#arthur is always on his best behaviour around her it feels so fake

[ladyofthelake]

Gonna be mean look away

But just saw a post about how Gwen/Arthur have amazing chemistry on Merlin...okay

[startanewdream]

Teenage behaviour

For @sweeethinny​ ‘s amazing prompt: ‘Instead of Harry seeing Molly's boggart, he sees Lily's, and faces him and his father dead on the floor, while his mother panics’.

Thanks again for this prompt! I always love to explore Lily and Harry’s relationship!

Read on AO3 or below the cut:

______________________________

Harry's smile doesn't reach his eyes.

Lily has been stealing glances in his direction all night, ever since she got home from her shift, and even though he is talking and eating and acting normal, she can see there is something restrained about him.

She looks around, trying to understand what is dampening his mood - not that it would need much lately, but still, he should be more thrilled about returning to Hogwarts tomorrow, especially considering their fear that he would be expelled. Everything seems normal, though. The kitchen is full of people talking and drinking, enjoying that last-minute party, and everyone's mood seems better than usual. She sees Ron listing the qualities of his new broom to Tonks, while Hermione is talking with Remus about her project of rights for house-elves. Both Ron and Hermione are still beaming because of today’s news.

She raises her eyes to the banner Molly hanged over the dinner table. That brings a warm smile to her lips; Molly had sounded more cheerful than Lily had seen her all summer when she had told proudly of Ron being made a prefect.

Then her eyes fall on Harry again. He is looking wistfully at the banner, with just a hint of guilt shining in his eyes.

Understanding hits her.

He wanted to be a prefect.

That doesn't make much sense for her, considering how Harry always inspired himself in James and how much Harry doesn’t seem to particularly care for authority figures, but there is disappointment and hurt in his eyes, no matter how much he tries to hide it.

Maybe it was some expectation that Dumbledore would choose him? Or he feels that people don’t trust him anymore? Or maybe he is feeling like he let his parents down for not being a prefect?

Whatever it is, she will have to do something about it. This would be easier if James was there that night - Harry does have a tendency to always hear whatever his dad says -, but since he is away on Order duty tonight, Lily will handle it alone. 

She looks around once more before locating Sirius and Ginny talking animatedly to each other; they are close enough to Harry so he will be able to hear them talking, so she approaches them.

‘Aubrey’s head was twice the normal size’, Sirius is saying, opening his hands to emphasize it, almost hitting Lily. ‘Oh, sorry, Lily’.

‘No harm done’, she says lightly. ‘Are you telling the infamous balloon head prank?’

‘I will let you know it’s one of the best Marauders pranks to date’, Sirius replies, seeming very proud of himself.

‘Don’t believe him, they originally wanted Aubrey’s head to shrink’, she tells Ginny conspiringly, making Ginny smirk. ‘And they didn’t even try to hide it, it led them directly into detention. No wonder you never made prefect’.

She knows Harry is looking in their direction, but she pretends to not notice.

‘Can you imagine, you and James as prefects?’

Sirius shudders, putting his hands over his heart and looking properly scandalous, just as Lily knew he would be.

‘We would never! Plus we would have to give ourselves detentions on a daily basis’.

‘Like Remus ever gave you any’, she scoffs playfully.

‘Well, he could turn a blind eye on us sometimes. Ok, most of the time’, Sirius concedes when Lily just raises her eyebrows. ‘But I remember a certain Head Girl doing the same’.

Lily laughs shamelessly.

‘If I didn’t catch you, how could I do anything? And with James as Head Boy, you certainly learned to avoid being caught’.

‘It sure helps when your best friend is Head Boy and decides the patrolling routes’, Sirius agrees, grinning.

‘Hang on’, Ginny says, frowning. ‘James was a Head Boy? Your James?’

Lily sees Harry joining their circle and she smiles to herself.

‘Yeah, we were as shocked as you when we found out’, says Sirius dramatically.

‘But he wasn’t a prefect -’

‘Head Boy and Head Girl may have been prefects, but if the headmaster thinks someone else should be, he can choose’, Lily explains. ‘It doesn’t matter whether you were a prefect or not, as long as you are responsible and trusting, really’.

‘You know, that was the only time I really considered telling Dumbledore we were animagi - we couldn’t let him think James was responsible -’

‘Come on’, Lily says fairly. ‘He had improved a lot by our seventh year, it made sense he would be a Head Boy’.

‘Oh, don’t tell my mum that’, Ginny pleads in a hushed whisper. ‘There is no way I will be a prefect next year, but then she might hope I get sense enough to be a Head Girl’. Ginny turns to Harry, shaking her head in fake panic, and Harry lets out an amused laugh.

They all laugh then, and Lily feels good when she sees Harry is more relaxed now as if remembering his father wasn’t prefect either is enough to raise his spirits.

She doesn’t say it and she doesn’t really mind, but she thinks Harry could be a Head Boy in a couple of years. Harry does have the leadership she saw in James in their last year at Hogwarts, even if he doesn’t mind breaking the rules now and then. But if he is not chosen, that will be fine for her too.

Lily hopes Harry understands this.

She shares a drink with Sirius, who is still telling adventures of the Marauders to Ginny, while keeping an eye on Harry. He drifts off to talk with Fred and George and Mundungus - a trio that speaks of trouble for her -, then he leaves them to sit on a chair, pretending to be busy drinking a butterbeer. His face is troubled once more and Lily resists the urge to sigh.

Harry’s changes of mood are more erratic than she can deal with these days. She always thought Death Eaters and bigotry would be the biggest challenges in her life, but now she thinks understanding teenage behaviour is much more difficult.

She throws a sympathetic look at Molly, who is yawning now, admiring the fact that Molly dealt with that seven times.

‘Oh, sorry, Lily’, Molly says, flushing. ‘I just woke up so early today…’

Lily smiles.

‘Go get some rest, Molly. I patch things up here later’. And when Molly opens her mouth, looking worried, Lily smiles. ‘I won’t let them stay up late, I promise’.

‘Thank you, dear. I am really tired… I’ll just sort out that boggart before I turn in -’

‘No, no, let me’, Lily offers. ‘Is that thing shaking the cabinet in the drawing room?’

‘Yes, Alastor confirmed to me tonight it’s a boggart’.

‘That’s on me then. Go rest’, Lily insists. ‘You already made too much today - helping to sort out that last-minute shopping list, this nice dinner. I’ll handle the boggart later, I will have to wait for James to come home anyway’.

Molly looks at her with a knowing expression.

‘I can never sleep before Arthur returns too’, she murmurs, and Lily is familiar with the fear shining in Molly’s brown eyes.

‘Everything is going to be okay’, she says calmly, even though they both know it is an empty promise. 

Molly bides her good night and Lily watches her go.

It really must be more difficult for her, Lily thinks. Seven children, one of them not talking with the family, and Molly already lost her two brothers in the first war. That makes the Weasley braver than her and James, she ponders; they aren’t hunted. They are choosing to be part of this war.

They really are the best family. She thanks silently the day Harry decided to sit together with Ron on the Hogwarts Express.

Speaking of her son, Mad-Eye is talking to him, showing him something, and even though Alastor looks as delighted as he can be, Harry seems to be sick.

Lily turns in his direction, determined to fix the situation again, but before she can reach them, Sirius distracts Mad-Eye and Harry escapes, crossing the kitchen in quick steps and slipping through the door before anyone can talk to him.

Great.

She walks to Mad-Eye and sees he is showing around an old photograph of the first Order of the Phoenix, that finally comes to her hand. Lily looks at herself, smiling hand-in-hand with James, and is startled to see how young they both look. Well, not just them. Everyone.

And those who are not here anymore look even younger.

She sees Marlene’s grin and Dorcas’s wistful smile and longing burns inside her for those evenings talking in the Common Room, for their girl’s night out after ending Hogwarts, for all the plans they made. They are so happy and hopeful in her memories, blissful to the fact Dorcas would face Voldemort alone, or that Marlene and all her family would perish in a fire.

She never said goodbye to any of them.

‘What were you talking about with Harry, Alastor?’, she asks in a quiet voice, returning the photo to him as if the distance can lessen the pain that photograph brings to her. She feels a little bit mad at him for bringing this photo to a party.

It’s not like she can or wants to forget all of those who died - it’s just she did not expect to see the reminder of all they lost so suddenly...

‘Just showing the boy the original group. Thought he might like it - so many stories to tell’.

Lily wonders if he told Harry the tragic end of most of those stories and she grimaces at the thought.

Harry doesn’t return so, after a while, Lily leaves the kitchen too. People are still talking animatedly and there are still a few minutes before she will have to break the party. But Lily doesn’t feel like chatting right now, so she may as well get things done. She considers going to see Harry, to check if his things are all packed for tomorrow, but he probably doesn’t want company. He is like her in that sense; prefers to be left alone to brood.

She enters the drawing room, looking around with mild interest. The children did make a good job cleaning everything up, but Grimmauld Place will never seem a happy place. Too many bad memories and dark thoughts, she thinks, as Kreacher passes behind herself, mumbling to himself and glaring at her.

Sirius forbade him of saying mudblood, but she only needs to look him in the eyes to feel the word.

There is nothing she can do about it and Lily prefers to fix on the problems she can solve anyway.

The cabinet close to the window is giving small jumps as if it’s alive. She walks to it, her mind already fixed on the remembrance of Aubrey with that big balloon head (he had really been a jerk and James and Sirius had pranked him for harassing first years muggle-borns, so she hadn’t mind laughing that time), and takes out her wand.

‘Alohomora!’

The cabinet opens and, appearing out of thin air, she sees James holding Harry as a baby, both lying in the ground, with eyes closed, pale and still. Dead.

They are dead.

Her heart beats faster and her mouth is suddenly dry, even as Lily knows this is just the boggart. It feels more like a dream, though, so she stays still for a few seconds, watching her husband and son’s corpses with a strange detachment. She really thought it would be just a dementor - and she would be ready for it this time.

But Lily supposes the memories that the dementor had arisen activated the true fear she had felt that night - that James and Harry would die while everything she could do was to watch hopelessly. Like she is doing now.

The fear creeps through her mind like smoke she can’t help but inhale, and that smoke makes her head light and dizzy, creating images in her head. She pictures how her life would be if that had happened, if Lily had taken Voldemort’s offer to stand aside while he murdered her husband and son and she was left alone. 

And lost. 

She wonders what she would have done and it’s surprisingly easy to answer. Find and kill Pettigrew, for starters, because there would be no James to hate him more than her and no son to give her other priorities. Then she would go after Voldemort; she would not rest until he was dead, no matter the cost. The boy-who-lived would be replaced by the mother-who-killed.

But then - and that is the scariest part - there would be nothing. No reason to live for. Her days would be empty and pointless, forever missing the two people she had most loved and knowing no vengeance would ever fill that hole…

‘Mum?’, she hears a voice asking, and for a moment Lily can’t really match the voice to anyone, certain she had never heard it before, that he died when he was just a baby -

She turns slowly to find Harry - her living son - at the door, looking at the dead bodies on the floor, then at her.

‘It’s a boggart’, Harry realizes. ‘Don’t - get out of here - let someone else -’

Harry looks worried for her. Somehow, this clears the smoke in her head. Lily steadies her hand and looks back at the corpses lying on the floor with nothing but determination.

‘Riddikulus!’, she says loud and clear, and the boggart turns into a man with a big blue balloon in the place of his head. Lily lets out a nervous laugh and the boggart vanishes in a puff of smoke.

Her heart is still beating faster, so Lily takes a moment to calm herself, to let all those bad feelings slip out of her; she almost jumps when she feels Harry’s hand on her shoulder. She had not heard him walking to her. 

'Mum?’, he calls very quietly. ‘Are you ok?’

'It was just a stupid boggart, Harry', she says, forcing herself to smile at him. Harry is frowning, seeing through her empty smile just as she sees through his. 'Just go to bed, tomorrow is -'

'Do you always see us?', he asks in a hushed whisper, ignoring her dismissal. 'I mean - that -'

He stops, unable to continue, and Lily feels a sudden urge to just tell him it was nothing and to let it go. She knows Harry would hate it, but he also would respect her desire to be left alone with her thoughts and fears.

But since all she’s been asking of her son lately is that he talks to her, Lily supposes she has to set the example.

'Sometimes, yes’, she admits in a low voice. ‘At other times it’s a dementor. But it’s all related to the same thing, really’.

Harry looks deep in thought and he stares at the point where the bodies were.

'It was me as a baby', he says, and Lily nods. 'But - why? I mean, I lived’.

She sighs once more and sits on the couch.

'Come here', she asks, and Harry sits opposite to her on the same couch, his legs crossed just like he used to do when he was young and was listening to one of her bedtime stories, except this time most of his leg is out of the couch. That makes her feel strangely comforted, even if she feels her eyes tearing up a little. ‘You grew up so fast’.

‘Mum -’, he starts, looking half-embarrassed as he always does when James or Lily start remembering him as a kid.

‘I am saying it like a good thing’, she promises. ‘I just feel so lucky to have witnessed it all’.

Harry seems confused.

‘Lucky?’

She looks away to where the boggart was on the floor.

‘When I think about that night - the one where you got your scar - I always remember how close we were to lose everything. How you were almost… you and James…’

‘But it didn’t happen’, he says forcefully. ‘We all survived’.

‘Yes, but back then, at the time - I didn’t think we would make it. I really thought… I really lost hope for a moment. Sometimes I still dream of that night, but my worst nightmares are… of that’. She points to the floor. ‘If somehow you and James were gone and I was left alone -’

She can’t continue. Harry breathes heavily.

‘You wouldn’t be alone, I mean, you would still have Remus and Sirius, they -’

‘Harry’, she interrupts him softly, looking back at him. He already seems distraught, but she has to make him understand. ‘I love them, of course, but how would it be if I and your father had died then? If you were raised by Remus and Sirius?’

He stays silent for a moment and Lily can see him picturing all that alternative life. Lily supposes Sirius as a figure parent is an amusing idea, but Harry doesn’t smile for a second.

‘It would never be enough’, he whispers at least. ‘They would never replace you’.

‘They would never try to, I am sure, but... This is it. A life without you and your father would be just - just empty for me. And that’s what I fear the most. That I would be too weak that night and that I had to watch you both dying’.

‘You are strong’, Harry says resolutely, grabbing her hand and squeezing it, though Lily can’t tell if he is doing that for her sake or his own, to also confirm to him that everything is alright. ‘I - I heard what happened’.

‘What do you mean?’

Harry looks abashed, and he lowers his eyes.

'That’s why dementors hit me so hard. The thing I hear when they are near… It’s that night. Bits of it, but I hear... You and Voldemort. You plead for me, and he - he laughs and tells you to stand aside, but you refuse. You always refuse’.

Lily blinks, feeling the blood leaving her face.

'You never said anything’.

'I didn't want to upset you', Harry whispers. 'I know you don't like remembering it'.

She gives him a tiny smile despite everything. She never told him about her own worries, but Harry probably noticed how even though she didn't have any problem explaining about Voldemort, only James would talk to him about that Halloween night.

Harry sees more than people give him credit for.

'You could have told me', she says softly. 'It is not your job to worry about me, Harry'.

'But I do', he admits. 'I don't want anything to happen to you'.

There is a desperation in his voice now, like if he is really afraid something could happen with her and, with a jolt, Lily realizes they never really talked about what happened earlier that month, about how Harry drew away the dementors from her.

About how he needed to do it because she had frozen.

'I am sorry to have scared you', she says tenderly.

'It's not - I wasn't really scared with that boggart'.

Lily believes him. Harry seems to think his father is invincible and he is too selfless to regard his own death as something to be afraid of.

'I meant about the dementors a few weeks ago. And if somehow you thought I couldn't handle that boggart right now'.

Harry blinks.

'I didn't think that', he says slowly, and Lily knows he is considering his own feelings on the matter. 'I mean - I know what you are capable of'.

'I just don't want you thinking that you need to take care of me. I am the parent here. That's my job'.

'I don’t want to lose you’, he whispers guiltily, as if somehow even thinking about it should be wrong. ‘I wouldn’t - I don’t know how I could cope if -’

Harry looks so fragile right now that she does the simplest thing. She stretches her legs, in an offer, and Harry lies down, placing his head on her lap, allowing her to caress his hair like she used to do when he was young, until he would fall asleep.

‘I won’t live forever, Harry’, she says softly. ‘Someday you will be without me - and really, that’s what I hope for’. When he looks startled, she adds with a smile: ‘That you get to live longer than me. That you get a full happy life’.

‘It will only be happy if you are there’, he insists. ‘You and dad. You -’, he stops, closing his eyes as if he doesn’t want her to see more of his emotions than he is already letting it show on his voice. ‘You need to be careful. I know you are good, but - sometimes people are just in the wrong place in the wrong time’.

She knows what he is talking about and she remembers seeing Harry and Cedric Diggory leaving together for the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament, both looking thrilled that it would be over soon and that one of them might win the Tournament.

And she remembers when they all noticed something was off, when there were whispers of a dead champion and how she had feared so much that it would be Harry… And the guilt she’d felt later when she was just relieved that it wasn’t him.

The good die young, her mother used to say somberly when she saw news of a tragedy.

Lily thinks about the photograph of the old Order, of hope and dreams that mattered none when the people were dead, and she finally understands what upset Harry enough to make him leave the dining party.

‘Moody told you what happened with people from the first Order of the Phoenix’, she says.

Harry bits his lips, looking away from her.

‘I can’t promise you me and your father will make it through this war, Harry’, she says slowly, wishing she could lie to him about it. ‘But I can assure you that we will make everything we can to live… and if not, we will always be with you, you do know that, right?’

She touches his chest, right above his heart, and Harry trembles.

‘I know’, he concedes at least, but there is sorrow in his eyes. Then he looks back at her. ‘Moody told me about the Prewetts and Benjy and the Longbottoms and… I recognized Marlene from that photo in your office. You never told me her whole family had died too’.

‘It was just too painful’, Lily sighs. ‘It was just after your first birthday, when we were already hiding and I remember thinking... maybe I should have done something, I should have protected her -’

‘It was not your fault!’, Harry cries, looking appalled that she feels like that.

Lily refrains herself of pointing out the irony there.

‘I know. It’s Voldemort’s fault’, she pauses, looking at the eyes that are a mirror to hers. ‘Everything that happened. Blame him, blame the people who think like him and allow him to ascend to power, but never blame anyone else’.

Harry blinks and doesn’t answer her. 

‘We are better prepared this time’, she tells him, still playing with his hair gently. ‘It will not be like in the First War - we started too late then and we were too few. Now - now we have a better idea of what we need to do, of what he’s after -’

‘The weapon’, he says, and Lily remembers their first night in Grimmauld Place and what little they had told Harry. They never really said it was a weapon, but if Harry thought so, it was for the better.

He didn’t need to hear about that prophecy, not yet. It would give him the wrong ideas probably.

‘Among other things’, she says vaguely. 

He sits again, looking rather upset at her.

‘You really won’t tell me?’

‘That’s not your burden to care, Harry. Not now. I know you don’t like to hear that and I know you don’t think it’s fair, but… when you are older. Of age, at least. After school. If there is still a war going on then… then we can talk about you joining the Order and knowing things’.

Harry doesn’t look like he believes her. ‘You would just not care if I joined the Order? Simple as that?’

‘I will care’, she guarantees, running a hand nervously through her hair as James would have done. ‘But I won’t forbid you. No one forbade me, it wouldn’t be fair if I tried to stop you’.

He still looks suspiciously, but Lily just returns his gaze without blinking. She is telling him the truth; sure, she will do everything she can so that Voldemort can be finished before he is of age, but if he is seventeen and the war is still happening, she knows she won’t be able to stop him.

Like her, Harry never refrains from doing the right thing and she taught him to never stand for prejudice.

‘And until then? What do I do? Just sit here waiting?’, he asks, but for once he doesn’t sound like he is fighting with her.

‘Of course not. You can study’. When Harry grimaces, she smiles. ‘Everything you do in school is important. Every lesson - yeah, even Potions, don’t give me that look. You study and you use it to prepare yourself. Not just you, but Ron and Hermione too. All of you must be ready for what happens outside. Life won’t be like in school all the time, where you know when a spell will hit you or that when the bell rings you are safe’.

Harry bits his lips, looking thoughtful.

‘I know it’s not. I mean - for the Triwizard Tournament I learned a lot of spells and how to cast them, but - when it comes to the real thing, when -’, he takes a deep breath. ‘- when I was in the graveyard with Voldemort, it’s not like in school. It’s just your guts and instinct and - and trying to survive’.

This is the most Harry has said about the night of Voldemort’s resurrection to her and, for the first time, Lily wonders if she really wants to know. Just thinking about the desperation he must have felt fighting for his life…

He survived, she tells herself. You won’t be able to keep him under your wings forever, so you give him all the skills you can. You make sure he will be ready.

‘That is it, Harry. Promise you will take your studies seriously this year. Not just because of the OWLs, but because you know what’s happening out here, even if everyone else is denying it’.

He looks solemnly as he gives a tiny nod to her.

‘I will. And I will make sure others are prepared too. I - I don’t want - what happened to Cedric - to ever happen again’.

She smiles serenely to him, even as she remembers Amos Diggory’s cries and thinks darkly he won’t be the last parent to despair for his child in this war.

The good die young.

‘Are you going to stay here?’, he asks, distracting her from her grim thoughts. Lily sighs.

‘No, I promised Molly I would make sure everyone is in their bed not too late. You know how chaotic September 1st can be. And then -’

‘Then?’

‘I will just stay up a little bit longer’.

Harry looks at her as if he can see all that she is not telling him.

‘Dad will be home late?’ he asks, though it doesn’t really seem a question. Lily just sighs, confirming it. ‘I could keep you company’.

Lily smiles more warmly now.

‘You can go rest, Harry, it’s no problem. I’ll just make myself a tea and wait in the kitchen’.

‘I’m not sleepy’, he assures her. ‘I haven’t been sleeping much. I keep having the weirdest dream, really… And, well, I thought we could make some hot chocolate’.

That brings a warmth to her that has nothing to do with the beverage. She thinks of late nights with James and Harry, especially in winter, when they would make hot chocolate and share it in front of the fireplace in their house.

That kind of silly small moments that never seem important as you are living them, but somehow they turn into your favourite memories.

‘With whipped cream?’, she asks, her voice lighter now, and Harry smirks, making his resemblance to James more evident.

‘You can even put a little bit of brandy and I won’t tell anyone’.

She blushes, getting up. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about’.

‘I’m fifteen, mum, I get it now what was the medicine in your chocolate’.

‘When did you get so smart?’, she asks playfully, taking his arm so they can descend the stairs together to the kitchen. ‘Anyway, no alcohol for you’.

‘Spoilsport’, he complains without any real malice. ‘When will I get to drink?’

‘If you are still asking me, Harry, then you are still too young, trust me’, Lily answers grinning.

Harry shakes his head, mumbling to himself almost indignantly but this is such a normal teenage behaviour that Lily will take it without complaining. That’s the kind of thing she wants him to be worried about.

She kisses him softly on the cheek before they enter the kitchen, knowing Harry would be too embarrassed to be seen receiving a kiss from his mother in front of everyone - another very usual teenage behaviour -, and smiles to herself.

‘Thanks for the company’, she says later, when they are alone in the kitchen after sending everyone to bed.

‘Anytime, mum’, he promises, filling his cup with whipped cream, while they accommodate themselves to wait for James to come home.

[amodicumofdutch]

Dutch and Hosea parenting roles headcanons!

Hosea:

Is definitely the Strict Dad™

Dead serious when it comes to curfews, chores and the like

When Arthur and John came back to camp later than expected, they were definitely more scared of Hosea than of Dutch

Hosea can be really intimidating sometimes (think of that camp interaction where he finds Sean sleeping on guard duty)

That being said, he is also incredibly reliable and consistent

As in, he’s probably the first person in Arthur’s and John’s life that actually provides stability in the sense of being a principled and predictable authority figure

Would never snap at them out of temper or because he’s having a bad day

Will say sorry later if he thinks he’s been too harsh on them. In these cases, he comes over to Arthur’s/John’s tent to talk because he knows they’re not used to talking about problems so he has to be the one who initiates conversation

In general, Hosea is all about talking things out. So much so that John coined the phrase “the Famous Hosea Talk” when he and Arthur were younger. At first, they’re really baffled and annoyed by this habit of Hosea’s but later on, they come to love it and rely on it a lot. It’s the main reason why Arthur is so thoughtful and reflective as a grown-up. (Talking to Hosea is like free talk therapy, really)

That’s the other great thing about Hosea: He’s ALWAYS there. Like, even when he has problems of his own, you can always go to him and talk to him and he will do his best to help you

So. Much. Good. Advice. (Also, he will totally follow up on his advice and kick your arse if you ignore it)

When one of the boys gets sick, it’s mostly Hosea who cares for them, making them tea and herbal medicine and staying by their side day and night if they have a fever

Hosea only ever reads them bedtime stories when they’re sick (normally, reading is Dutch’s domain)

Will tell them All The Stories however, ranging from clearly invented, outrageous tales to real stories from his own life. And everything in between. The lines tend to become a bit blurred because Hosea is a masterful narrator.

Freely talks about his own childhood when they ask. Sometimes he even talks about his dad.

Takes the boys on hunting trips and teaches them everything they need to know about nature and survival skills. (Arthur is a lot more interested in this than John who tends to zone out when Hosea lectures them on plants and herbs. Once fell asleep in the middle of a monologue about creeping thyme. Hosea did not react kindly to that.)

Also teaches them how to lie convincingly, how to come up with a fake identity and backstory on the spot and how to win at poker. He even teaches them some basic maths- and account-keeping skills (because let’s face it, Dutch is probably shit at maths)

Is not one for overly emotional displays of affection, but he loves both of them deeply, as if they were his own sons.

Dutch:

Dutch is the Fun Dad™. At least at first glance.

Is a lot less strict than Hosea when it comes to stuff like chores and curfews. (You know that camp interaction where Dutch tells Mary-Beth ‘relax, I’m not Miss Grimshaw’ when striking up a conversation with her? This is how he talks to Arthur and John, sometimes letting them off the hook and making them feel like they’re part of almost a small conspiracy against Hosea and his strictness)

That being said, he does not encourage slacking off on chores in general. In fact, he frequently bemoans that Arthur and John should work harder for the camp, for the cause, for their family. Will give them impromptu motivational speeches along these lines if he’s in the mood. (Arthur takes this way more serious than John. Arthur’s intense work ethic as an adult stems in large part from these speeches when he was a teen. They always instilled him with a sense of pride, purpose, and direction but also with a vague sense of lingering guilt he can’t really put his finger on)

As far as drinking and smoking go, Dutch is a lot more relaxed than Hosea. In fact, it is Dutch who buys Arthur his first shot of whiskey at age sixteen, much to Hosea’s dismay (just two weeks earlier, Hosea had firmly refused Arthur’s request to be allowed to try whiskey, telling him he’d have to wait at least two years for that and to better not try and get some in secret or else) Now, Hosea huffs and puffs as Dutch hands Arthur the glass. Arthur will never forget Dutch’s laugh as he coughed the burning liquid back up.

In general, Dutch simply loves to introduce the boys to new things they never had before. He’s the one who buys them their first cigarettes (never cigars though, although one time he let John take a drag of his cigar as a kind of reward for a job well done. Arthur did not like this one bit because he had never been offered that)

More likely than not, it is Dutch who arranges for Arthur’s first brothel visit, possibly as a kind of birthday gift. As with all of Dutch’s gifts, he doesn’t ask what Arthur or John want, he decides for them. And usually, the success proves him right.

Dutch is totally the one they go to if they need advice on anything, um, sexual. Like, if they have romantic problems or relationship problems, they’ll probably ask Hosea, but for anything more spicy they ask Dutch. Dutch is comfortable talking about these kinds of things.

Dutch also gives them (unsolicited) advice on fashion and personal grooming.

In a similar vein, Dutch is the one who gives them advice about how much whiskey is too much and on how to deal with hangovers. While being incredibly relaxed about all this, Dutch is not a fan of drunkenness. In fact, neither Arthur nor John can recall ever having seen Dutch really drunk or out of control. He talks a lot about how it’s important to always stay in control of your own senses, your own fate. So Dutch does not approve of Arthur’s tendency to just keep drinking until he’s a roaring mess. He lectures him about this, repeatedly.

So while Dutch, unlike Hosea, is not a disciplinarian, this does not mean that the boys are more relaxed around him than around Hosea. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Years later, John would try to explain it like that: Hosea could be stern and downright scary sometimes, but you always knew where you stood with him. Like, if you messed up, he’d punish you, but you always knew what kind of behaviour would lead to what kind of response. With Dutch, things were a lot less certain.

With Dutch, it always felt as if everything was at stake. It always felt like you had to perform, to do well, to impress Dutch.

Like Hosea, Dutch would talk to you when you messed up, but the kind of talk would be very different. More a monologue than a dialogue, though intersparsed with poignant questions that made you really think about what you’d done wrong.

All in all, Hosea spent a lot more time talking to Arthur and John. But John would later say that ten minutes of being lectured by Dutch were far more intense than a two-hour conversation with Hosea. Dutch had a way of making you feel deeply ashamed of your behaviour with just a handful of words.

While Hosea was not above using corporal punishment (it being the 1880s and all that), Dutch didn’t do that. Normally.

Dutch had a temper, however. He never liked backtalk, being disrespected. You could never be completely sure what would set him off when he was in a certain mood. (Arthur and John can recall only a small handful of instances over the years where Dutch truly lost his temper with them. But these sure were memorable.)

But usually, Dutch was a joy to be around. Arthur and John always basked in his attention. He had a way of making you feel so special, and valued, and seen.

Teaching and explaining things was as natural as breathing to Dutch, and John and Arthur picked up quite a bit of general education just by listening to his casual references to stuff he’d read. (Dutch used to read widely, his obsession with Evelyn Miller came later on)

Unlike Hosea, Dutch never told them much about his own childhood. John and Arthur didn’t ask.

Teaching the boys how to read was Dutch’s task, one he got started on within days after Arthur and John had joined, respectively. He taught them the alphabet first, then had them spell out words and sentences and finally had them read a number of beginner-level books.

For the first one or two years of their time in the gang, Reading With Dutch was a regular, unskippable activity for Arthur and John. Every Tuesday and Friday, it was time for a reading lesson, no matter what else was going on, no matter how tight camp resources were, no matter if Arthur/John were motivated or not. Dutch was dead serious about the whole reading thing.

For some reason, Dutch was also weirdly insistent that Arthur and John should have nice, elegant handwriting, and had them practice their penmanship until he was satisfied  (John hated that part of their lessons but Arthur didn’t mind, having always been way more skillful with pencil and paper than John)

Even after these more formal lessons had ended, Dutch would continue to gift them books and inquire about what they were reading. He would also read them bedtime stories around the campfire (even though the boys were technically too old for that, noone ever complained, and even Hosea liked to sit back and listen. Dutch had a really good reading voice and would sometimes even mimic the voices of different characters if he was in a good mood)

When the boys were sick or injured, they could not expect too much comfort from Dutch. In fact, Dutch was likely to poke fun at them for being clumsy or to dress them down for being careless. The boys learned quickly that Dutch didn’t like weakness, had little patience for it, so they usually turned to Hosea for comfort instead.

The most they would get from Dutch would be a speech along the lines of “get well, son, we need you strong”. It was almost like he thought he could make the illness go away simply by ordering them to be healthy again.

Dutch taught Arthur and John how to ride a horse, how to shoot, how to use a knife in a brawl. All the Fun Stuff, in short.

Dutch was an excellent teacher when it came to these more practical things but his speciality was shooting. Those early lessons with Dutch are the reason why both Arthur and John turned out to be such impressive shots later on.

He also taught them about killing, how it was sometimes necessary and sometimes wrong, and how to tell the difference. How to put a gun to someone’s head and mean it. How to feel an icy calm while pulling the trigger, and how not to lose your head over it later on.

Dutch was the first person who saw how deep Arthur’s anger went, and the first person to not like him any less because of it. Dutch taught Arthur how to use his anger, how to let it out when the situation called for it. He also showed him how to use violence more efficiently. (Hosea did not approve of these lessons, but Arthur loved them, and privately thought it was these kinds of lessons that saved him, more so than the reading lessons or the love and understanding or any of the other stuff)

[twistedrunes]

George - Chapter 11

A Peaky Blinders Fanfiction 

This is a series. If you’re new here welcome! I would recommend you start at  the beginning:   Chapter One

More chapters of George are available on the Masterlist

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters, settings etc are the property of their respective owners. All original work is my own.

As always thanks for the love, I can’t tell you how much it means to have evoked an emotional response from someone with my writing. After yesterday’s chapter, I just kept going so here is chapter eleven. Somewhere in this chapter is the line I wanted to write from the beginning - it’s only taken about 45,000 words to get there. Hope you all enjoy it. 

Chapter Eleven: Blood Brother

Warnings - (to be on the safe side NSFW) violence, threatening behaviour, character in danger, blood, gore, implied sexual abuse, language, angst,  implied sexual activity, fluff,  

You smooth the dress over your hips and assess yourself critically in the mirror. The dark blue dress is simple but beautiful. But it just feels weird to be wearing a dress, you almost can’t recognise yourself. But it's just so beautiful. You shake your head stunned that you were considering spending so much on a single dress. Which, you thought guiltily, based on your recent past experiences with dresses, would probably be a tacky bloody mess by the end of the evening.

Daisy stuck her head around the curtain looking you up and down “You look amazing.” She said slipping her hand into yours “Come and show Finn.” She said dragging you out to stand in front of the window. Finn was outside, smoking a cigarette having refused to step foot in another dress shop after a full morning of traipsing in and out of them, claiming you were getting too close to Small Heath and that someone might see him. Daisy knocks on the glass to get his attention and as he turns she waves her hands over you presenting you to him. Finn nods and gives you a double thumbs up. “See,” Daisy said pushing you back into the change room. “Plus I’ve found shoes, a coat, a fascinator, a purse and jewellery that will all match.” She enthused.

You join her at the counter as she plays with a pearl hair slide. The other things she had chosen for you piled high on the counter. The shopkeeper can barely contain herself when you tell her you will take everything. Daisy jumps up and down clapping her hands and you send her back out to Finn to wait for you. Once she is outside you add the hair slides she had been playing with to your purchases and ask the woman to wrap them separately.

Stepping out of the store you clear your throat to get Finn and Daisy’s attention as they gaze adoringly at each other. “Dear God.” You moan. “Here Finn, take this.” You hand him the parcel with your purchases to carry, along with the dress Daisy had chosen earlier in the day. You turn to Daisy “These are for you.” You say pushing the small package into her hands.

Daisy opens the package and pushes it back into your hands “No, I can’t. They were too expensive.” She says frowning.

You push them back into her hands, keeping your hands closed around hers “I never could have got through today without you. You deserve them. Plus they go with your dress.” You insist.

Daisy squeals and shows the slides to Finn, who agrees with her that yes they are beautiful. He takes them and puts them carefully in her bag, holding his arm out for her, positioning himself between her and the street. She wraps her arm around his and skips happily alongside him as they make their way down the street.  

Smiling, you fall a little behind, giving them their space. You place your hand on your stomach trying to calm the feeling of unease there. You couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that going to Tommy’s party as Anna was a bad idea. But you and Finn had an agreement.

Your agreement had been struck after another of your long conversations alone in the house when everyone else was out. Not long after he had introduced you to Daisy and sworn you to secrecy about her, you had told him about Tommy’s suggestion that you could be Anna and not George at work. It was something you had been thinking about ever since he had mentioned it. You and Finn had discussed the pros and cons at length. Finn finding your worry that Tommy wouldn’t let you wear pants anymore particularly hilarious, as he imagined you dressed in your finery traipsing around the factory floor. Finally, you had decided that you would go back to being Anna, finding yourself tired of constantly having to think about how you walk, talk and mostly about when you could pee. You knew it would probably be difficult at first and that the guys in the factory would probably give you a hard time. But you felt confident that you could win them over again. Even without Tommy, Arthur and John knocking their heads together.

Finn and you had agreed that you would both reveal your secrets at Tommy’s birthday party. Both hoping that the party, with lots of people and alcohol, combined with the shock of both revelations at once would mean you’d all get through it relatively unscathed. So that’s how you had come to be dress shopping on the far side of Birmingham, dressed in Daisy’s mother’s far-too-large-for-you dress following along behind the two lovebirds. You smiled again watching Finn as he held Daisy’s hand helping her into the car. You actually laughed when he did the same for you.

“Tommy’s party tonight,” John says strutting through the door of your workshop. His red ears a sure sign he had already started the festivities.  “Remember?” He says leaning over your shoulder to see what you’re working on.

“Yeah, I’m just going to finish this off and then head home to get ready. Finn and I are going to drive down together. He’s waiting for me at home.” You reply.

“Wow, that’s beautiful.” He says reaching out towards the gun in your hand.

You slap the back of his hand “Keep your greasy mitts off.” You say moving it out of his grasp.  

John puts his hands over his head playfully “Alright, alright. What is it?”

“Tommy’s birthday present.” You say wiping it down.

“He’s gonna love it,” John says honestly. “so hurry up, hey.” He claps his hands together as he struts back out of the room.

You finishing cleaning the gun. It’s the best thing you’ve ever made you admit to yourself. The gold, silver, platinum and pearl inlays you sourced from Alfie really brought it to life. You put it in the box you have made and wrap it in brown paper.

 Finn is literally jumping from foot to foot when you get home “Where have you been?” He moans. “Your dress and stuff are on your bed.” He continues, ushering you towards the stairs.

“Finishing Tommy’s present.” You reply calmly. “I’m just going to wash up and get dressed.”

“Hurry up!” Finn urges.

You grin at him and straighten his bowtie. “You go get Daisy and I will be ready by the time you get back. Okay?”

“You better be waiting by the door.” He says

“Yes, Finn.” You reply already halfway up the stairs.

 You walk back into the sitting room, checking the clock, beginning to get concerned. Finn had been ages.  Then you hear a horn tooting outside and you collect your purse and Tommy’s present from the hall stand and open the door. You fake a yawn to conceal your amusement at the sight of the dishevelled pair. It doesn’t take much imagination to work out why they have been delayed. Finn runs around the car and opens the door for you.

“Good evening Daisy. Lovely night, isn’t it?” You greet her.

“Yes, Anna, lovely. You look beautiful.” She says turning in her seat, her face flushed.

“You too Daisy, but I think you already know that don’t you.” You tease raising your eyebrows towards Finn as you fix the pearl slide which is falling out of her hair.  

Daisy blushes and Finn’s cheeks glow “Anna!” he cries.

  “Finally!” Arthur calls seeing the car pull into Tommy’s drive. He and John wander over to greet you all.

You lean over the seat and put a hand each on the shoulders of Finn and Daisy. “Ignore everything they say.” You instruct them quietly. “If they get too much just come and get me, and I’ll sort them out. Alright?”

“Finn lad.” John exclaims sticking his head through the window of the car “How did you end up with two lovely women in your car?”

“Fuck me!” Arthur grunts

“Shut up you two.” You say stepping out of the car “Try and behave like gentlemen for once. Hey?”

“George?” Arthur slurs trying to get a better look at you in the twilight.

“Yes, but Anna for tonight, alright?” You say, placing your hands on Arthur’s and John’s shoulders turning them and guiding them back towards the house. With a final shove, you stop and wait for Finn and Daisy. Giving them both a quick peck on the cheek as they reach you “Well there’s no going back now.” You say with false confidence. You move to the other side of Finn and link your arm around his and the three of you walk up the drive to the house.

 “Good evening Miss,” Arthur says, with a nod towards Daisy.

“Arthur, John, this is my girlfriend Daisy.” Finn says his chest puffing out with pride “Daisy these are two of my brothers, Arthur and John.”

“Well, it is a pleasure,” Arthur says kissing the back of Daisy’s hand. John nods in greeting and shakes Daisy’s hand.

“All right you two,” you give Finn a little push through the door “inside now and get Daisy a drink. Introduce her to Tommy and Ada.” You instruct. Finn nods and hurries Daisy inside.

You grab the backs of Arthur’s and John’s collars before they can follow. Spinning them to face you. You glare at them both “You will not do a single thing to embarrass that boy or to make Daisy think poorly of him. If you do, I will fucking hurt you.” You whisper menacingly.

“We’re just having a little fun.” John whines.

“No. Right? Fucking No.” You growl.

Arthur leans back against the door frame, swaying slightly “Fuck me.” He rumbles.

“I mean it, Arthur.” You threaten.

“No,” Arthur shakes his head “Fucking gorgeous.” He says looking you up and down and waving his cigar in your general direction.

You smile and give him a peck his cheek. “Thank you, Arthur. Now go find your wife.”

“Fucking right. Now everyone’s here. Time for me to give a fucking speech for my fucking little brother.” He announces loudly, striding through the house.

John gives a little bow and indicates for you to go before him “Ladies first.” He teases. You walk past him, with a little nod. “Come on,” John says putting his hand in the small of your back to guide you.

You stop “I just need the loo.” You whisper “I’ll be back in a minute.”  

You can hear Arthur behind you calling loudly for everyone to “Shut the fuck up.”

Slipping into Tommy’s office you hear clapping, cheering and rowdy cries of happy birthday. Then silence falls again, you assume Tommy is probably making some kind of speech. You put the box on Tommy’s desk, fiddling it into position in the middle of the leather blotter. You can’t help smiling a little as a rousing round of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ seeps through the walls.

The smell of Tommy fills your nose, cigarettes, whiskey and gunpowder, everything about him is smoky. His scent seemingly as much feature of the room of the as the furniture. Your stomach is still churning, you feel awkward and exposed in your dress and heels. But as always, it’s the smell of Tommy that calms you. You’re half tempted to run upstairs and steal one of his suits and wear that instead. But you think of Finn and your agreement and take a deep breath.  You loiter, wanting the calm to last and find yourself drawn to the bookshelf, pulling books from the shelves to flick through the pages.

You aren’t aware of Tommy’s presence until his hand is on your throat. You start, the book you had been flicking through, falling from your fingers and thudding to the floor. You try to turn but he holds you firm, the muzzle of his gun pressed against your spine. His thumb and index finger press against the underside of your jaw, lengthening your neck uncomfortably, forcing you onto your tiptoes. You spread your hands on the shelf to steady yourself.

His mouth presses to your ear, his breath humid on your skin, you can smell the fresh whiskey on his breath and the aftershave on his skin “This is a private party.” Tommy’s voice is more ominous than normal. You try to speak, but his hand holds your words in your throat. He hasn’t finished talking yet. “I know everyone here except you.”

You swallow hard, surprised to hear a small sigh from Tommy as your Adam’s apple presses against his palm. His voice maintains both its timbre and knife-like edge when he speaks again. “And you I find in my private office. Why?”

“Gift.” You manage to breathe, hand stretching past his hip, vainly trying to point to his desk. He either doesn’t notice or ignores your signal, not acknowledging that you have moved at all.

His teeth grate over your earlobe as he uses his body to press you against the shelves forcing you to turn your head uncomfortably. “A new whore for my birthday, how thoughtful.” He says offhandedly. The coldness of his words pushing you closer to the panic which is hovering around you. You shake your head but his grip only tightens, stopping both movement and sound. His foot slides between yours. His knee pressing between your thighs and moving up forcing your legs to part. He holsters his gun and places his now empty hand on your hip, his fingers slowly dragging the fabric of your dress up your leg.  

Hot tears well in your eyes, unable to get enough air to breathe, you can only will him to stop. You blink and a single tear bounces off your cheek and onto Tommy’s wrist. His grip on you loosens minutely “No.” you manage to squeak.

“Who the fuck do you work for?” He hisses releasing his grip a little more.

“You.” you reply, voice tremulous, more tears spilling onto your cheeks.

“And what is it you do for me, hey love?” His voice ice, disbelieving. He spins you to face him, with such force that your head cracks back against the shelves.

The jolt shocks you into action, unlocking your frozen limbs. You lash out at him. Fist connecting with his cheek. Your single stoned ring splitting the skin on the sharp angle of his cheekbone. His fingers rising instinctively to the injury and his eyebrows lifting in surprise to find a smear of blood.

“I’m a peaky fucking blinder.” You hiss, glaring at him, just long enough to watch the realisation dawn on him, before you push him again, causing him to crash awkwardly into a chair and stumble. Finally free of his grasp you run for the door.

You hear Tommy call something at your retreating back, but it is cut off by the slamming of the door behind you. You don’t stop, desperate not to see a soul you run away from the party, racing down the servant’s stairs and bursting into the kitchen and through, past the startled staff, and out into the garden. The cold air punches you in the gut, forcing what air you did have in your lungs out. You fold in half, gasping. You can feel the sobs building in your chest and you stumble desperately towards the stables, looking for somewhere to hide, not wanting anyone to see you.

 The noise of the party wafts across the grounds, loud music and happy voices. Tears half blinding you, you stumble into the stables where you walk headlong into a wall. “Fuck!” The wall grunts.

“What?” Another voice further away hisses.

“Some bitch from the party. Pissed by the looks of her.” The wall speaks again, you manage to lift your head and realise the wall is, in fact, a massive man. You turn and try to run. He grabs your wrist and yanks you back. You feel your shoulder pop and you cry out, pain blinding you.

“Shut her the fuck up!” The other voice yells.

You can barely stay on your feet, pain weakening your knees. The enormous man throws you on top of a hay bale, palm pressed against your mouth. His free hand punching your temple. You see stars but kick out desperately. Your feet find nothing but air. You feel around desperately with your good arm, the other stubbornly refusing to move. Finally, your hand makes contact with a hay hook. You swing it wildly. It catches the man and he yells out in pain, reefing the hook from your grasp.

“Bruce! Shut the fuck up! Let’s go!”

Bruce grunts in response and loosens his grip on you. You roll off the hay bale and begin scrambling towards the door. “Fuck.” You hear Bruce grunt behind you. Lights explode in your head, as fire shoots through your body and you fall. Pain radiates from your gut. Your hand wraps around the metal protruding from your stomach. The pain pulling your body into a ball. Horses’ hooves clatter around your head and then thunder away. You roll on your side, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth.

You lie motionless for a long time. Encased in a cocoon of pain. Slowly your brain manages to pack the pain in on itself. This is how you survived Victor, packing the pain away. Live now, suffer later. You take hold of the hook, yanking it free. You scream with the release of it. You lay still again, mentally packing the pain up again. Pushing it down.

You need to move. You pull your legs up and use your good arm to crawl for the door. You notice the rake the boys use to muck out the stables. Using the walls for leverage you drag yourself up to a standing position and lean on the rake heavily with your good arm. The other flapping uselessly at your side. Shuffling you slowly pick your way across the gravel. Halfway the rake slips from under you and you slam into the ground. Stars spin around your head and you vomit. You groan and drag yourself along the gravel towards the kitchen door. Eventually reaching it you try banging on it, but no one answers. You drag yourself by your fingertips up the stonework of the door frame, grabbing at the handle, you try to turn it, but your hand, slick with blood, simply slides off causing you to lose your balance. You pitch forward, temple banging against the other side of the stone frame.

“She’s lost too much blood.” The doctor says to Tommy, shrugging indifferently. “She won’t survive the night.”

“Then fucking transfuse her,” Tommy says coldly

“We don’t have the equipment.”

“A piece of tubing and two needles is all they needed in France,” John says joining his brother.

“We don’t have time for typing.”

“We’re all O type.” Arthur says joining his brothers “Tested us in fucking France.”

“So you can start with the three of us while you type the others,” Tommy says slipping off his jacket, his holster and gun becoming visible, Arthur and John follow his lead, none of them trying to conceal their guns. “Now.” Tommy snaps as he rolls up his sleeve.  

“She’s a fucking Shelby now.” Arthur jokes macabrely, rolling his sleeve down and moving aside for Michael to take his place in the chair next to your bed. “That’s four pints of Shelby, now one of Gray. She’ll be fucking telling fortunes in no time.”

Finn carried his bouquet carefully through the halls of the hospital. He hoped you would be awake today. Properly awake, not screaming in terror like the last few times he’d been here. He’d been so relieved when you finally woke up a few weeks ago, but since then you’d been going downhill. 

His breath caught when he remembered yesterday. You had been screaming, crying, and fighting the doctors and nurses. Begging them not to give you any more morphine, telling them it brought Victor back. Once they had dosed you with morphine you had lain in the bed, looking through him. Thinking you were finally calm he had reached out to brush your hair from where it was plastered to your forehead. You had begun sobbing. “I’m sorry George.” Were the only words Finn had understood in the outpouring of grief he had witnessed before the doctor had made him leave, saying he was upsetting you.  

He pushes the door to your room open, nearly dropping the flowers when greeted by the sight of an enormous man receiving a sponge bath. “Fuck, sorry.” He says backing out of the room quickly. Turning on his heel he walks quickly the nurses’ station. “Where’s Anna?” He demands.

The nurse shakes her head slightly. “We have no patient by that name.”

“The fuck you don’t, Anna Hunter, she was in room 251 yesterday.” He says trying to stay calm.  

“I’m sorry I can’t talk about patients who may or may not be in our care.”

Finn was literally seeing red, panic rising in his chest. “Is she dead?”

The nurse looks at Finn with a withering glare. “We can only talk to family sir.”

“She doesn’t have any,” Finn replies helplessly

“I’m sorry sir.” The nurse waves at two orderly’s who come and escort Finn from the hospital.

 Engulfed in fury and fear he doesn’t hear the young nurse until she grabs his sleeve “Mister Shelby.”

Finn turns to her “Yes.” The surprise of being called Mister Shelby softens his tone.

“I’m one of Daisy’s friends.” She says puffing having chased Finn across the lawn of the hospital

Finn looks at her more closely “Sarah right?”

“Yes,” She nods, “I think I know where she is.”

“Yeah, Daisy’s at home,” Finn says distractedly.

“No. The woman in room 251.” Sarah explains.

“Where?” Finn grabs her arms as if to prevent her from running away.

“I think, I mean they have taken her to the asylum. A doctor from there came yesterday to examine her and then she was gone.” Sarah says hopelessly.

 Finn burst into Tommy’s office “They’ve fucking taken her to the asylum.” Tommy and Polly look up from their paperwork.

“Who?” Tommy asks.

“Who?” Finn howls “Fucking Anna! Fucking George!” He slams his palm down on the table.

Arthur, Michael and John who had been in the office next door, join Finn in the doorway.

“What’s wrong little brother.” John teases an automatic reflex to seeing his brother so wound up.

Finn grabs John’s waistcoat at his shoulders, and slams him against the door frame “They have taken fucking Anna to the nuthouse.”

Tommy is now standing, hands open, “Well maybe it’s for the best Finn.” He says calmly.

Finn releases John, turning on Tommy, face scarlet with rage “How would you fucking know? Not once have you been to see her. She fucking saved your life, Arthur’s life, stopped Linda from being raped. She fucking protects this family like it’s her fucking own and you won’t even visit her in the fucking hospital. She’s only there because she was nearly fucking gutted trying to protect your fucking horses. The horses you’ve been to visit three times in the month she’s been doped out of her brain in that fucking hospital.”

The brothers, Polly and Michael are struck dumb by Finn’s outburst. Finn glares at all of them, taking their silence as indifference he continues “You’re a fucking hypocrite Tommy. You say all of this,” he gesticulates wildly around him “all the killing, all the violence is for the family. But she’s protected this family with her fucking life and you won’t lift a finger to help her when she can’t help herself. Fuck you, Tommy.” He spits.

Finn tries to leave but Arthur claps his hand on the back of his neck, pulling him into an embrace. “We know brother. You’re right, she has looked after us.” He presses his forehead to his youngest brothers.

Finn looks at his eldest brother desperately. “It’s the morphine, Arthur. She doesn’t want it. She said it made her see things. She’s terrified. She was seeing people who weren’t there. Some bloke called Victor and then she thought I was someone else.” Thoughts fall from Finn’s mouth haphazardly, as he tries to convince his brother of the peril he senses you are in. “She thinks no one will ever love her because of what she’s done for us.  She doesn’t have anyone. She’s an orphan, like us.” He looks into Arthur’s eyes “She told me we were lucky because we have each other. She’s got no one, Arthur. We have to save her. She’s not mad.” He pleads.

Tommy, expression dark, has crossed the room during Finn’s impassioned plea. Grabbing his jacket, overcoat and cap from the coat rack, he puts his hand on Finn’s shoulder “Come on. Let’s go.” He looks around the Arthur, John and Michael. “Fucking all of you. Let’s go.”

 Doctor Brown damn near pissed his pants at the sight of the Peaky Blinders teeming out of cars in the driveway of his Institute. He called his orderly’s telling them to prevent anyone from entering the building and then phoned the local constabulary demanding a force be sent immediately. By the time he was making his way downstairs the orderly’s were all sitting bloodied and bruised on the floor.

“My name is Doctor Brown and I run this Institute. What in God’s name is going on here?” He demands from halfway down the staircase.

Tommy stepped forward holding out his hand “Thomas Shelby.”

“I have called the police.” Doctor Brown replies, not descending any further and ignoring Tommy’s offered hand.  

“Where is she?” Finn demands, stepping forward, pulling his gun from its holster.

Doctor Brown looks at Tommy as if expecting him to intercede. Tommy stands impassively, seemingly not paying the slightest attention to his brother. “Who?” Doctor Brown says distastefully.

“Anna. Miss Anna Hunter. She was a Birmingham Hospital yesterday when I left at three o’clock in the afternoon and this morning, at ten, she was gone and I was told she was brought here.” Finn says voice even and strong, lifting the gun to aim between, the Doctor’s eyes.

“We have taken on no new patients today.” Doctor Brown says.

“Fuck this,” Arthur says moving across the hall to the locked doors leading to the wards. He kicks the door open shattering the lock. “Right then. Fucking spread out and find her.” He yells back to his family. Finn, John and Michael join him striding down the hallways guns drawn. Tommy remains in the foyer watching Doctor Brown. Hands clasped in front of him, watching calmly.

“Fuck!” John exclaims “I’ve fucking found her.” He yells out into the hall. By the time Finn arrives John has undone the straps tying you to the bed and wrapped a sheet around you to cover your nakedness. Finn bends down over you stroking your hair and speaking softly to you. You don’t respond, not conscious.  

Arthur picks up your hand and holds it in the air, then release’s it and it flops back to the mattress. He shakes your shoulder “Anna, love. Come on wake up!” He says loudly. Lightly slapping your face. You don’t respond. “She’s fucking drugged.” He concludes, eyes blazing.

Finn scoops you up in his arms and begins to carry you down the hall. Tommy sees him approaching and pulls off his overcoat laying it over you and tucking it into Finn's hands. “Put her in the car Finn. I’ll be out in a minute.” He instructs.

John, Arthur and Michael, join him in the hall. “She was fucking naked, Tommy,” John says quietly voice tight, eyes darting to the door to make sure Finn is out of earshot. “There’s a lot of blood,” he pauses not wanting to say the words “between her legs.”

“Fuck ‘em!” Arthur explodes.

Tommy’s jaw tenses and his eyes flash. “I’m taking Anna and Finn to Arrow House. John, Arthur, you lot stay here and find out what they’ve given her and what the fuck happened to her. Michael, call Mary and tell her we’re coming. Tell her to make up a room for Anna and to call the Doctor. Call the cops, get them to work out who else is here who fucking shouldn’t be.” Tommy turns and walks away, as he reaches the bottom of the stairs he looks up at Doctor Brown “Tell ‘em the people here are now under the protection of the Peaky fucking Blinders.”

Tommy slides into the front seat of the car and looks over at you and Finn on the back seat. Finn is holding on to you for dear life. He’s struggling to stop your unconscious body from simply sliding to the floor. Finn is pale, “She’s bleeding Tommy.” He says as he pulls back the sheet and Tommy’s coat, carefully so as not to expose you, showing Tommy the bloodstained bandages wrapped around your stomach.

Tommy reaches out and grabs his brother’s hand, holding his gaze “She’ll be alright now, Finn. We’ve got her now.”

Chapter Twelve: Amongst The Thorns > > >

More chapters of George are available on the George Masterlist

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[harrisonkitteridge-blog]

The Lying Detective: I’m Actively Hate-watching Now

SPOILERS FOLLOW

I didn’t like the first episode of the new season of Sherlock, but I sincerely hoped having the risible nonsense of the Mary Watson/AGRA storyline tied up would free things up a bit. I think the Culverton Smith case might have delivered, but they went all in on the “I’m so beset by grief I’m hallucinating my dead spouse” gambit. Really? In what we keep being told is “clever” television? Grief is about absence, about a space that can’t be filled, about feeling trapped and asphyxiated by it. But we were never actually shown Mary and John’s relationship, so all the emotional heavy lifting is being done retroactively, and it’s heavy-handed, saccharine, out-of-character claptrap. John being with Rosie, struggling to parent alone would have had me in floods, but Moftiss always chooses exposition when there isn’t a gun being pulled or a joke being cracked. There is something about genuine, non-sensational emotion that seems to make them uncomfortable; it always has to be book-ended by effacing humour. As much as I dislike the “I see dead people” shortcut to exploring grief, I understand that it probably worked for most of the viewing audience, but Moftiss could have at least allowed some of those moments sink in. They just had to cut off the opening scene in the therapist’s office with police sirens and helicopters in service to a gag about Sherlock’s penchant for grand entrances.

Twists>Action>Jokes>>>>>>>>Characters.

The “Culverton Smith is a serial killer case” was serviceable (in spite of the horrible pun they worked in), and I liked Toby Jones’s performance, but they oversold him as a villain, and it didn’t really live up to the hype. There was too much extemporizing – all that soliloquizing in the boardroom had me staring off into space after a while. Giving Toby Jones all the scenery in Greater London to chew isn’t the same as making his character “evil”. There being no victims was a huge omission, in my opinion. You have to see what they’ve done, whom they’ve hurt or none of it really matters. Them erasing all of Smith’s victims sits really poorly with me, and it goes back to the heart of my problem with the direction of the show – the people don’t matter. Not really. Nevertheless, the story held my interest, and (before the twist at the end) I actually quite liked Sherlock’s interaction with Culverton’s “daughter” (even though it was a bit drawn out).

The middle episode of each season tends to be the weakest, and The Lying Detective was definitely one of the better offerings, and I loved Mrs. Hudson deducing Sherlock, her recognising that he’s not a “cold reasoning machine”. So why am I actively hate-watching?

That third act…

Gurl…

Where to begin?

“I killed his wife.”

No you didn’t, Sherlock. Stop making everything about you. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the potential source of the guilt – he thinks he should have seen it coming and is gutted that he didn’t. That feeling that there’s something incongruous about his reaction stems from Moftiss’s story being driven solely by plot. The entire premise of The Lying Detective is that, even off his head on drugs, Sherlock can predict other people’s behaviour a fortnight out. So why the Norbury deduction, then? You didn’t have to be a genius to see that de-escalation was the only play. So, is Moftiss’s Sherlock clever or isn’t he? It depends on what direction they want to take the plot. They play up his intellect for style when it suits them and ignore it when it gets in the way of having a trigger pulled. If he’d given it all he had, used the full power of his mind and still failed, Mary had still died, that twinge of the ego and John’s irrational feeling of betrayal would have been more warranted. All the stubbled, Byronic theatrics would have been earned. He would have been replaying everything in his mind to see what he missed. But he didn’t miss anything. He just acted like a not very clever arrogant cock.

I’ve made it pretty clear that I think the Mary Watson/AGRA storyline was a steaming pile. I didn’t like or believe her character. The character is head-spinningly inconsistent because they keep shoving her around in the plot and not reconciling the conflicts that arise. Nevertheless, I’m sickened by how ill-used she’s been. If The Six Thatchers didn’t already demonstrate it, Mary’s story was all in service to ramping up the man-emo quotient – to get John and Sherlock to gnash their teeth and rend their garments. The loving spouse, smiling beatifically and giving emotional advice from beyond the veil – that’s where they decided to take the BAMF assassin. They can take that nonsense straight back to the vomitorium where they sourced it. But that’s not really my biggest problem with the narrative.

“The only way to save John is to make him save you.”

As, Moftiss has written it, the entire construct of the Sherlock-John-Mary relationship is organised around John being an object – there to be manipulated. Mary couldn’t advise Sherlock to treat John like an adult and be patient and do the unsexy, heavy lifting of being a best mate. That would mean treating John like a person, not a series of buttons to push. Do you know what works with most non-personality disordered people who have “trust issues”? Persistence. But that’s not flashy enough, though, is it? Telling a drug addict who has a history of reckless behaviour that might reasonably be classified as self-harm to put himself in terrible danger to spur John into action is something a psychopath would suggest. That is Moftiss’s vision of the loving spouse whose spectre is haunting John. Except I honestly don’t think they even see the deeply disturbed psychology they’ve conjured. In their minds, Mary has been completely rehabilitated, and her egging Sherlock into self-harm is noble, just like shooting and nearly killing him somehow was. Are mature adults who’ve actually been in relationships or who’ve just interacted with other human beings for any length of time really meant to be taking any of this seriously? And then there’s the notion that someone as warped as Mary had much to teach John about being a good man – that her vision of him was somehow superior to what he already is. John Watson isn’t perfect, but this idea that he needed Mary to improve him and get him up to scratch is not only unsupported by everything that’s come before but relies on the grotesque stereotype that every man is a bumbling dumb fuck who needs a “good woman” to straighten him out. Disgusting. Moftiss have constructed a reality in which a person who is willing to shoot and kill people to hide her past ill deeds has a superior moral compass to someone who inappropriately texted a woman he met on a bus. All the brutal violence Mary did to the eponymous hero of the show is inconsequential, but John flirting via text is of great importance. It’s no wonder the story is careening out of control. The things that should matter don’t.

The return of Irene Adler.

A few months ago, in an Instagram post, I theorised that Sherlolly was the ship Moftiss would most likely go for (there was never going to be Johnlock). I knew an attractive woman was always going to be their play, so, barring a newcomer, I assumed it would be Molly. Irene Adler would be next in line. Sherlolly just seemed like the likeliest outcome given Molly helping Sherlock fake his death and the way she came out of her shell and started calling him on his bullshit. But I underestimated just how much Moftiss esteem flash over substance. I do not like the handling of Irene Adler in any of the recent incarnations of Sherlock Holmes and will continue to argue until there is no breath left in me that: Irene Adler is not Delilah to Sherlock Holmes’s Samson! In the original Arthur Conan Doyle story, A Scandal in Bohemia, she beats him while keeping all of her clothes on and by outstrategising him, not by distracting him and drugging him. Not-quite-dead Mary cackling, “I bet you saved her! The posh boy loves the dominatrix!” made me want to rage puke. The whole point of Irene Adler, what makes her “The Woman”, is that she doesn’t need anyone, least of all Sherlock Holmes to White Knight for her. She handles her business better than he ever could.

Moving on.

I can’t believe they actually had a middle-aged adult tell another middle-aged adult: “romantic entanglement would complete you as a human being.“ Our relationships (romantic and otherwise) should enrich and improve our lives, but this notion that we’re all hobbled and shambling through life and need to be repaired by our “soulmates” has got to stop. It’s why so many people can’t have healthy romantic relationships grounded in reality – they’ve set their significant others (and themselves) unmeetable, fairy tale standards, and their disappointment and ensuing resentment are foregone conclusions.

Take it all straight back to the vomitorium.

Miss me?

No, Jim. I don’t. Whenever a show circles back to the vanquished supervillain, Fonzie is prepping his water skis.

The secret brother is really a secret sister whose name is The East Wind, and she’s completely unhinged and may be Moriarty or is at least connected to him, and there’s some weird psychosexual element between her and her brother who doesn’t seem to know what she looks like, and…

GTFOH AND GTFOH FOREVER!

Once Mary Watson said “It’s a skip code”, a preposterous story became virtually inevitable, so I’m not surprised Sherlock has descended into near pantomime. The real reason I’m pre-emptively upset about the finale is because I know Eurus’s mental illness will be treated solely as a plot driver. Moftiss will only scratch the surface of the pain, the fear, the feelings of failure, the societally enforced shame, the hopelessness that a family goes through when one of them is diagnosed with a mental illness serious enough to require long-term institutionalisation. Really think about what it means to be related to someone who is criminally insane and how much good drama lives there. There will be helicopters and gunfights and fisticuffs, maybe even abseiling, in the finale, but virtually no real examination of the damage done by the emotional claymore mine that went off, kept going off and is still going off in the Holmes family after Eurus was diagnosed. And Eurus herself? Maybe they’ll show her as a child strangling a cat or hurting Redbeard (if they even pay her that much attention outside of letting her gorge herself on the scenery), but she’ll be a caricature, a monster with no inner life. How do I know they’ll do this? Because they spent this entire episode using visual and auditory hallucinations – signs of extreme mental disturbance and distress that require urgent psychiatric intervention – as shorthand for “I’m grieving the death of my spouse”. They couldn’t show John alone, struggling with a newborn, suffering through the feelings of abandonment and intense isolation that underpin grief because it’s too ordinary.

Everyone has been pointing out all the call-backs to previous episodes and what they mean. Here’s my go at it: I predict that John’s grief and psychiatric issues are now magically fixed, just like his limp and his PTSD. Moftiss told us from the very beginning that Sherlock was shallow and emotionally incoherent. But:

I’ll hate-watch the finale just for the sake of completion and as source material for the inevitable rant.

Moftiss…

Ugh…

Thank goodness for the palate cleanser of Elementary…