor very small Eddy with his big blue eyes and reddish blond hair for a handsome fee. Captain Wilson is without a ward at the time, so he agrees to take care of Eddy, whom he calls Cookie.    The expected things proceed.  Except: Wilson is fond of Cookie, finding him clever and amusing and witty, and Cookie becomes very fond of Captain Wilson, fond to the point of adoration.  The Captain sees to his education with private tutors (the less said about what went on with the tutoring the better: too depressing for words).  But, despite the buggery and sodomy and orgies (many of which take place at the Captain’s private men’s club, The Sons of Phorcys, before interested audiences), Cookie becomes well educated, and something of a dandy too.  These are the gifts Captain Wilson gives him in exchange for his complete oppression and dehumanization.

Okay, we knew it was coming. Cookie begins to show signs of manliness, which means he no longer interests Captain Wheeler.  Captain Wheeler goes back to the foundling’s home and “adopts” a likely little carrot top who is nameless to us.  But, before he kicks Cookie out, Captain Wilson offers him a drink from one of his cut glass, uh, glasses.  Cookie goes completely catatonic.  

Afterwards, with a five-dollar gold piece and the clothes on his back, Cookie finds himself on the streets of Victorian London.

It gets worse and then it gets more worse.  He is Cookie no more.

So he runs with the dog pack.  He steals cheap jewelry and silverware. Steals nice clothes too, so he is always well turned out.  (Speaking of dogs, EC doesn’t like dogs.  Too many high-tone toffs, too many coppers have sicced huge slavering four-legged beasts on him.  Dogs, dogs are shit eaters.)

However, one useful trick he learns from the dog pack is to hang around taverns, especially those catering to sailors who have returned to shore.   He likes to chat with the sailors and hear their magical tales of life on the vast blue sea as he picks their pockets. These stories are why E.C. decides to dab Cornelius Hickey and put him in Regent’s Canal.  

“You’ll be gone how long, Cornelius?”

“At least a year!  And then I’ll be in Hawaii.  Oahu.”  His Irish accent is quite pronounced.

“Aren’t they cannibals who live there?”

“I think they prefer fish.” Both giggle.

“In other words, they’re Catholics!” EC says.

More giggles.   “See, here are my sailing papers!”

“Look, you already got paid!”

“Yes, a handsome sum. Speaking of which, let’s have another drink.”

“Just a small ale for me.”  EC takes a deep breath. “I bet your mam was glad to see your pay!”

“Me, I keep my money. I was a foundling, see.”  

“I lived in an orphan’s home too.”  (EC thinks to himself: I will always live in an orphan’s home.) “So when do you sail?”

 Then there’s a small slice of time and the ex-Cornelius Hickey lies bleeding at the bottom of Regents Canal.

(There’s a great fic which gives more details about this event on A3O: “Skinned Snakes” by @willowbilly)

 There’s not much variety on a ship; sailing and caulking is boring.  So no one should be surprised that the new Cornelius Hickey grouses.  

But one day, he shares a joke with Billy Gibson, and Billy laughs and says, “Now, that one’s worthy of Shakespeare.”

Hickey is pleased and intends to make Billy laugh again.

What was the joke? What is the joke in any office setting? Most office jokes are about those other people in The Office, who get to be more and more “other” as the jokes continue (think of Jim and Pam against Dwight), until Hickey and Billy have their own little two-man Eleusinian mystery cult going on.

They sit together at what serves as the library table and look at picture books together.  Perhaps it’s a book of engraved Biblical illustrations. Hickey points at one and whispers, “Look, Billy, there’s Lieutenant Irving walkin’ on water in his nightshirt!”

Billy gets a bad case of the giggles.  

Weekes is sitting nearby and hears them.  “What’s this, laughin’ at the Holy Scriptures?  Do you want the ship to sink?”  (Weekes is like the Dansker in “Billy Budd”, a quiet type who utters oracular remarks and tries to keep the superstitious young sailors under control.)

Hickey and Billy like to look at maps too, especially maps of the Pacific.  They move to a more secluded place to share their secret dreams. They decide they’ll jump ship in Oahu and live in the sun and sand forever.  

“Bugger the officers, Billy!” Hickey whispers.  “‘Orlop!’ I’ll feckin orlop ye, Irving!”

Hickey’s minor blasphemies appeal to Gibson, who must also feel underappreciated.  

(By the way, Melville was discharged in Maui in 1843 where he worked as, among other things, a pin-setter in a bowling alley before he returned to New York in 1844.)

But more than jokes happen. Billy sews a nice shirt for Hickey and knits him a warm red scarf.  “Look here,” Billy says to the other sailors sitting around.  “Now doesn’t Cornelius look smart!”  They all applaud, somewhat sarcastically, but Hickey is pleased.  

It appears that Hickey can sit in Billy’s little cabinette, I won’t say anytime he wants, but he CAN sit there.  Which is where the friendship goes to the next level.  Again, there isn’t a lot to do on an exploration.  I like to think of Hickey and Billy sitting right beside each other, CURTAIN OPEN, Hickey making his small jokes, perhaps about Mr. Diggle’s bad bread, and then he puts his hand on Billy’s knee.  When they hear someone coming, Hickey rapidly removes his hand.  With this negative evidence, Billy learns what Hickey meant by touching his knee.

The first kiss:  this is as tricky in fan fic as it is in real life. How do you know when to take that first step?  My experience has been that it is “The Man” who kisses first. (Don’t get mad!  Last century, when I was getting kissed, that rule of courtship was ratified in iron.)  

We can imagine that Hickey finds the simple warmth coming from Billy’s frame . . . nice.  Better still, he has no obligation to be (or do) anything to Billy.  He is free with Billy.  One night in May 1847 on Billy’s little cot, the bedtime bells ring (I don’t really know ships work), and Hickey says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Billy,” and, because it’s been building inside him for several months, he leans over to the seated Billy and kisses his cheek.  Billy looks up in pleased surprise (giving Hickey the same look he gave him when Hickey put Young’s ring on his finger).  

I will now commence to use @starbuck’s excellent timeline to date the next steps of their relationship. “Go for Broke” is September 1846. Eight months later (plenty of time for a courtship) is “The Ladder” which I like to think of as the SEX-isode; by this time Billy and Hickey have become very experienced in their buggery.

So just let me make up some stuff.   In that sexy sexy month October 1846, they get to first base (they make out until their lips are chapped.)  Second base occurs in early November 1846 (running their hands over each other’s quivering but clothed skin).  Late November 1846 brings a firm third base (petting to orgasm: yup, that was a phrase much in use when Mamie Eisenhower and I were college roommates).  And on Christmas Day 1846, HOME RUN is achieved in costumes and crannies as drunken sailors overwhelm the air.  Hickey and Billy are in love!  They run up and down the deck with the snow falling on their pink boyish cheeks. Young, beautiful, in love, just the two in their icy mystery cult.

Uhoh, here comes June 1847 and “The Ladder”.   Now you know goddam well Irving isn’t going down to the orlop deck just to “find” the “caulker’s mate”.  He’s been smoldering over his suspicions for months (he and Hickey exchange stink-eyes all the time at Sunday services).  Finally, Irving gets a double-header: he achieves a major vicarious thrill AND a chance to save souls at the same time!!!!  Still, Hickey and Gibson are busted.

Stuff happens, Silna and Sir John and Tuunbaq, all that arga warga.   Not to mention, Gibson’s nervous conversation with Irving.  Which Hickey sees.  (Notice how I rigged the timeline to make sure Hickey got to see Gibson’s postern “all winter”, i.e. the winter of ’46-’47.)

Hickey is angry, but he never learned how to express anger towards someone he loves.  First he reverts to an infantile state; then it seems he finds a new love: The Captain.

The Captain offers him a drink.  A drink! Who would do that but a devious seducer! Hickey scours his brain.  What do you say to an Irishman?  “Here’s to us Micks!”  OH GOD OH GOD HOW COULD HE BE SO STUPID!  THAT HAS TO BE THE STUPIDEST THING ANYONE HAS EVER SAID TO ANYBODY!!!!! OH GOD! But Crozier’s face doesn’t freeze, doesn’t close down; it’s still open and pink.  EC will remember that.

Now, because I pledge allegiance to @rhavewellyarnbag and all that he stands for, I will also assert that Francis is a three-beer queer.  And if it weren’t for that Bible-beating bastard Irving barging in on them, who knows what would have happened next?

Hickey keeps trying to shine up to the Captain; he brings him a trophy, the guilty Eski girl.  But then there is that unfair cross-examination by Crozier and his big shiny toff buddy.  I have to say, I feel for Hickey in this scene.  He really thought he was being useful to Crozier, and Crozier is completely dismissive. How often have I misunderstood what other people wanted from me! They quarrel, Hickey loses his cool and ends up getting flogged.  Oh, sure, there’s worst things than bein’ lashed, but still . . .

Then there’s the tobacco. Just as you and I would, Hickey uses Occam’s useful razor and sees the tobacco as a love gift from . . . Billy. Billy! Billy the steward with access to supplies!  Billy must still love him!  

Sound the music cues, for here comes the bride!  In the next episode “First Shot a Winner”, Hickey marries Billy.  The reasons for this marriage are numerous (hey!  Just like real life!), but one reason is Billy’s ability to spy on those in command.  

Now, I won’t pretend that Hickey thinks this, but I DO!  Hickey will never never never forgive Crozier and determines to destroy him.  Then he HE Hickey will become King of the Expedition, just like Crozier is now, and Hickey will even have his own super-tall willowy delicate queen at his side.

It doesn’t work out that way, as we know, because nothing ever works out.  Still, Hickey loves Billy to the end, taking Billy’s head in his hands to say good-bye as lovers do.  The stabbing is a favor to the suffering man, and, if the murder turns out to have its useful aspects, well, so be it.  

That’s my story, and, being a Libra, I can be easily persuaded that I’m wrong about everything.

---------------------------------

dedicated to @rhavewellyarnbag, @blazingadam, and @wildcard47

[isitgintimeyet]

Letting Go

AO3

Previous

Thanks for your continued support. Hope you enjoy.

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge and @happytoobservenolongerdistant

Chapter 3: Should I Stay or Should I Go

Darling you got to let me know Should I stay or should I go? If you say that you are mine I'll be here 'til the end of time So you got to let me know Should I stay or should I go?

Joe Strummer/ Mick Jones - The Clash

By Saturday, Claire had made a plan of action. She was determined to spend all day away from the house to avoid any unfortunate run-ins, just in case this Fraser turned out to be her Fraser (no, not ‘her’ Fraser… the Fraser with whom she had, in the past, been acquainted). Uncle Lamb would be at the university, so she arranged for a full day of flat hunting. She was adamant that somewhere out there was the perfect flat for her and by the end of Saturday, she would have found it!

Claire set out early in the morning to work through the list of addresses saved on her mobile, ignoring the greyness of the day and the continuous drizzle across the city. By mid afternoon, her mood matched the Glasgow weather. On paper, each flat looked and sounded perfect. In reality, none of them was what Claire was looking for. She felt like Goldilocks in the children’s fairytale: the flats were either too modern with small, square rooms; too symmetrical and bland; or too industrial with huge loft-style rooms; too harsh and urban. All her hopes were pinned on the last property on her list -- one of 4 flats in a classic Victorian townhouse.

As soon as she climbed the steps to the grand front door and stepped into the common hallway dominated by the large staircase with wrought iron bannister, Claire knew this was the place. Entering the flat just confirmed her first impression, the large living room was bright and airy with high ceilings and large bay windows. Claire wandered round the rest of the flat, picturing how her furniture would fit exactly into it. The estate agent trailed quietly behind her, sensing a deal was in the offing.

Finally, he spoke up. “It’s jes’ come on the market and I dinna think it will be on fer long. No chain, the owner’s jes’ moved tae Australia. Aye, left everything tae be wi’ his girlfriend, she’s Australian, ye ken. In fact…”

ClaIre interrupted him, his story touching a nerve she thought had long ago been cauterised. “And it’s fixed price, not offers over, then? Well, yes. This is it. Can we go to your office and get the ball rolling then?”

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

Claire let herself in and headed down the hallway to her uncle’s study. She knew that’s where he would be. Knocking gently before entering, she found Lamb in his usual position, staring out of the window at the garden, now pruned and manicured. Several boxes lay around the room, a half-hearted attempt to fill them had obviously been abandoned.

“I’ve bought a flat, Uncle.” There was genuine excitement in her voice.

“And I’ve rented the house out. That couple… they want it. Mr… er… the agent chap rang here to tell us. As soon as possible, he said.” Lamb’s voice sounded hoarse.

Claire tried to raise his spirits. “It’s only for a couple of years, and then you’ll be back here. As if you’d never been away.”

“Yes, but, my darling girl, I feel like I’ve let you down. This is your home… was your home and I’m taking it away from you.”

Claire perched on the edge of the desk and rested her hand on Lamb’s arm. “Uncle, you’ve never let me down. You’ve always been there for me, ever since I was a little girl. And maybe this was the push I needed to move forward. I’ll be happy in that flat, I know I will.”

She looked around the study. “So, come on, no more moping. Let’s get sorted.”

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

The next few weeks were a maelstrom of activity. Paperwork, packing, measuring up, in addition to Claire’s work at the hospital, took up all of her days and a fair few nights as well. She didn't ask the agent or her uncle anything about the new tenants, didn't even glance at the tenancy agreement, and cast aside any troubling thoughts on the reasons behind this reluctance.

The day for the move quickly arrived. Claire and Lamb stood together on the pavement, watching quietly as all their worldly goods were divided into three trucks -- one for Lamb in his university accommodation, one for storage and one for Claire in her new flat. She thanked her lucky stars that her flat had such well proportioned rooms, so that she could use large pieces of furniture from the house.

Finally the trucks were closed up and sent on their ways. Claire and Lamb stood awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say.

“Well,” Lamb broke the silence. “It’s going to be strange, not being together here.”

Claire tried to lighten his mood. “But we’ll probably see each other just as much. Remember days and days can pass without us meeting up, with my shifts and you stuck in your work. Don’t be sad. Just think, you’ll be that much closer to the university archives and anyway, I’m coming round for tea in a couple of days. You can’t get rid of me that easily, you know.”

She hugged him tightly, inhaling the familiar aroma of his jacket, remembering the comfort from his arms wrapped tightly around her as a little girl, the rough fabric of his favourite tweed jacket scratching her cheek.

She pulled away and quickly headed to the taxi. Time to go.

*********

As anticipated, Claire arrived at her new home before the removal men. She wandered across her (her!) own hallway when a head appeared around her front door.

“Morning. Welcome, new neighbour. Wondered if you’d like a coffee… or tea? I’m Mary, by the way. I live across the landing.” Mary moved into the hall and shook Claire’s hand.

“Hello, I’m Claire. Claire Beauchamp. And yes, thanks, I’d love a coffee.”

“Ah, another English interloper, I see. Be right back. How do you like your coffee?” Mary called over her shoulder as she headed out of the door.

“Black, no sugar, please.”

“Ooh, hardcore!”

Mary returned a few minutes later with the mugs of coffee, closely followed by another woman. It was obvious they were sisters; there was a strong family resemblance, and yet somehow the features changed between the two. Only slightly, but enough to make the difference. The newcomer’s hair was just that little bit shinier, her lips that bit fuller, her eyes that bit brighter. She was radiant, Claire decided, even wearing those baggy jogging bottoms and faded t-shirt.

“Hi,” the newcomer spoke. “I’m Anna, Mary’s sister. We’re just across the landing and you’re Claire?”

“Yes, nice to meet you.”

“Oh, wow, poor Mrs Crook.” Anna and Mary laughed.

Claire felt bemused. “I’m sorry?”

“No, sorry, we should explain…” Anna spoke, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Mrs. Crook lives in the flat below you. She’s been here for years and years, a lovely, sweet ‘wee wifey’ and John lives in the flat below us. John’s English, too… so poor Mrs. Crook. Here in the centre of Glasgow, yet surrounded by us Sassenachs.”

An uninvited memory stirred in Claire’s brain… fingers touching copper curls, blue eyes heavy with desire, heated breath on her neck, a whisper in her ear: “Sassenach…”

“Hello, Miss Beauchamp… ye there?” The voice came from the main hallway downstairs. “Can we start tae bring yer stuff up, love?”

Claire pushed the memory back in its box. Clearly, it was all due to the move, stirring up lots of conflicting emotions. Nothing more.

She smiled at Anna and Mary. “Think that’s my cue… now the hard work begins!”

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

Jamie stood for a moment on the pavement, looking up at the house. He had wondered, when Murtagh texted the address, whether his memory had been playing tricks. But no, now he was here standing right in front of his past. He glanced up at the top left hand window, almost expecting it to open and her head to appear, curls blowing medusa-like while she frantically waved.

He took a deep breath and walked towards the front door. It opened before he had a chance to knock. Suddenly he was enveloped in his godfather’s arms.

“Christ, Jamie lad, it’s sae good tae see ye. How long has it been? Come in, come in, I want ye tae meet ma wife, Jocasta.”

Jamie followed Murtagh into the house. “And it’s grand tae see ye too. It’s been ten years since ye upped and left us fer New Zealand. Ye havena changed a bit.”

“Aye well, ye have. Ye were nought but a lad, and still wet behind the ears, when I left. Look at ye now. America obviously suited ye.”

Murtagh led Jamie towards the kitchen at the back of the house. Of course, the furniture was different than he remembered, but the decor had remained the same. He thought of the hours he had spent in this kitchen, sharing drinks and food with her. Laughing and chatting together until late, and then, by silent agreement, making their way up the stairs to that bedroom, constantly touching, always a connection, never wanting to be apart.

A different woman was waiting in the kitchen with the coffee ready to pour and a bottle of Glenmorangie placed on the table. No longer in the first flush of youth, she was still very handsome, and obviously took pains to remain so. Murtagh snaked his hand around her waist and pulled her close to him.

“Jamie, I’d like tae present ma wife, Jocasta… Jocasta, this is Jamie, ma godson, Brian’s lad. We’re no’ the only ones returning tae the homeland, ye ken. Jamie’s jes back from America… been there fer, what? Six years?”

“Eight years, Murtagh. Eight years”

Jocasta pulled away from Murtagh's grasp and gave Jamie a big hug. “Welcome, lad, sae nice tae meet ye. I’ve heard an awfa lot about ye. And yer Da is that proud of ye, is he no’, Murtagh?”

Murtagh, busy pouring generous measures of whisky into three glasses, looked up at the mention of his name. “What? Och, aye, Brian is that pleased ye’re headin’ back tae Lallybroch. It’ll be a big help tae him. He’s no’ the man he was.”

“And ye’ll always be welcome here when ye want tae come and spend time in Glasgow. We have sae many bedrooms here. Weel, too many really. The house is too big fer us, but after the feeling of open spaces in New Zealand, we dinna want tae feel boxed in, ye ken?”

Jamie sipped at his whisky and watched Murtagh and Jocasta -- their loving glances and slight touches filled him with happiness for his godfather, who had been alone for so long before finally meeting Jocasta two years ago.

“Excuse me, I must jes’ use the bathroom.” Jamie began to walk out of the kitchen.

“Would it no’ help if I told ye where the bathroom was? Quite a big house, may take ye a while tae find it wi’out directions.” Murtagh called after him. “Turn left and head down that passageway, second door on yer right.”

“Oh… er… Aye. Thanks.”

On his return to the kitchen, Jamie found Murtagh and Jocasta at the french windows engrossed in conversation as they gazed over the garden, now somewhat neater than he remembered.

“... so we could put a bench over there tae catch the morning sun fer our coffee at breakfast…”

“... and we could have the fire pit over there fer the evenings. But we’d need tae move that swing…”

******

Nine years ago

“You know, when I first moved here after my parents died, this swing was the first thing Uncle Lamb bought for me. I think he wanted to show me this was my home too. I always loved this swing.”

“Sit on it. I’ll push ye if ye like.”

“Jamie, don’t be silly. I’ve not been on that swing in years. I’m not even sure it’s safe… I remember how I used to try and go as high as possible -- do a loop-the-loop. Not sure what would have happened if I’d ever managed it. Just fallen off, I guess.”

“Come on. Have a go. I’ll give ye a push. Ye dinna need tae worry about falling, ye ken, I’m here tae catch ye… always.”

******

“No!” Jamie interrupted more forcefully than intended. “Dinna move the swing.”

Murtagh and Jocasta both turned and stared at him. He felt his face flush.

“Why ever no’ dear?” Jocasta asked. “It’s no’ but a rickety old swing. I’m sure it hasna been used in years.”

Eight years, perhaps, Jamie thought. “I dinna ken. It jes’ feels right there, like it belongs. I’m sure the owner would miss it.” He spoke quietly. “I mean, even though they dinna see it, mebbe they jes’ like tae know it’s still there.”

Murtagh looked at him with concern and cleared his throat. “Jamie, lad, are ye drunk or jes’ gone soft in the head?”