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leonardcohenofficial · 4 years ago

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one little chance

a little (extremely) self-indulgent hawkeye/BJ new year’s eve oneshot for @trapperjohnmcintyre [also on ao3]

They leave the New Year’s Eve party a few minutes before midnight, heading back to the relative quiet of the Swamp before their friends and colleagues swarm them with well-wishes. “1951 over and done,” Hawkeye says exhaustedly, sinking onto his cot.

“Like the Colonel said, may 1952 be a damn sight better than 1951.” BJ wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, settling next to Hawkeye. “May we all be elsewhere this time next year.”

“Next year in Jerusalem, as they say,” Hawkeye says, reaching over to the still to hand BJ one of two previously poured martinis. “Though I’d take there, Crabapple Cove, or anywhere in between where I can catch some shuteye over this wasteland.”

“I’ll drink to that,” BJ says, and the two clink glasses. “Here’s to a 1952 filled with family, friends, and plenty of sleep.”

“You sure you don’t want to go back to the party?” Hawkeye offers after a few minutes of quiet drinking, and BJ shakes his head.

“I couldn’t be happier here with you, Hawk.” Something in Hawkeye’s chest tightens at the sentiment, but he manages a smile as BJ squeezes his shoulder.

“Shall we see what Seoul City Sue is spinning for the occasion?” Hawkeye shrugs, and BJ turns on the radio, fiddling with the dial to get the best reception.

“—has been Soul City Sue, now ‘Auld Lang Syne-ing’ off with Margaret Whiting and ‘What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?’”

The orchestra kicks in, and they sit in the soft quiet, watching the snow fall as Margaret Whiting’s voice continues over the crackling airwaves.

Maybe it's much too early in the game; Ah, but I thought I'd ask you just the same— What are you doing New Year’s, New Year's Eve?

The song has been one of his favorites for a few holiday seasons now, but something about it is making Hawkeye more anxious than indulged. He knows BJ must be missing home, missing Peg, and the musical schmaltz, however endearing, likely isn’t helping things. (Not to mention his latent feelings for a certain bunkmate with size fourteen feet threatening to come to the forefront and spill over at any time, exacerbated by lyrics about being in love and afraid of blowing it all.) He wonders if BJ would dance with him if he asked, if he would hold him in his arms as the snow fell around them, if he kissed him would he—

The song ends, and a sudden burst of cheers erupts from across the camp, scored by celebratory music played at full volume.

“I guess it’s midnight,” BJ says softly, glancing in the direction of the mess tent.

“Yeah,” Hawkeye says, the tightness in his chest growing. He wants nothing more than to kiss BJ, but he can think of a million and one reasons why acting on that deluded idea is a horrible plan. But something buried in him is screaming about beginnings, about little chances, about being with those you love at the start of a new year, and he opts to take a major risk.

Hawkeye takes a deep breath, leans in, and presses his lips to BJ’s cheek. It terrifies him to his core. “Happy new year, Beej,” he whispers.

He then pulls back, and they look at each other in silence, and Hawkeye’s heart beats so fast it feels like a tattoo under his ribs.

BJ gets a look in his eye that he can’t decipher, and then Hawkeye finds BJ’s lips on his, kissing him like he needs it, like he’ll drown if Hawkeye doesn’t kiss him back. Hawkeye could live in this feeling, BJ’s fingers tangled gently in his hair, his skin warm in the bitter cold. It’s a hell of a way to start the new year.

When they finally break the kiss, a little breathless, BJ touches Hawkeye’s cheek, softly but apprehensively. “I, uh—Hawk, I—“

“Wow,” Hawkeye says, eyes brimming with tears that seem to have welled out of nowhere. “Beej, I—“

“Hawk, if I’ve royally messed this up—“

“No! No, Beej, I—“ Hawkeye laughs, and it comes out half like a sob. “If I told you how long I’ve wanted to do that, you probably wouldn’t believe me.” “I think I have a pretty good idea,” BJ says, blue eyes shining above a giant grin. “I think we’re in the same ballpark here.”

“So, as the song says, I stand one little chance?”

“Oh, I think you might.” BJ brushes away a tear that’s spilled down Hawkeye’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, and it feels like sparks exploding on Hawkeye’s skin. “How about me? Do I?”

“Why don’t you try that again and find out?” Hawkeye counters with a grin of his own, and as BJ kisses him again, they both can’t help but laugh against each other’s lips, thinking of their shared future, in 1952 and hopefully beyond, to come.

#i wrote this in like an hour and a half and did not edit so i hope you enjoy ✨#mash #hawkeye pierce #bj hunnicutt #hunnihawk #tv: mash #M*A*S*H*#otp: hunnihawk

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peepspersonalperspective · 4 years ago

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DASH & LILY: A Dash of Warmth with the onset of Winter

4/5

Dash and Lily is the latest Netflix mini-series, that has accomplished the feat of giving me the warm fuzzies in a span of 8 episodes. Now, I’m not usually a fan of christmas themed content (except Love Actually) because they’re usually quite standardized; most of them excessively emphasizing and exploiting the miracle of Christmas and what not. I’m a romantic but even those are too much for me.

However, that’s not the case with Dash & Lily. I was intrigued by the premise but I went into it with lukewarm expectations. Perhaps because I kinda feel guilty for still gobbling up YA shit like a giddy high school girl. Nevertheless, I’m glad I gave Dash & Lily a chance.

So Lily is a homebody who immerses herself in books and believes the world is all rainbows and roses, including the magic of christmas. Dash is well, reserved, often described as “finicky”, overcoming heartbreak, with a disdain for the holiday season. I know this is pretty much the set up for most christmas movie protagonists, but stay with me here. Lily very soon realizes that reality is not as lovely as fiction, when her family disperses for their own christmas endeavours, leaving a disappointed Lily to spend her first christmas by herself. That’s when her brother and his boyfriend come up with this crazy idea of indulging her faith in romance, by orchestrating a bookstore treasure hunt with a diary. They call it “real-life tinder.” Hence, Lily hides the diary next to her favourite book at the Strand, hoping that some decent teenage boy would take the bait. Lo and behold, Dash does. And so their pen-friendship begins, as they exchange messages through the diary, without physically interacting with one another.

Now, my first thought was obviously “Stranger danger!” but when you see it, it’s all explained, and supervised. ;-)

You’d think that Lily would go onto convince Dash that Christmas is stupendo-fantabulous-fantasmagorically-magical like them good old christmas movies, but it’s really not like that. This is not a show about restoring faith in christmas. It’s more about restoring faith in oneself, learning to overcome inhibitions, taking risks, and finding comfort in who you are. Dash and Lily help each other through their series of creative dares and it’s actually fun to see them grow as they go through each and every one of them.

More than Dash though, I really have to hand it to Lily’s character. I really liked her. I saw her come out of her shell, accept herself, and own the fact that yeah she’s weird and amazing. She’s like a more rational version of Phoebe. I can’t think of anyone else who would pull off a christmas tree dress with that kinda confidence. Yet she’s not unnaturally incognizant of her surroundings. She does feel awkward at first, and you can see that, but she just decides to accept and move on. I have to mention the slam poetry monologue, which was so genuine. Kudos to the writers, editors and director Fred Savage for not making it gimicky, but really an honest confession, that doesn’t sound like a rehearsed rap, but more like an untethered flow of thoughts vocalized. My favourite quote:

“I’m tired of boys pulling our pigtails and getting called cute.....I wish I could’ve stood up to all the bullies who made me feel too weird, too different, too Asian...”

For all the merits of the show, there were a few shortcomings. The Cinderella episode made me roll my eyes hard. I’m really tired of Cinderella parallelism in movies and TV. It was great when Hilary Duff and Chad Michael Murray sported that, but five other spiritual sequels later and a million other references, I'm exhausted. I must say the finale was not up to the mark, either. The forceful Jonas Brothers plug in was rather unnecessary I mean I get it Nick Jonas produced and all, but nah. Also it seemed too rushed. And I’m not sure where I stand on the end scene. Cute? Or Cheesy? Well I don’t want to give any spoiler away, but the last scene kinda reminded me of a cheesy moment with one of my exes *shudders*

Personal Anecdote: So my college boyfriend had mentioned that he’d never kissed before (like Lily lol) and he’d said he’d imagined fireworks when he’d have his first kiss. When we had our first kiss, which was incidentally his first kiss ever, there was a brief awkward moment right after, so I broke the silence by saying “I’m sorry there were no fireworks” and smiled. And he’d said, “There were for me.” *Cringe* Anyway this is not relevant. Sorry.

So, Dash and Lily is a hot cup of coco on a cold winter night. I didn’t think that with such a cheesy premise you could encompass so much more about human sentiments, and within reason. It also displays the true color and diversity of New York without brandishing token representation.

Austin Abrams and Midori Francis do a great job, as do every other character in this series.Every character is like a misshapen puzzle piece that simply fits into the bigger beautiful picture. It wasn’t difficult to finish this series in one fell swoop.

Also, I loved the rendition of Auld Lang Syne at the end of the movie. Is it just me or am I hearing that song everywhere these days?!

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artificialqueens · 4 years ago

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Things That Were (Branjie) - pureCAMP

A/N - … Hi.

I won’t get into it, I don’t think I need to. But here’s a return no one expected, at least.

I wrote this based on some Feelings I have and also Jinkx’s song The Auld Lang Syne Song from… Christmas Queens 3? It has this beautiful sad, wistful, nostalgic kind of feel and it made me nostalgic for love and that strange time between Christmas and New Years. Largely sad, mostly bittersweet. Dedicated to my love Ortega, and in part for the nostalgia fic challenge.

I appreciate any and all support I’ve been given over these past months.

You have a new memory from (1) years ago!

Brooke swipes across absent-mindedly. She doesn’t think much about it, they pop up all the time in the holiday season. There’s a little loading screen, decorated with animated tinsel, that flashes in her face before every ounce of breath is knocked out of her body.

This is what dying feels like. Brooke wonders if there’s a loading screen before entrance into the afterlife. She supposes it would allow the dead some time to adjust, at least.

It’s a perfect, filtered picture. The Christmas tree looks beautiful, even as the pine dies, all decked in shades of red and gold, glittering twists and lights that twinkle gently enough to lull you to sleep. It stands tall in the background of the photo, illuminating everything with a cosy glow. At the forefront of the image, Brooke is that kind of happy, sleepy, warm drunk. Full of Baileys, probably, and little mini mince pies and leftover chocolate from boxes opened and half-finished. There’s a glass of red wine behind her, slightly visible on the table. She’s cradling Henry to her chest, kissing the top of his head.

Vanessa is next to her. The remnants of plum lipstick still on her lips, grinning, Apollo in her arms. She’s beautiful. She looks and feels like how Christmas is supposed to - welcoming, kind, gentle, sweet. And Brooke knows that she’s drunk too, and right after this she burst into laughter and her foghorn voice shattered the cosiness and it was so right and so them. And she knows how her stomach had twisted horribly after they took it.

It’s perfect. She won’t share this one. It will stay in her archives. It’s really been a year, huh.

The cats look at her accusingly, as if they know. They probably do know. They know everything about Brooke. Every flaw, every fault. If they could speak, she knows they’d ask for Vanessa instead of her. Well, tough. Vanessa’s gone, Brooke thinks, almost aggressively as if she’s trying to telepathically tell them so. Vanessa’s been gone for a year.

Or has she? Vanessa isn’t the one who left. Vanessa isn’t the one who walked out without warning, who pretended the bliss was as blissful as it looked and then ran from it all. No, no, that was Brooke.

She shuts off her phone, clicks the button to make the picture fade to black. The switch from warm and bright to black is jarring. It’s probably how Vanessa felt, waking up to an empty bed.

“Brookieeeeee,” Vanessa sings. She’s grinning, cheesing so hard that her eyes have disappeared, nothing but the flicker of a fake eyelash visible from them. “Brooklyn Briiiiiidge…”

Brooke turns, laughing, and waves away the whistles and teasing mumbles from their friends. “Vanjie?”

She pushes her lips together and makes kissy noises, wordlessly begging. Brooke gently holds her chin, lifts her head, kisses. She tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg and chocolate, a festive concoction of things that Brooke usually hates but loves on her. Vanessa looks amazing in gold and she’s an Oscar from head to toe, sparkling, beautiful.

Akeria makes pointed eye contact with Brooke, then mimes gagging herself with two fingers.

Vanessa rolls her eyes, the fondness on her face so evident that it could light up the entire bar. “I love you.”

And Brooke kisses her. The kiss says what it needs to.

Christmas a whole year ago. Brooke made a series of decisions. Stupid ones, maybe. Definitely. She doesn’t know who she’s kidding.

Funny how she finds it so hard to kid herself. Apparently, she had no issue kidding Vanessa.

A little while after Silky comments that Brooke really shouldn’t still be living in the shithole apartment she rented at 20, she realises that as rude and bluntly honest it had seemed at the time, she’s right. She resolves not to mention this to Silky, in case her ego inflates too far and she flies away like Aunt Marge (she thinks this with love), and starts looking online. And it’s impossible.

So out comes the phone, because there’s only one person to go to for this. For anything. Because she’s always there and she’s always willing and she only ever wants some quality time as payment.

B: Vanjie [8.22pm]

B: Vanjerella….. [8.22pm]

B: Vanessaaaaaa [8.23pm]

V: brooke lynn hytes [8.24pm]

B: Not the full name… am I in trouble? [8.24pm]

V: do u wanna be? ;) [8.24pm]

B: Hmm… I’ll think about it… [8.24pm]

B: Anyway I need your heeeeeelp [8.24pm]

V: i gotchu boo [8.25pm]

V: what u need baby [8.25pm]

B: Cutie [8.25pm]

B: I’m going apartment hunting, help me look? Idk what to even look for [8.25pm]

V: exciting!!!!!! [8.26pm]

V: babyyyyy this is so exciting for u omg!!! I love moving [8.26pm]

V: i hope i can help!! im usually terrible at this but i think we’ll have fun!! [8.26pm]

V: although i gotta wonder what made u ask me instead of somebody smart like nina [8.27pm]

B: Ah shit, great point nvm I’ll ask her [8.28pm]

B: Jk. Asked u because ur always here visiting, may as well find something u like as well <3 [8.28pm]

V: u bout to make a bitch cry [8.29pm]

Vanessa was over in maybe ten minutes tops, Brooke remembers. It was like she could read Brooke’s mind, and she’d brought coffee for them both to keep them going and even a little bag of kitty treats from the place she’d stopped at (“a guy was sellin’ them outside and I felt a little sorry for him in the cold so I bought ‘em. They’re good, the ones you usually get!”). They were up for hours scrolling, and then searching in person just so that she could act as a second opinion.

Brooke stands up from the couch and walks slowly, heavily, towards the window. Her Christmas tree is silver this year, silver and purple, and as pretty and icy as it had seemed when she decorated it, it feels cold and desolate now. It reflects on the glass and for a moment it’s hard to focus on the world outside when the world inside is so disturbed, but she manages. Dark as it is, the lights of the city are never gone, and she has a beautiful view of a metropolitan paradise laid out beneath her.

Vanessa loved the view. She picked it, in a way. Brooke was unsure about the viewing, and Vanessa wheedled, tugging her arm and telling her she’d love it.

She did love the view. But it was Vanessa’s view, that she saw first, that she loved first. Now it just makes Brooke feel sick. Sick at herself. Like it’s not hers to look at, and she shouldn’t.

She looks away.

A change of scenery helps to calm the mind, Brooke thinks. Nina told her that once, she vaguely recalls, as she sobbed helplessly into the arms of the only one who would listen. The only one who didn’t think of her as a raging evil bitch, and more of a hopeless coward instead. It’s not much better, but it’s a small comfort given how much she hates herself for it. She’s more inclined to go with what the rest of them all thought after it happened.

It’s late, anyway. Maybe it really is time to read a book and push down the thoughts and try to sleep away the regret.

“Oh god, oh god. Vane- fuck,” She breathes.

Waves of pleasure shoot through her, beginning deep in her belly and sending shockwaves all up Brooke’s back. Her hands grasp at the sheets around her head, desperate, clinging, her mind and body totally incognizant of each other. Her body is on fire, and her mind isn’t even functioning correctly.

Vanessa’s mouth is hot and fast and her tongue is skilled, and every time she grazes over her clit with the swift, feather-light touches Brooke thinks she’s going to pass out. Her fists grab tighter and her toes curl and a gasp floats from her lips, accidental, unstoppable. She manages to tear one hand away and threads it into Vanessa’s dark hair, urging her to keep going.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck…” She manages.

The goddess between her legs doesn’t stop, not until long after the inaudible mumblings have stopped falling from Brooke’s lips and her breaths are finally starting to slow, and she wonders how Heaven is meant to be above them when she feels herself sinking into it right now. Brooke thinks absent that maybe Heaven is here and everything else is Hell because nothing feels like being with Vanessa feels, and when they’re naked and intertwined and breathless and warm maybe they’re closer to God than they’ll ever be.

She catches herself before three words make their way out.

“God, this fucking mattress…” Is what she ends up producing. It’s digging into her back, lumpy and old. She’s only just noticed, in truth.

Vanessa’s head lifts, her makeup smudged in a way that feels beyond sinful to look at. She licks her lips coyly, sucks off her finger, and offers a lazy, heady sort of smile.

“The mattress? That’s all you got, boo?”

She’s laughing, happy, delirious. Brooke laughs too. “I don’t have to say anything about you. Isn’t the state of me enough?”

It is. On her back, chest peppered with bruises not yet formed, chest rising and falling beyond her control, legs still twitching slightly. Brooke’s completely spent, blissed out, exhausted. Vanessa’s still worn out from hers and yet her tongue is musical and the melodies were handcrafted by all the muses of the ancient world.

Still smiling, Vanessa shifts so she’s hovering on top of Brooke and then leans down to kiss her, their bodies colliding, Brooke tasting herself on the lips of her lover. It’s nights like these that make her feel like the world is a good place to be. That everything is fixable, everything is brilliant.

“We should get you a new mattress, baby,” Vanessa tells her when they break apart. “And I’ll probably never leave.”

Brooke forces a laugh, but the idea isn’t laughable. Vanessa and Forever go hand in hand, somehow.

And they do go shopping for a mattress for Brooke’s place. They wander through stores and discuss mattress firmness and size and height and flop down until they feel as though they’re ready to drop, and then Vanessa lands on one and yells “BROOKIE!” so loud that her voice - that goddamn voice - almost shatters the glass. She’s laying down with a beam on her face like nothing Brooke’s ever seen, pure sunshine, and she clearly has the best taste in mattresses because when she buys it, Brooke’s never slept so good in her life.

The bed is cold. Brooke deserves a cold bed. She left Vanessa in one, so it’s the least she can deal with it.

They weren’t always at Brooke’s - sometimes it was Vanessa’s too, for the sake of variety. Looking back on those memories makes Brooke feel like the biggest idiot in the world. Which she is, of course, and she knows it. But even here, the mini Christmas tree is cold and isolated, and Vanessa gave it to her as an early gift last Christmas, and Vanessa chose the mattress, and Vanessa picked the view. Brooke stares at everything that Vanessa has touched in her life and wonders why in the world she let herself ruin something so good. It’s selfish and stupid and self-sabotaging and that angel of a woman deserves so much more.

She thinks about sharing the picture. She could caption it with that song, ‘Now I’m in the house you chose and the bed you bought to face your perfect view’, and that could be her apology. Because she knows all too well she’s too much of a blind coward to say it properly. And Vanessa won’t see it even if she does share, because they’re not friends anymore. Someone will get it to her - probably Silky - but that’s not worth it.

Brooke opens her phone again, and swipes away from the picture before she does something stupid. Then she opens her texts.

B: Are you busy? [10.11pm]

B: Oh shit sorry, just saw Yvie’s insta, u guys are out tonight. Ignore this x [10.13pm]

N: No no! They’re out, I’m home because I was working all day and I was too tired :( [10.19pm]

N: What do you need hun? <3 [10.20pm]

B: If ur tired it’s okay, I’ll talk to u another time x [10.20pm]

N: Shut up. I’m here [10.21pm]

N: I think I know what’s going on. Right time of year [10.21pm]

B: I’m just an idiot, idk [10.22pm]

N: Nope. Stay where you are, I’m coming over. [10.22pm]

N: Did she text you? [10.24pm]

B: She’s not that stupid lmao why would she [10.24pm]

Nina is the only one who bothered to ask what the hell was going on when it happened. It’s not like Brooke can blame the others, and she doesn’t either. If someone did that to her best friends, she would be the same. And she is the same - she hates herself passionately for it. But Nina has this untraceable kindness to her, this unfathomable tenderness that seems to have no beginnings, no ends, no limits. It flows so freely from her, like a gift.

She has no idea how much time passes by crying and looking blankly at her phone, or even any idea when she started crying, but the doorbell rings and Brooke answers it already in tears and Nina sweeps her into a hug like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and maybe it is. To love your friends is easy and natural, like taking a breath in clean air.

To love someone special is like inhaling in water, drowning, getting lost. And you have to be content with the helplessness in order to survive it, or at least strong enough to swim and keep it going. You can’t just sink. Brooke couldn’t handle drowning.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” She weeps into Nina’s arms, once her choking sobs settle into streaming tears. It’s not better, just different. “I wanted to be with her forever and that was so fucking scary.”

Nina rubs her back. “Breathe, breathe. It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

“Is- is she okay?”

Stupid question. Brooke isn’t sure she even wants to know.

The hug finishes; they’re on the couch again. Nina pulls out her phone, frowning, and pauses like she’s thinking. She looks guilty, which is unusual.

“I would never normally show a friend’s text, y’know? It’s private, I don’t do all that betraying trust stuff. But I know she’ll delete these tomorrow morning and I think you should see them before she does.”

V: so its been a ear then hasnr it [10.56pm]

V: a year of fwithout brook [10.56pm]

V: honestly fuck her yknw what i man [10.56pm]

V: she fuckin broke mt heart man why did she do that [10.56pm]

V: i miss her an the stupid vats so muhc [10.57pm]

V: tha sonf auld lang syne plaed earlier in the bar bef4 eht club [10.57pm]

V: very apropaotye hahahahksjkdh [10.57pm]

V: may rhe acwanriance be forgot forever and fuckung ever [10.57pm]

V: is okay i can lobe w the bitternness [10.57pm]

V: i just kisd girls unt il it dont hurt [10.57pm]

Brooke sobs. Again, loud, shaking, broken. Because Vanessa is hurting so much even a year after it happened and everything feels so raw and it’s entirely her own fault for crushing the dream they were building.

“I miss her so fucking much, I don’t know why- I don’t know why I walked out,” She babbles, helpless and hopeless and hurt. “I’m fucking lying, Nina, I know why, I know why I did it. Why did I fucking-”

She knows all too well. Because Vanessa helped her pick an apartment and Vanessa picked her bed and Vanessa loved her cats. Because Brooke could imagine them getting married and growing old and it had barely been four months by the time Christmas and New Years were rolling around and everything seemed so serious and so intense, and that didn’t mean it wasn’t fun but it was scary in the same breath because speed was terrifying.

Brooke is bitter, but only at herself.

New Years Day. January 1st, a brand new year, a bright new start. The frost glistens freshly on the undisturbed morning, and all across the city, singles and couples sleep through the dawn, hungover or still passed out drunk, party hats akimbo, party blowers still suspended in smudged lipsticky mouths.

It’s early, enough that the daylight is blinding but pale and faded. Vanessa’s bedroom has the huge window that she never covers, and she sleeps through it like the dead. Brooke wakes up and looks around.

She looks at everything but Vanessa, but eventually her gentle snuffling is too much to ignore and she looks down at her beautiful sleeping form. She’s a disaster, hair everywhere and glitter still all over her face, and she’s the most breathtaking woman in the entire wide world. Something heavy and all encompassing sweeps into Brooke’s chest, and she can identify it by name. It’s only four letters, but it strikes a fear in her like an old god from a lost world. She needs to vomit. She needs to run. She needs an escape.

Before she even knows who she is again, any of the things that ended up staying half their time at Vanessa’s are stuffed into a couple of carrier bags and she’s in her dress from the party and out of the door into the cold winter air, panicked, unable to breathe.

It’s a heart attack, she thinks. Or a panic attack. It’s an attack that feels like it’s going to kill her, and she runs away, and she runs all the way home and barricades the door shut, dropping her belongings on the floor, numb and confused and cold. It’s the start of the new year and she begins it alone, hyperventilating.

Within a couple of days the worried texts subside and the angry vengeful ones start flooding in, and just like that Brooke’s lost the best thing that ever happened to her and all of her friends along with it. Because she got up on new year’s day and abandoned Vanessa fast asleep and that was the end.

It’s ugly and chilling, how much she cries into Nina’s gentleness. The only thing that stops her is, ironically, the thing that makes her feel worse, the characteristic ‘ping!’ of Nina’s phone, undoubtedly more drunk texts.

V: i hoper he fucjibg bubble bursts this tie of year [11.23pm]

V: every jhanduary first for the rest of hersitnkin life [11.23pm]

“I deserve it,” Brooke whispers hoarsely, “But she doesn’t. She never did.”

“Neither of you do,” Nina tells her sadly. “They don’t all hate you, they hate what you did the way friends always do when breakups happen. You both deserve to be happy. And both of you have been dreading New Year’s for this exact reason.”

It hurts to hear, and Brooke wishes she doesn’t have to listen, but her friend is so goddamn wise it feels stupid not to.

“Two days until it’s officially New Year.” Nina kisses her hand. “Can you keep living like this, Brooke?”

It’s not like she even has to say it for Brooke to understand. “She hates me.”

Nina shakes her head. “No she doesn’t. She loves you.”

“That’s worse.”

“You love her.”

“I know.”

“You got scared.”

“I still am.”

“Face your fears.” Nina holds her at arm’s length, forcing her to look right into her face. “This hurts more than what blundering through it would, surely? Fire doesn’t always mean you get burned, sweetie. Sometimes it just warms you.”

She makes no fucking sense.

“I can’t play with Vanessa like that again.” Brooke swears. “I can’t.

The transitional period between Christmas and New Year doesn’t feel like real time. It’s just liminal space, a waiting room of chronology, a suspension in space. If she’s honest, trying now causes no harm, because it’s like it didn’t even happen. Maybe she should, maybe she will.

Eventually Nina leaves, pressing a kiss to her forehead and promising that somehow everything is going to be okay. She’s like a fairy godmother, Brooke thinks to herself. Always knowing, always positive, and total magic to behold.

She’s awake all night long just staring at the time on the top of her phone, lying in bed sideways and wondering if she’ll do it. It has to be right. It can’t be when she’ll still be awake and drunk and angry. But it can’t be on the anniversary of her biggest fuck up, because that just feels like some kind of sick joke and that’s not what she wants.

The entire night passes. At six am, her finger hovers over the send button for a full three minutes. She counts the seconds.

B: I fucked up. If u’ll have me, I’ll never mess u around again. I didn’t know I could love someone so much and then u came along and everything sped up and I wasn’t fast enough. I shouldn’t have thrown away what we had when it was as close to perfect as anything can get. This message is all me me me I I I but if ur okay with it, I think new year should begin right this time. I’ll hold u and I won’t let go, and u don’t even have to hold me as long as ur here. Everything is up to u. I’ll learn to live with what I did if u say no. Because I totally get why u should hate me. I hate me too, kinda. U did nothing wrong. U were and will always be perfect. [6.03am]

B: Full disclosure is I was scared of how much and how quick I loved u. But it didn’t go away even when I hurt u. I was stupid to do that, and I don’t wanna do another year in the shadow of that massive mistake. [6.05am]

B: I won’t say it here, because thats cheap for u. But I’ll say it when I see u again. I promise, and I want to [6.13am]

She falls asleep with her phone in her hand after being awake all night long.

She wakes up four hours later.

V: ur dumb [9.51am]

V: theres a party at yvies for new years yknow [9.52am]

V: im not saying ill kiss u at midnight but [9.52am]

V: fuck around and find out [9.52am]

(tags: purecamp, branjie, brooke lynn hytes, vanessa vanjie mateo, lesbian au, things that were, fic challenge, nostalgia challenge, nina west)

#rpdr fanfiction #purecamp #branjie #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #lesbian au #things that were #fic challenge #nostalgia challenge #nina west #s11 #(you will always have a place here! -v)

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by-nina · 4 years ago

Text

For auld lang syne, my dear

@fmasecretsanta2020 AO3 | FFN Rating: K+ Genre: Fluff/Romance Word Count: 2,340

A/N: Surprise, @megthemighty! I hope you enjoy this as much as you do the holidays. 😊 Stay tuned, and stay safe always!

He hums a few notes that Riza recognizes straightaway. She doesn’t interrupt him, however; she pauses, entranced by the surprisingly gentle timbre of his singing voice. Roy doesn’t seem to mind. He continues with a slow tempo, gentle like the sway of candlelight, softer and softer until he reaches the resolution of the first chorus.

There is something pleasant and comforting about mornings in winter that always awakens Riza just before the sun rises. It’s quiet, as the Hawkeye house is on any given day, anyway. But towards the end of the year, with their little village covered in a blanket of snow and their distant neighbors kept at home by the cold, the quiet is better justified, more peace than solitude.

Her routine on these mornings is simple. It begins with tea—lavender, which was her mother’s favorite and a type that Riza hasn’t had anyone to share with since her mother’s passing. While the sky is still dark, she lights a small fire in the living room, then curls up close by to read a book by the warm light. There she stays until sunrise, when it feels a little less cold, and then she retreats to the window in her room to watch the sky change color.

Today, Riza wakes up a little differently. She is on the living room couch with her book facedown on her chest, her tea cold and unfinished, and the small fire in the hearth reduced to dim embers. The light coming from the window tells her that she has slept through sunrise. But most tellingly, there is a second cup just inches from hers on the center table, a new fixture of the past couple of mornings or so, and it’s enough to clear her head and remind her of how she ended up falling asleep there.

The door opens. In comes Roy Mustang with a chilly gust of wind.

“Hey,” says Riza. Roy responds with a slight nod as he brushes powdery snow out of his hair and off his coat. “How’d it go? What did they say at the train station?”

Roy shrugs. “Just my luck. They’ve cleared out most of the snowfall in Geob Pass, but there’s been some damage to the tracks. If the weather doesn’t improve, it could take weeks for the trains to start operating normally again.”

He attempts to act casual, but Riza has known Roy for three years and by now she knows the cracks in his façade. His voice is far too even and cool, his walk more a trudge. He doesn’t make his usual easy small talk as he walks around the couch where she is and around the center table, finally settling on the spot by the hearth where she usually does her reading. His focus is entirely on the embers as he ignites a new fire out of them.

A few days ago, Roy was bound for an early morning train to Central, where he had planned to spend the year-end holidays with his family. He always took the same trip back home on the same day each year since he first came to study under Berthold Hawkeye, and this was to be the last. Riza knew about his plans even though he couldn’t speak openly about them. She knew long before the time even came for him to leave, which was why she became concerned when he returned to the Hawkeye house an hour past his departure time. The Amestris Express, he said, had indefinitely cancelled all travel between Central and the East due to a severe blizzard at the border, which buried a long stretch of track under several meters of snow.

Since then, Roy has gone into town early each day, hoping for word on when the trains might begin running again. Each day, he returned disappointed. This then became part of Riza’s early morning routine, partly because it was inevitable to come across each other in the living room, and partly because she felt sorry for him. She has since accommodated him with the friendly gesture of sharing tea with him before he left each day.

Riza continues watching Roy from the couch. He rubs his hands together over the fire he’s just made, and the sight is enough for her to feel its warmth too. It begins somewhere in the pit of her stomach, turns into a stirring feeling throughout the rest of her and a pink tinge in her cheeks. Then, she hears it as a voice in her head. Earnest, hopeful. How nice it is that Roy has remained here, it says, because she—

“I’m sorry,” Riza blurts out over the little voice. “I’m sorry,” she repeats slowly, more sincerely this time. She takes a few deep breaths until the color disappears from her face. “I know how much you were looking forward to this.”

“Thank you.” Roy leans against the table, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. Breathes out a short sigh. “I was supposed to spend more time with my family. Not just for the year-end holidays, but after the new year, too. I owe them that.”

Riza hums in understanding. There’s no need to talk about why, and there is no good thing that could come out of talking about it when her father is sure to wake up soon. They have better things to talk about, anyway, that could perhaps cheer Roy up.

“So, how do you spend the holidays at home?”

Roy turns to properly face her. He taps his fingers against the center table, deep in thought. “It’s a little manic,” he finally says with a laugh. “Too many people coming in and out of the bar, and they make a lot more trouble than usual during the holidays. The moment the bar opens in the evening, we hardly get any peace and quiet. But in the morning, when it’s just us, it’s special. My sisters like to exchange gifts over breakfast—trinkets, clothes, pocketbooks—it probably starts a couple of weeks before the end of the year.”

“Does the bar ever close over the holidays?”

“Only on the first day of the new year, so we could get some proper rest. Business doesn’t slow down until then, you see. We even host a party of sorts on New Year’s Eve. Anyone who wants to come just…”

He trails off. The smile on his face is both fond and wistful.

“It’s a little different around here,” Riza says after a moment’s silence. “Well—it hasn’t been the same since we lost Mother. But it’s a lot quieter, from what you said about Central—”

“Trust me, it always is.”

Riza laughs. “We really only celebrate on the last day of the year. That’s when we exchange gifts or get together with our families for a special meal. But you feel it before then—everyone’s a little friendlier and more charitable. It’s like it’s in the air. People prepare food for their neighbors, they keep hot chocolate ready in their kitchens for any time there’s a visitor or anyone who might be passing by.”

She sighs, then adds, “The only living relatives I know of are on Mother’s side, but she hadn’t talked to them in years. It’s just Father and I here during the holidays. But not for everyone else in this town—their relatives come over to spend the end of the year with them.”

“I see.” The fire in the hearth has grown, but Roy is leaning in the opposite direction from it now, closer to Riza. “In Central, it seems like everyone wants to get away whenever they can. I guess that’s where they come from, the people who choose to spend their holidays elsewhere.” He chuckles. “And then there’s me. I come back instead of leaving. Well, what can I say? Whatever everyone else is like, Central’s still home.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“Yeah, it is. We’ve got decorations all over the place, kids singing holiday carols…”

“Hey, we have those too!” Riza is smiling now, almost laughing. “I know it’s not that exciting out here, but you’ve been to town—you’ve seen the decorations. And the kids don’t go all the way to the outskirts, but they do go caroling.”

“And Central isn’t completely out of touch either,” Roy counters, grinning as if this were a competition to win. “There’s a traditional song you’ll hear around town for about a month—musicians perform it in the town square some nights, and then people sing it when the new year comes. Everyone knows it. It goes like this…”

Too close. She has come far too close to him.

Riza leans back and laughs—she hopes it comes off as amusement. “And here I thought you were just an alchemist.” Clearing her throat, she continues, “We play that song around here, too. In the plaza, on New Year’s Eve—everyone goes to welcome the new year there. But we don’t sing it.”

Roy turns up the corner of his mouth curiously. “What do you do, then?”

“We dance.”

On the last day of the year, at Cameron Station, Riza waits with Roy for a train that will take him home.

The last few days feel like little more than a dream.

Nothing much changed about the way she spent the holidays with Roy around. She began each morning before daybreak, with a cup of tea and a book like always. She spent most of each day keeping to herself, as did her father, who told Roy he had “nothing more to teach at the moment” and preferred the company of his books and journals; and as did Roy, who respected Berthold’s decision and instead devoted himself to perfecting the basic alchemy that he had already learned.

Only two things were different this time. The first was that Riza had someone to talk to, at least whenever she and Roy were together. This did happen rather often; there were quiet evenings in the kitchen after dinner, walks to town whenever one had to run an errand and the other reasoned that they needed fresh air, and mornings like the first few ones of Roy’s extended stay. On his part, Roy no longer began each day with a pointless trip to town and the disappointment of not hearing good news. He seemed to make peace with the fact that he would be missing much of the holidays with his family, especially after a phone call during which his aunt assured him that there was no trouble at all, so long as he did eventually come home.

The second thing that changed was something that Riza couldn’t easily name. It seems simplistic to say that she was glad for company, or that Roy’s presence was a mere antidote to boredom. Whatever it was, she could easily trace it to that one morning, in the color that filled her face, the contentment in listening to Roy sing.

She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach when they heard news of the Amestris Express running trains from the East to Central again, and she tries to ignore it now as she stands in the platform, counting the minutes until the train arrives and then—and then she would be alone again. No friend at the table for New Year’s Eve dinner, no companion for the celebrations in the plaza.

No Roy.

Cameron Station is packed with eager travelers whose trips had also been delayed by the poor weather. When the shrill train whistle fills the station, the crowd seems to move forward in a massive wave, a flurry of goodbyes and well-wishes and promises and plans for when they would meet again in the coming year. There are no such parting words between Riza and Roy. Neither can say when or if he will return at all, or if things will be the same if he does.

The traditional holiday song in the East, the same one he had hummed for her, is being played on a violin somewhere in the crowd. A street performer must have come specifically to send the travelers off. Curious choice of music, Riza thinks, but she cannot think of anything more apt. It is New Year’s Eve, after all. A time of farewell just as much as it is a time of new beginnings.

She turns, and she catches Roy staring at her cheek. He catches himself in the act a second too late.

“Well,” he says quickly, “thanks for seeing me off.”

Roy extends his hand to her. Riza hesitates before finally taking it. In the politest voice she can manage, she says, “You have a safe trip back, Mister Mustang.”

He blinks, then laughs a little. “Roy.”

“Roy.”

Their handshake is slow and steady. A moment passes, and then another, and even in the anticipation of missing him Riza soon realizes that their hands might have already been clasped together for too long. Then—

A twist of the hand, a swift twirl, a breathless pause.

Riza takes a moment to steady herself. Mouth agape, she stares at Roy as if to await an explanation, but it doesn’t come. He takes a slow, cordial bow before letting go of her hand, and their little dance comes to an end.

“Happy New Year, Riza.”

She doesn’t find the words in time, and Roy follows the last of the departing crowd into the train, where Riza sees no more of him. There is no final glance over his shoulder, no fleeting glimpse through the windows. The music fades into the indistinguishable, dissonant voices of the crowd.

No matter, Riza thinks with a fond smile. She has those past few days with him to keep throughout the year, if not until he gets back—if not for each new year to come.

#FMA Secret Santa #FMA Secret Santa 2020 #FMASecretSanta2020 #Roy Mustang #Riza Hawkeye #Royai #young Royai #Fullmetal Alchemist #Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood #FMA #FMAB #fanfiction #fanfic #romance #fluff #writing #written by nina

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miss-kittys-magical-library · 4 years ago

Text

Auld Lang Syne (Jack x Rin)

Word Count: 3200

Warnings: None! Complete fluff.

A/N: inspired by @magic-multicolored-miracle winter prompts. New Year's kiss. o one asked for it 🤣 This is a sequel to "I'm A Creep" <-- Found here

She came to this little bookstore as many days a week as time allowed. Maybe it was becoming a bit obsessive, Rin’s constant reasons to spend hours there instead of a library. There was a collection of unread novels piling up on the coffee table of her council flat off the high street. Any excuse to be nearby

With the holidays fast approaching, her catering job kept her busier than ever. The constant flirting and serving and pleasing executives and drunk administratives and book editors and bankers managed to fend off the memories of the last time she ended up in the psych hospital. That and plenty of time made everything slow down and spread out over days instead of the constant hours she once spent. Her senses now and then brought Jack back to her like the waves in his mental pond crashing over her. She would be taken off guard for just a moment or two, but the parties kept them back at bay.

Two months in the psych hospital was all they spent together. A month that seeped into her dreams and waking moments for half a year after Rin was released. How she and Jack never spoke again after that night. He grinned awkwardly in her direction during their next group therapy session. Squinting his eyes like he was trying to place where he knew her from, but that was part of her gift. Sometimes, they woke up from a dream and forgot she was ever apart of them.

Before Rin could blink, Emma had come to take Jack home. Emma who smiled fondly at the “barking” girl with scarred hands who carried the flame of hope from her heart to her brother. At least that's what she communicated to Rin as they brushed fingertips on the way out. Jack was safe. He was loved. Emma would make sure he could handle the world without messages and the dead people who plagued him for so long. A few more days, and Rin was dropped back out in the world too.

Still, as the song goes, she learned to muddle through somehow. It had been a rather peculiar stretch of time Rin had gone without thinking of his unearthly eyes or that mass of dark curls on her neck and chest as they.. A bell over a door she didn't remember stepping in broke her out of the reverie.

Rin found herself inside a small shop with shelves eight or nine feet high. That musty smell of tangible books invaded her nostrils and she inhaled deeply. With eyes closed, she put her hand on the first row she could find and melted into the memories imprinted on them. She was struck by an unexpected wave, but instead of drowning she rode it to shore. There was a squeaky creak that often accompanies a wheel and just knew someone was on one of those ladders that glided across the shelves.

“You alright, loov?” that Yorkshire accent filled Rin’s ears and she squeezed her eyes shut tighter. “You look like you've seen a ghost,” he chuckled at a joke he felt only he understood.

He was a few feet above her when she finally opened her eyes. He dipped precariously from the ladder like he was swinging from a rope on a pirate ship. Those eyes shining brightly as they reflected the white lights decorating the store. Rin didn’t need to touch him to know he was happy. She could see it on his face as he smiled in her direction. Even in hospital she never knew he had dimples.

“Jack,” it came out before she could help herself.

He arched an eyebrow curiously in her direction. Head tilted in thought. Then looking down at his name tag he puffed air out of his nostrils “Right,” he tapped it “Forgot I was wearing this.”

Rin’s shoulders sagged in defeat, then unexpectedly “Have any Dickens?”

What the hell, she chided herself.

“Do we also have tea in the Queen’s country?” he teased. Rin’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. “sometimes we forget all the books we've read. I've forgotten loads since I was sick a few years back. Lived rough then was in hospital while. Dunno why I said that.”

“I think we tell strangers our secrets because we’ll never have to see them again,” Rin spoke softly.

“If you never come back, I was a bad salesman. Always looking for repeats.” Was.. he flirting? “Any Dickens will do?”

“Oliver Twist?” Rin signed and closed her eyes. Her face was on fire. You've had sex with this bloke, and he's got no bloody clue.

“Oi! I like Edwin Drood best. Old man dropped dead right in the middle of it all. Never got a proper ending. Ever been on one of these?” Jack gestured towards the ladder. Rin shook her head so he opened an arm. “Hop on with us then!”

“You give all the girls a ride?” Rin found her voice. She climbed up and settled herself against Jack’s body. Her naked hand closed over his; she felt a jolt go through his chest which tensed in response.

“Not- Not usually?” he stammered and tightened his grip around Rin’s waist as they slid along the shelves. “Do we know each other from somewhere? You just feel familiar. Dunno why I'm thinking of a bird.” Jack spoke more to himself.

“Well, actually, name is Wren-”

He cut her off, “But your brother couldn't say it right, so everyone calls you Rin.”

Jack’s body relaxed into the young woman’s. Maybe it was reflex, but he cautiously buried his face in her hair and inhaled.

Rin swallowed a smile, and found little ways to touch him that day. Little ways to touch exposed parts of Jack everytime she visited the store. Innocent explanations for their hands lingering when he handed her the twentieth book she didn't need. To flirtatiously brush the curls away from his forehead as he leaned over the counter when they talked.

And almost every single time Jack leaned into it. Reciprocated. Started remembering little parts of Rin from their time in section. Not the big messy memories, just bursts from time to time. She was ok with that. She would take him anyway she could.

Now here she was, two days before Christmas with her hands on the ornaments in the shop window. She had something wrapped in brown paper in her purse and was biding her time as Jack helped the customers buying last minute gifts.

Soon it was her turn, and Rin placed the gift on the counter simultaneously with Jack doing likewise. There was unexpected laughter, the way Jack's tapered off into a giggle from a loud outburst. Infectious as it was, Rin joined in.

“If we got each other identical presents, you're coming to mine for New Year’s,” it wasn't a question. “Emma and her partner know you somehow. Must be from around the visitor’s during..” His voice trailed off.

“Our time in the nuthouse?” Rin offered.

Jack leaned over and brushed his nose against Rin’s cheek out of the blue. They lingered momentarily, before he pressed his forehead to hers.

“I've done that before,” another assertion as his verdant gaze settled on Rin’s lips.

Picking up the package, Rin shoved it playfully into Jack’s chest so that he was forced back. “Open your gift!”

“Fine!”

Jack mimicked her tone as he tore into the wrapping paper at the same Rin dove into hers. They both held up books simultaneously and fell into a fit of giggles.

“OLIVER TWIST!”

“EDWIN DROOD?!”

In unison: “FIRST EDITION?!”

“I can't believe I never knew how much you loved books,” Rin was blunt.

“I'm not sure how much we spoke for you to find out.” Jack hugged the book tightly to his chest. “I'm not sure how much I spoke to anyone outside of group and therapy.”

Rin took one of her million chances when she placed the palm of her hand against Jack’s cheek. He relaxed into the touch, eyes closed and sighed contentedly. Under the surface he was warm and bright like the Christmas lights. She wouldn't let herself pass any further than the happy memories. Impassioned ones of mouths and hands and fingertips and hugs.

Perhaps it was the particular sensation Rin spread out from herself to Jack that triggered a reaction. One of him leaning across the countertop to bring their lips together in a chaste kiss that lingered longer than it should have.

Jack recovered and righted himself before apologizing. He was compelled in the moment out of gratitude. “Meet us here on New Year’s, yeah? So we don't have to be alone.”

“You've got family, Jack.” Rin reminded him.

“So we don't have to be alone for the New Year,” he only repeated. It was a date.

------

Rin took the early shift on New Year’s Eve so she could tear out and get ready. The nerves coiled in her stomach as she scrambled to fix hair that wouldn't fall right or apply make-up that made her resemble a street walker. She sighed, defeated, and told herself this was all she could give.

Still Jack threw a large grin in her direction as he closed up the shop. He wolf whistled and Rin felt her face catch fire.

“Aren't you a stunner?” he pecked her cheek and gave the woman before him a spin. She loved the way it came out sounding like “stoonah.”

“You got a big date or something?” he teased before taking her by the hand.

“I needed extra money for the holiday so I thought I'd hang around a street corner. Fifty quid and a warm cot, I'll do whatever you like” Rin shrugged and winked coyly.

Jack rolled his eyes, but his demeanor changed as he traced the network of scars on the back of her hand so delicately Rin felt tears in her eyes. She swiped at them swiftly hoping he thought it was the chilled breeze.

“Dunno why I did tha,” he dropped the hand abruptly and buried his own in a jacket pocket. “Not my place to touch (tooch) you when you didn't ask.”

Uncomfortable silence.

“does anyone else work here besides you?” Rin gestured towards the store as they started walking, she assumed, to Emma’s house.

“Sometimes Emma and Billy. Only when I get too overwhelmed.”

Rin linked her arm with Jack's to break the weird tension. “Do you manage it?”

“I own it. Why need a job? Maybe a bit of a conflict if the boss has a bit of a flirt with the shopgirl innit?”

“OWN IT?!”

Jack laughed, “Not bad for a nutter who talks to dead people and was not long for Big Issue. Why do I say this shit to you?!”

“I'm like a truth serum?” she offered.

They wound their way through a lovely neighbor with houses no one Rin knew could afford. She remembered Jack’s brother-in-law was a lawyer. He told her his sister left him not long after he got out. Had to be spousal support and a settlement, but she didn't prod.

“I helped someone a while back. Someone kinda connected. Well-known, I guess? I tried to sort out his missus when she tried suicide.”

“It didn't work in the end.”

“At first. It's how I got sectioned. The voices. His voice. She was ok for a bit. His family sent me letters. They figured I knew something. What I knew got them a conviction. I got a reward. Doesn’t always feel like one if everyone’s dead now does (dooz) it?”

It was Rin’s turn to lace her fingers with Jack's. “You helped someone's family find peace. Sometimes that's enough even if you kinda lose yourself in the process. Look I let what I can do almost kill me. That’s what put me in hospital.” She held up the gashed scar along her wrist. “But that gave me yo-” Rin swallowed the word. “I got to use my gift one last time. And he's happy! Even if he forgets who I am.”

“Who could ever forget you, love?”

They were quiet the rest of the journey.

-----

Rin sat on the edge of the pool as her feet dangled in the bath warm water. Her brain flashed back to the lake where she experienced Jack drowning in his own mind. Bogged down by medication he didn't need while the dead clung to him. Then they had surfaced, she nearly torn apart by the ghosts Jack fought with. Bellowed that he was no longer their messenger. They tried to take her as compensation.

Now false water filled Rin’s lungs as a fake grin spread across her cheeks. The chlorine and tropical air made her nauseous, ready to vomit. Of all the things Jack could have suggested they do, swimming at 11pm would not have ever crossed her mind.

“There was a kid, lived here before Emma, died right. Mean little bastard too. Suppose dying like that might get a kid angry as long as he was tied to it.”

Jack stood on the pool’s edge, toes curled around the stone. His face went a bit dark as he narrowed his eyes in the direction of something Rin couldn't see in the opposite corner. He clenched his fists. She knew it was a silent standoff between Jack, and most likely, the dead boy.

It was only a flash of his old self before Jack snapped to. He grinned like the Cheshire cat as he undid his jeans and tore his sweater off. Then headfirst into the deep end leaving Rin to squeal.

“WHAT are you doing?!” she yelled as he bolted towards her underwater.

“Dunno fancied a swim. It's rather lovely water considering it's January. Plus,” he pointed towards the ceiling, “Look up.”

Rin followed his finger and gazed upwards. A large glass window spread the night sky before them. Millions of stars shone through, stars she never really bothered searching for. She was overwhelmed by other people's emotions, literally, that she never had a quiet moment to herself so that she COULD look up.

“Don't you wanna to join me?” Jack’s question was rather coy as he side-stroked back and forth.

Rin shook her head, “I'll sit here and watch.” She glanced down at the wine bottle she nearly forget, “And drink.” So they did.

Now her anxiety was churning her stomach. A coat of alcohol warmed her further than just the temperature of the pool room. Her chest was tight with lack of oxygen as she struggled to not cry. So she focused on the long, thin body completely relaxed on the water's surface. What a lovely distraction it was.

Jack floated along lazily on his back, boxers leaving nothing to the imagination. That secret part of him Rin had not seen in two years clearly visible. Now her face grew flush with desire and the memory of how good it felt for once to be touched by a man because he cared about her. How they made each other sing.

Jack must have sensed something because he righted himself and swam towards her. Those hands on her calves and knees to part them slightly so he can stand between them. He was silent as he reached for the bottle of wine.

“Rin, be honest,” his voice filled the silence of the room. “Can you swim?”

Rin's heart pounded so loudly in her ears that Jack was muffled. The way he looked at her, desire emanated from him. There was a disconnect between his brain and body. Those hands on her thighs remembered exploring her but the rest of him didn't. They lingered between innocence and the verge of obscenity. If he wanted, Rin would have sex with him while a houseful of people partied and danced within ear shot.

“i can swim!”

Jack pushed off the wall and splashed her in the process. “Do you think I'm sexy?” he was drunk. Head tilted as the wet curls clung to his face.

“A blind person would think you're sexy. You're taking the piss because I won't get in.”

“Of course I am! Come on. I'll hold you?” he raised an eyebrow. “It's almost midnight. I want to be with you when it is.”

“We're together enough, Jack”

“No!” he waved his hands. “I want to hold you.I don't know why, I know I have before? I feel like there's just this.. Ever since you came to the store it’s been like trying to remember a dream I had once. And some part of me is saying you know how to help because you've done it before?”

Realization spread across Jack's face, “Rin, am I the one who forgot you?”

“It happens sometimes. I think.. I think my abilities shut off a part of people who no longer need me or want me?” she shrugged it off.

“How could I not want you?”

It was such an innocent thing to ask. One Rin had asked herself every time someone used her. Her parents turned her into a sideshow freak for their religion. Men and their sick desires that she tapped into. Even she didn't want herself most of the time.

But Jack had been alone. Left to his own devices and literally haunted. Rin never needed to touch him to know how sad he had been when he first was sectioned. It emanated from him. He knew about self isolation and mistrust. And especially about gifts that would ruin you if they could.

There wasn't a thought left. Spurned on by the purity of his question, Rin hurried out of her clothes and eased herself into the pool. She swam as quickly as her body allowed before throwing herself in Jack's waiting arms.

Their arms and legs tangled together in the water. Rin wrapped herself around Jack's hips, her arms draped across broad shoulders. She twisted her fingers up in his hair and let her body meld into his.

Jack held Rin's head in his hands. Their foreheads pressed together as he nudged the tip of his nose along her face. Careful, at first,

to only brush his lips on her cheeks and eyelids. Then the countdown started.

Everyone in the house started counting down excitedly, and Jack stopped being cautious. It was cliché how their mouths found one another hungrily as the guests screamed Happy New Year! How Rin's empathic touch sent a wave of electricity that visibly shocked Jack's body as they began to sing. As if she plugged his body into his brain and there was a spark that brought him to life.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

For days of Auld Lang Syne

They relaxed into one another. Their kisses became languid but no less passionate. Everyone stormed the pool around them, splashing and laughing and hollering. Emma drunkenly interrupted the couples’ warring lips and tongues.

“Took you fucking long enough,” she teased her baby brother. “I kept hoping this would happen.”

Rin buried her face in Jack's chest as he held her tight. That bright fire that flowed from Emma to her and Rin to Jack back in hospital took root again in this house and pool.

“Me too.”

We’ll take o cup of kindness yet

For days of auld lang syne

#robert sheehan #jack #the messenger #robert sheehan character fics #jack x rin

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antiquecompass · 5 years ago

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Untamed Winter Fest Day Four: Decorating

Wherein there are some lights, some trees, some Lans, and a Wei.

(also on Ao3.)

“My darling husband, I love you, with all that is in me, for all the lives we may live together, but if you don’t top staring at my ass and hand me those lights, my arms are going to get sore and then I’ll be sad because I won’t be able to lift them to hug you.”

Wei Wuxian glanced down at his husband who had that sort of contemplative look on his face that meant Wei Wuxian was about to be picked up and removed from the ladder on which he stood.

Decorating their house back in Boston had taken him two days, tops. Decorating their house here? He’d finally admitted defeat and hired a company to handle the outside. They made it look like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, but at least the Historical Society wasn’t breathing down their necks. They’d offered to decorate the inside as well, but he was determined to do it himself..

Maybe just the first floor.

The living room, at the very least, was going to be his and his alone.

“Wei Ying should take a break,” his husband said.

“Wei Ying just came back from a break,” he said.

“Then another.”

Ah, his Lan Zhan. Always such a stickler for deadlines and schedules until it came to him. It almost made Wei Wuxian proud.

“I want the living room done before the boys get back,” he said. “And all we have left are the lights.”

The tree would remain bare of any ornaments until their boys returned from their shopping trip with Molly. Decorating the tree required their little family, including Jingyi, all be present. Wei Wuxian had only put the lights on it and the tree skirt under it, but boxes of ornaments were waiting to go up.

“I’ll hang the lights, you stand down here,” his husband said.

Wei Wuxian was almost positive that was a slight about his height (he wasn’t that much shorter than his Lan Zhan) or his arm strength (he would admit defeat there), but he was willing to let it slide in the spirit of the season. And because he would enjoy the view of watching those shoulders and arms at work.

“Now who’s distracted?” Lan Zhan asked.

“No one would blame me,” Wei Wuxian teased.

They flirted back and forth, but still got the room done in plenty of time. He put away the ladder while his Lan Zhan made some peppermint hot chocolate. Their own little tradition for a decorating job well done.

And to think, it all started in that apartment in Cambridge with CVS bought decorations on a whim and Jiang Cheng threatening to toss it all out the window if he didn’t turn down the christmas music. (In apologies to Jiang Chengs of Christmas Pasts, present Wei Wuxian could admit no one needed to be blaring *N SYNC’s holiday album that loudly on repeat for days on end, but it was the only one Wei Wuxian could find in his boxes from the Jiang’s house and while he could have just picked a playlist---holiday CDs were their own tradition.) (He maintained that ‘Kiss Me At Midnight’ remained a damn catchy song, and far easier for him to sing than ‘Auld Lang Syne.’)

He smiled when his husband returned, warm mugs of sugary goodness in his hands, and a kiss placed on the top of Wei Wuxian’s head.

“Drink before your candy cane melts,” Lan Zhan said.

“But that’s the best part,” he said.

With the fire roaring and the main lights shut off, it really did look amazing in here. He curled up next to his Lan Zhan and felt so happy and content in the indoor winter wonderland they’d created.

“Remember that first year?” he asked.

“You tied yourself up in red ribbon, how could I forget?” Lan Zhan said as he ran his fingers through Wei Wuxian’s loose hair. “And then started a drunken off-key rendition of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You.’ How could I resist?”

“I got what I wanted in the end,” Wei Wuxian said.

“All you’ve ever had to do was ask,” Lan Zhan said. “I can deny you nothing.”

A heady power all of its own. Wei Wuxian tried not to take advantage of it, except for when his Lan Zhan wanted him to.

“I worried that first year, with all of us in that apartment,” Lan Zhan admitted. “I’d never experienced anything like that, not in my personal home. And it was only years later I realized how kind it was of you and Jiang Cheng to ease me into your family traditions. It certainly prepared me for Madame Yu’s more eccentric tastes in holiday decor.”

“Tacky,” Wei Wuxian said. “Stop being polite and call a spade a spade. It’s tacky fabulous, but tacky.”

He leaned up for a kiss, immediately bestowed.

The sound of the front door opening and feet stomping on the mat ended their little moment of solitude, but there was more decorating to be done tonight after all.

“Did you boys thank your Aunt Molly?” Wei Wuxian yelled.

“We’re not vultures!” Jingyi yelled back.

“Yes, we did,” Sizhui called back, in a more indoor-friendly voice.

Both boys appeared with still snow-wet hair and rosy cheeks. Adorable enough to make Wei Wuxian smile.

“Come in and pop a squat. We got a tree to decorate.”

Jingyi hesisted at the threshold. Lan Zhan nudged him and Wei Wuxian sighed. Every year they went through the same thing.

“Lan Jingyi, how long have you been celebrating a Lan-Wei-Jiang Christmas?” Wei Wuxian asked as Lan Zhan slipped away to get more hot chocolate.

“Seven years,” Jingyi said.

“Seven before. Eight now. And you just turned twelve. So how many Lan Jingyi ornaments are in that box, marked, clearly, Lan Jingyi?”

“Fourteen, two for each year,” he said.

“Sixteen now,” Wei Wuxian corrected. “And who is supposed to put those Lan Jingyi ornaments on the tree? Not me. Not Lan Zhan. Not my little bun.”

“Dad!” Sizhui yelled.

“Then who?” he asked. “Whom?” He shook his head. “Forget the grammar and answer the question.”

“Me,” Jingyi said.

“Right, so why are you hesitating on that threshold. Get in here and get started. I’m not getting any younger.”

“We can see that,” one fo those two vipers he thought of as his sons muttered.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“Haven’t aged a day,” Jingyi said with a too-wide smile.

“Practically perfect in every way,” Sizhui said as he tugged Jingyi over to the ornaments.

“I work all day to give you this lovingly decorated room, and this is the thanks I get?” He huffed. “Such disrespectful boys. I can’t imagine who raised you.”

“Like father, like son,” Sizhui teased. He tossed the bag of fabric and yarn ornaments at him. “We agreed, no glass this year.”

“I only broke five last year,” he said as he joined his boys.

“No juggling,” Lan Zhan said as he entered with a fresh tray of drinks. “There are still shards in the carpet back in Boston.”

Wei Wuxian sighed, his mood not at all ruined, delighted as always when his family ganged up on him.

“Even my husband disrespects me,” he said, lounging on the couch as if he couldn’t go on. “And this, after I let him grab my--”

“Wei Ying!”

#untamed winter fest #day four #fandom: the untamed #wangxian #verse: lahl #fic: a long and happy life #the untamed

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greatdrams · 5 years ago

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Burns Night – A Celebration of Scottish Heritage.

Every country has its Bard. The English have Shakespeare, the Welsh have Dylan Thomas, the Irish have Seamus Heaney. And the Scottish? Well, they have the great Robert Burns.

Master of poetry, Rabbie Burns, as he is commonly known in the Scottish tongue, was born in the town of Alloway on January 25th 1759. He quickly rose to fame, opting to write much of his verse in the Scots language and as the Scottish face of the Romantic movement.

He later died on July 21st, the date that Burns night was first celebrated, in his memory. The tradition quickly grew, and although it is not a Bank Holiday, it is one of the most widely held and enjoyed of Scottish celebrations.

photo credit: Dumfries Museum via photopin cc

This is night that takes in and embraces some fundamental Scottish traditions. Kilts, pipes, haggis, Burns’ poetry and of course some fantastic malt whisky are what lie in store for all who indulge in this night of revelry.

A typical Burns Night Supper begins with an introduction from the host and the saying of the Selkirk Grace (in purest Scots of course) which goes as follows:

Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, And sae let the Lord be thankit.

To get you in the mood, we have put together three whisky and food pairings they are suggesting for Burn’s Night this year – let me know if you try any, here is the first one.

Start the evening with a dram of GreatDrams Glentauchers 10 Year Old Single Cask Single Malt. With vanilla oakiness on the nose, and a sweetness that gives off memories of penny sweets come through too with a juicy green apple note and a smooth, fruity and creamy palate with a slightly spicy finish.

After this rousing little verse, the haggis is “piped” in. What better way to usher in a meal than with a standing ovation and a good old burst of the bagpipes?

The haggis of course takes pride of place on a silver platter, followed closely of course by a traditional bagpiper. It is laid on the table in preparation for the Address to the Haggis.

This is a truly spectacular moment. When else in life can you watch as an eight verse long poem is recited to a haggis? Never!

The poem in question is Burns’ own Address to a Haggis, a fantastic rhyme that includes everything you would ever want to say to a haggis, including a reference to it as the “Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race”!

With this comes the toasting of the haggis, when glasses are raised to a raucous cheer of “The Haggis” and a good old dram of whisky is downed.

I once wrote a piece for The Independent about pairing food and whisky and how I love to pour Octomore over my haggis:

Haggis, neeps and tatties is a quintessential Scottish dish, but what many people are yet to discover is that when you receive your plate, you should immediately fashion a well along the middle of the haggis and pour a hearty dram of a punchy whisky in there, in this case, Octomore. This will give the haggis a bit of oomph, will add a spicy note and the nose of the whisky coupled with the food completes the dish nicely.

Or, if Octomore is not your bag, why not pair your haggis, neeps and tatties with a glass of GreatDrams BenRiach Single Cask Single Malt. It was the first peated single cask whisky we have released and wow is it a special one, having been matured in a 2nd-fill Oloroso Sherry Barrel for a unique, fruity, spicy flavour surrounded by peat smoke notes..

The haggis is then piped back out, in order to be prepared for dishing up alongside some neeps and tatties.

Now, this is where the real celebration begins. If you thought the piping of the haggis was enough entertainment for one night, then you are surely mistaken.

The order of service for the next part of the night is as follows: first entertainer, toast “to the immortal memory of Robert Burns”, second entertainer, Toast to the Lassies, third entertainer, reply to the Toast to the Lassies, final entertainer, vote of thanks, and finally, to round it all off, a group sing-a-long to the legendary Burns tune of Auld Lang Syne, accompanied by crossed hands.

Each of the entertainers recite different poems by Burns, interspersed with different toasts.

The toast to the immortal memory of Robert Burns speaks for itself as a way of dedicating the night fully to the great poet.

The Toast to the Lassies on the other hand, is something else. This involves a speech specifically written for the night to poke fun at the women in the crowd, all in light-hearted fun, of course, and ending on a positive note!

The women are of course given their chance to reply with their own flavour of wit and sarcastic thanks to the originally speaker. Again, this is all in good fun and should always end on a positive note.

Finally, to bring the night to magnificent end, the guest sing Auld Land Syne, one of Burns most famous songs that is of course, traditionally played on New Year’s Eve.

The brings the night to an uplifting end, uniting together everyone in the room in the name of good fun and high spirits! Now is time to impress your friends… so why not finish off with a dram of our very own Girvan 11 Year Old single cask single grain Scotch whisky with sweet, creamy notes of caramel, burnt sugar, hints of fresh fruit and fresh vanilla pods, this single cask Scotch whisky is super-smooth.

Burns Night is not just a night to celebrate a wonderful poet, but also a night to come together and truly enjoy yourself in the company of friends and surrounded by timeless traditions!

The post Burns Night – A Celebration of Scottish Heritage. appeared first on GreatDrams.

from GreatDrams https://ift.tt/36iMxt6 Greg

#whisky #GreatDrams

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elshopper · 5 years ago

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Cure for a Blue Christmas

Wow, y’all, it is a Christmas miracle. For I have written something. I hope you enjoy.

WC: 2.9k

Ao3 link coming soon.

December 25, 1986 Somewhere North of Bloomington, Indiana

“By the way, I loved the way you told dad to shove it,” Nancy said, glancing over to her brother in the passenger seat.

Mike was right in the middle of fiddling with the radio dial now that Hawkins Best Hits was out of range. Every station was either annoying Christmas music or old standards or weird nighttime talk shows. He sighed.

“Yeah, I’m going to get a lot of shit for that one when we get home,” he said, finally settling on whatever station that was currently playing that one Christmas song about the kids in Africa that he decided he could tolerate.

“He was asking for it,” Nancy replied, both her hands steady on the wheel. “He was just being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole.”

It had been a rather frustrating Christmas in the Wheeler household. Their mother had been tapped to host the whole family this year, and she was at her wits end this morning - pulling endless breakfast casseroles out of the oven only to be immediately devoured and criticized by extended family members.

Mike had to share his room with his cousins, Richie and Timothy, who were too annoying to bunk in the basement with the older cousins. Nancy got a room to herself, and Mike had carefully maneuver around the bodies sleeping on his floor if he wanted to get to the bathroom.

Holly was being particularly bratty, too. Mike’s grandmother was being especially critical of his mom, following her around the house and making comments about the table setting this and the Christmas ham that. His dad was flipping through classical holiday films (ironically about the value of family and unconditional love) while making exactly zero contributions from his recliner in the den.

To top it all off, due to the Wheeler family Christmas nightmare occurring under their roof, Mike and Nancy had to back out of their promises to drive down to Allendale to visit the Byers on Christmas Day because “we have to entertain the family, Michael,” which was just stupid and hypocritical of him to even say on account of the fact that Mr. Wheeler had been doing zilch the entire shitty three days.

When the family finally left that afternoon, Mike and Nancy made a point to help their mother start up loads of laundry and clean up in the kitchen before asking very very nicely if they could make the trip anyway.

“The family’s gone now, and we could give you some time to just relax…” Nancy pitched, her fingers drumming on their kitchen island. “I promise we’ll be back tomorrow morning. First thing.”

Mrs. Wheeler squinted her eyes and hummed to herself, saying something about being careful driving in the dark before she shouted into the den for Mr. Wheeler’s approval.

“No, Karen, tell the kids they can stay right here,” he yelled back. “Need to have a little family time.”

Nancy, who had been doing most of the negotiating with their mother, rolled her eyes, but something about his dad’s whole schtick of being a lazy ass-wipe made something that had been building and building in Mike finally snap.

“Family time? You’re shitting me, family time?!” Mike raised his voice a little and headed into the den.

“Language, Michael...”

“All you’ve done is sit on your ass while we’ve been absolutely drowning in family time for three whole days!”

His dad’s eyes finally - for the first time in probably days - moved over from the TV to look at his kids standing defiantly in the doorframe. Mike went on.

“So if you don’t mind, Nancy and I are going to go for the night to go see our friends - who we never get to spend any time with, by the way!”

He crossed the room for the coat rack by the door and threw his coat on. To his surprise, Nancy followed and grabbed the keys off the hook by the door.

“Michael, if you walk out that door, you’re grounded,” Ted retorted. “Same goes for you Nancy.”

“Great! I’m fine with that! Maybe then we’ll get that family time I’ve been hearing so much about!”

They were they had already thrown some overnight bags in the car, because with one slam of the front door for emphasis, Mike was finally on the way to see his girlfriend.

They decided to make their arrival a surprise, and the excitement of that prospect was slowly beginning to overshadow the seething anger towards his dad.

“I know Jonathan said he and Will were going to be at Lonnie’s today,” Nancy started, “but they’re coming back tonight. Maybe we’ll beat them home.”

“Yeah maybe,” Mike said. “I know El said she’s just staying in with Mrs. Byers. She sounded kind of bummed about it, though.”

“Well, maybe this will cheer everyone up,” Nancy said, before turning up the volume on the radio.

Allendale, Illinois

Now get this, it’s from London. “Mr. Gower cabled you need cash. Stop. My office instructed to advance you up to $25,000. Stop. Hee-haw and Merry Christmas. Sam Wainwright.”

El closed the door to the oven, and sauntered back over to the couch. Joyce was sitting in one corner, legs drawn up under a throw blanket, while she worked on sewing a button back on one of Jonathan’s old shirts so Will could wear it.

“Okay the cookies are in,” El said, but Joyce’s eyes stayed fixated on the television. They had been watching It’s a Wonderful Life on channel 5, and it was one of Joyce’s favorite holiday films. Despite the majority of the movie being… sort of depressing, El was glad she was here to spend time with Joyce who would otherwise be alone on the holiday.

They had spent the afternoon just like this - cleaning up around the house, finishing up mundane chores, and baking here and there. Even though she was fairly new at it, El actually wasn’t half bad at following the recipes in Joyce’s family cookbook. Often, she was learning, numbers made more sense to her than words.

Jonathan and Will had driven up to Indiana after opening morning presents to spend some “quality time” with their father and stepmother. Joyce had insisted (albeit, reluctantly) once she discovered they hadn’t gone to see them in over a year. El had never met him, but he didn’t sound all that pleasant when Will brought him up on occasion... kind of like he was inconvenienced by the fact that he had kids in the first place.

Kind of like a grade-A asshole, as Dustin would proudly put it.

She hadn’t even seen an old picture of him and Joyce anywhere in the old photo albums. She knew they had been married, but were now divorced, so it was just Joyce now. Taking care of her sons, and now the daughter that she never meant to have.

Last Christmas had been great - wonderful even - because it was her first time back in Hawkins since the big move a couple months prior. Despite absolutely dreading the cold, El loved the holiday season now that she got to be a part of it - all Mrs. Wheeler’s pies and nicely wrapped gifts and the smell of pine trees and mistletoe...

This year, the Byers clan had stayed behind. Mrs. Wheeler had to host the family for Christmas, and that apparently meant that Mike couldn’t even come visit - not even for a few hours.

He had sounded so bummed about it over the phone, but promised to send her present in the mail once the holiday rush ended. He even called her this morning to wish her a Merry Christmas, and tell her that the holiday didn’t feel right without her being home. It was nice of him, but it just made her feel more gloomy about the whole thing. It was a joyful time of year for most, but El couldn’t be with all of her favorite people.

On the TV, the Bailey household erupted in a spirited rendition of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing as all the townspeople showed up to give George their donations and Joyce’s eyes were getting a little misty.

Joyful all ye nations rise! Join the triumph of the skies!

“This part always makes me cry, every single time!” Joyce said, using the fabric of Jonathan’s shirt to dab at her eyes. “Oh, look at me.”

Hark! The herald angels sing…

“I like this movie too,” El said, reaching for a hand full of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. “It’s sweet.”

“You’ve seen this movie before?”

“Yes…” El started. “Two Christmases ago I think. But I didn’t really understand it then. Now it all makes more sense.”

She didn’t want to touch on a sore subject if Joyce didn’t want to talk about it - especially this time of year, so she didn’t go into detail about how Hopper had turned it on one snowy evening in December 1984 and cracked a beer open before telling her to pay attention because this was one of the greatest films of all time. She could practically hear him…

“...Now I used to sit on the couch with my old man and watch this movie every single Christmas.” Hopper said, “It’s about being thankful for what you’ve got and that you’re never alone in the world if you’re a good person… you know… cheesy stuff like that...”

It was in black and white and she didn’t know what all the yelling was about, but El liked it because Hopper seemed to. She thought George’s life was interesting and she thought his wife Mary was really pretty. She asked Hopper to find her a dress just like Mary’s to wear to the big dance she was invited to the following week and he had said “Jesus, kid, I don’t think they make ‘em like that anymore…”

A small smile crept across El’s face.

Good idea Ernie, a toast! To my big brother George. The richest man in town.

“Did Hop turn it on for you before he would go to the station?” Joyce asked.

“No, actually he sat down to watch with me.” El said, “He didn’t do a great job of explaining anything, but he wanted me to see it for some reason.”

“Well, everyone should see It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s one of the greatest films of all time!”

The crowd on the screen erupted in another joyful tune and Joyce started humming along.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot and days of auld lang syne?

Then a note from Clarence the angel appeared on the screen, and it was El’s turn to feel tears pinch the back of her eyes.

“Remember, no man is a failure who has friends!” the note read in beautiful swooping cursive.

El had been trying to keep a smile on her face all day for Joyce, but she missed her friends so much she thought she might burst.

She and Will called them on the phone as often as they could, but of course it wasn’t the same. They knew they were missing the making of memories, and as hard as it was, El couldn’t help but feel jealous that everyone in Hawkins all still had each other.

She and Will would talk with Lucas who would tell them some outlandish stories about something Max got up to or Steve said or Mike did in school. Then, they would give Dustin a call for the real story. Max would complain to her about being ‘surrounded by idiots’ and fill her in on the most recent fight Mike picked with Lucas over something stupid and El would call him after just to check on him. Out of everyone, Mike probably took it the hardest with his best friend and his girlfriend both leaving town all at once.

She was glad she had Will sulk and feign happiness with sometimes. She could tell he felt the same as she did, that they were kind of incomplete without everyone. Jonathan was busy with work and college courses, and was planning to transfer to be closer to Nancy next year now that he’d saved up enough, so the reality of the move hadn’t hit him as hard because he had just a little more freedom.

“When you go through all that, I think the people you’re with end up being your family, like it or not,” Will said to her once. “I don’t feel like I can let anyone else in. It’s just us, you know? And most of our family is about a four hour drive away.”

To make matters worse, when Mike and Nancy cancelled, El’s teeny ounce of excitement about the holidays vanished.

It was just… lonely. And El knew Joyce was pretty lonely too. Joyce’s parents were originally from Allendale, but her extended family had all moved or passed away before El was ever around. She just moved her children back somewhere familiar where she was fairly sure there weren’t any secret government conspiracies at work beneath the surface. Since El hadn’t had the use of her powers in over a year, there wasn’t a lot to hide except for the past.

“I love this song,” Joyce said, humming along with the melody and snapping El back to the present.

For auld lang syne, my dear

For auld lang syne

The words sounded like absolute gibberish to El.

“What does ‘old hang sign’ mean anyway?” El asked.

“Auld Lang Syne,” Joyce replied. “It’s in another language - Scottish, maybe? I’m not sure exactly what it means, but you sing it on New Years Eve.”

“Why on New Years Eve?”

“Because it's a time to reflect on the past and look forward to the future… I guess it means that you’re thankful for everything you have and the people in your life and the experiences you’ve had so far, but you’re looking to the future for better things.”

El nodded.

“Kind of hard to look back and be thankful,” El muttered.

Look daddy. Teacher says, ‘Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.’

She felt Joyce turn on the couch to face her.

“Oh, honey, I’m thankful! If I didn’t have you, I’d be spending Christmas Eve alone,” she said as she wrapped one arm around El’s shoulders. “And the world would be a much sadder place.”

“Thanks,” El said, fiddling with the hem on her sweatshirt. “It’s hard though.”

“You’re right, but you have to try your hardest to see the good in life…”

Atta boy, Clarence!

Just then, the oven dinged that the cookies were ready, and El hopped up to grab them. She was setting the cookie sheet on the stove when she saw a pair of headlights pulling into the driveway.

“Looks like Jonathan and Will are home,” El said, pulling out the cooling sheet.

“Oh, good. Just in time for the next film.”

But just as El was putting the last of the cookies on the cooling sheet, she heard a frantic little knock at the door followed by a couple of dings on their doorbell. Startled, she almost dropped her spatula.

“Why on earth are they making all that noise?” Joyce asked as she stood up to turn down the ending credits and answer the door. “Surely Jonathan and Will don’t need any help carrying gifts to the house after an evening at Lonnie’s…”

When she opened the door, instead of hearing Jonathan or Will’s voice, she heard Mike’s.

“Mrs. Byers! Merry Christmas!”

“Mike! And Nancy! I thought you couldn’t make it!”

“We came anyway,” Nancy said from behind him. “Didn’t want to let the holiday pass without coming to see you.”

“Oh, I hope you didn’t upset your mother too much...”

El dropped the spatula - on purpose this time - and was over at the door in a matter of seconds. If there was any cure for a blue Christmas, it was the look on Mike’s beaming face when she rounded the corner, still wearing Joyce’s favorite holiday apron.

“I can’t believe you made it!”

El caught the bright smile on Nancy’s face as Mike met her with open arms.

“Merry Christmas, El,” Mike said, pulling back to hold her face in his hands. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Just as Joyce was about to move everyone indoors and out of the cold, Jonathan’s old station wagon pulled up, making their arrival some of the most perfect timing El had seen in a while.

“Nance? What are you doing here?”

The bags were brought in and the cookies were set on the coffee table. Will was congratulating Mike on standing up to his dad, Nancy was talking with Joyce about winters in New York, and El was all snuggled up on Mike’s right side, her cheek against his shoulder and everything seemed right with the world - at least for the moment.

Even through hard times and sad days, El was so happy she had lived through them. Without them, she couldn’t have moments like these where everything felt perfect. She knew everyone in the room would agree - the smiles and laughs and shining eyes were enough for her to feel completely and simply surrounded by such a warm, fuzzy feeling.

El lifted her head to place a kiss on Mike’s shoulder and he turned to look down at her, eyes all glassy and warm.

“What was that for?”

“Just because,” she said.

I’ll love you ‘til the day I die, she thought.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you and yours!! Can y’all tell which movie I’ve been watching all week... I hope it doesn’t sound like the ramblings of a Christmas lunatic :) Love y’all, miss y’all everyday <3

Tagging some lovelies: @milesfairchild, @mikewheeler, @milevenhearteyes, @serendipitousrambles, @fatechica, @summer-in-hawkins, @milevens, @stevehharrington, @elhoppers, @dustinhendrsn, @lyrawills, @partwayhappy and @robinbuckely

#stranger things #stranger things fic #mileven #mileven fic #writing things #brandnewbabysantas #merry christmas to all!!!

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eturni · 5 years ago

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Day 31 - Auld Lang Syne

I did it! It’s Day 31 of @drawlight advent calender prompt list https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been and we have Auld Lang Syne. It’s quarter past midnight and I was writing through into the New Year. May this be a sign of things to come.

Song is built into the human psyche. Voices are raised in song as celebration, praise and mourning alongside almost every emotion that touches a life. It was naturally linked to the first angelic choirs providing missives from On High but it seemed built into their hearts. They used their voices to reach each other the same way they reached out in times of disaster or reached out to the stars.

In the right situations and with the right intentions songs can be prayer. Where they hold hope. Where they ask for good to come or try to ease pain.

Auld Lang Syne is like that. A prayer for the future, for better.

It’s 2026 and Warlock has come back to the UK to study at Edinburgh University. Humanities, much to their father’s dismay and a certain demon’s chagrin. Aziraphale declares this the perfect excuse to go back and take part in the Hogmanay celebrations, not to mention refill his stores of the good whiskey and some select delicacies.

Warlock’s friends are entirely enchanted by the demon and angel that turn up for the celebrations. Warlock insists that they will be, under no circumstances, joining the three of them for the celebrations in spite of Aziraphale’s warm assurances that it would be no bother at all and Crowley’s evident glee at the amount of embarrassment that he causes just by being seen.

There are a significant number of “Oh, that explains.” and “They really weren’t kidding, huh?” among the general chatter that ensures Crowley knows there have been stories told about Nanny Ashtoreth and how Warlock was raised.

They’re rushed out of the flat share and towards Edinburgh centre in a flurry of stylish black and glitter that has Aziraphale looking at him with something fond in his eyes. “Alright, knock it off brother Francis.” Warlock glowers as best they can, falling back into the names they still used when they felt the two were treating them like they were still eleven.

“Of course, young Warlock,” Aziraphale grins, like the bastard he is “please lead on. I’ll trust your judgements as to the best spots for the festivities.”

There’s a sense of warmth and revelry thrumming through the city as they wander and Crowley soaks in the latent sins just waiting to be acted upon. Sometimes it’s difficult to be off the clock; especially when opportunities are so rife and spirits are so high.

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“Gonna be weird not hearing Big Ben, angel.” Crowley points out instead, bringing Aziraphale’s hand up to brush a kiss against his knuckles. Even half a step in front of them Warlock catches the motion and rolls their eyes.

Aziraphale only chuckles and moves a little closer. “My dear, we’ve been without before when they were doing the maintenance. And for years before. We’ll manage I think.”

“Yeah. Suppose it’s better being with the little terror for the holidays as well. We’re very proud of you by the way, young Warlock.” Crowley grins over to the teen, voice slipping back and forth between his normal voice and nanny’s soft brogue.

“Yeah, don’t make a big deal out of it.” The teen shrugs. Aziraphale all but beams at the redness that tinges Warlock’s as they continue to lead them through the streets and point out places that they went with their new little university friends.

Crowley can see hints of fires in the distance down at Princess Street and hear the pounding strains of music in amongst all of the chatter and cheer.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?

He watches Warlock move ahead of them and thinks of Adam down south at Cambridge. The Antichrist and the child who might have been the Antichrist. Both of them living relatively settled lives, working on bettering themselves, and looking to a future that had seemed all but impossible when Crowley had begged Aziraphale to run to the stars with him.

There had been a time that Crowley was going to try and forget. They’d done enough damage to Warlock in the raising of the child and Adam had more than enough of the supernatural in that brush with the almost apocalypse and everything that had come with it. In the end it had been Aziraphale who’d encouraged him to try and make contact again; sensing how conflicted the demon was at having these two kids, who’d brushed with the forces of Hell, and just leaving them to it.

Now they’re practically true godfathers to two children, and that’s without counting The Them whose memories had been altered after the event but were often far too Knowing regardless and seem to have been left with some sort of imprint to their psyches.

Crowley frequently finds himself looking closely at them and hoping that they’re a sign of the kind of safe hands the world will be in within a couple more decades.

We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet.

Aziraphale and Crowley had spent millennia apart and centuries close and decades together. There had been constant matches about the inherent goodness of humans. There had been constant matches about how unfair it was to expect people to behave just as well no matter the disadvantage you set them up with at the beginning.

No matter what their positions had been at any given time there was almost always a drink to be shared between them.

No matter who was doing the wiling or the thwarting their story had wound together in equal parts ill and good deed and, no matter what, in attempted kindness both given and received.

Crowley had spent so much of his time on Earth committing to kindness to the ‘wrong’ people in the name of subverting the will of Heaven. Lifting the poor, encouraging the downtrodden to revolution. Aziraphale looked back at it sometimes and wondered how he could have followed Heaven’s party line like a shield for so long from the only other person who truly understood the true potential in humans, and the true worth of them.

Aziraphale had spent so much of his time on Earth coming to truly understand the humans. Finding what they needed, understanding what was truly good beyond the rules that they set themselves. He had done without waiting for permission. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Often enough Crowley looked at this terribly brave, terribly hedonistic angel and wondered how he came to be so lucky. If it, too, wasn’t some part of the Ineffable plan that the angel liked to harp on about.

Both had found ways to be kind in a very human sense that fit neither of their roles.

surely ye'll be your pint-stoup and surely I'll be mine.

Crowley grins at the joy on Warlock’s face as they slip into their favourite local and buy a few pints to sup while they watch the world pass by the front window and let the pounding of the music thunder in echo-chamber chests.

“Mom would go absolutely mad if she knew I was drinking.” They chuckle after their first sip.

“Well, over here you’re legal. That’s all that matters to us, right angel?”

Aziraphale tilts his head a little. “Well, that and that you’re sensible when you drink. Have to remember that you don’t need to try to keep up with us.”

Crowley bit his lip at that, seeing the flash of challenge in Warlock’s eye. “He’s not kidding, you know. Aziraphale’s lost a liver before, its really not worth it when you can just enjoy it.”

Warlock takes another gulp before their glass clatters to the table. “Alright, that I have to hear.”

Crowley and Aziraphale look between each other; the angel in warning and the demon in pure glee. The firelight outside catches flame-red hair and shows a hint of truly happy eyes behind glasses. Aziraphale sighs deeply and sits back in his chair. “Alright, so, we were over in the Americas in the middle of the prohibition-”

“Oh, come on! Yeah you’re ancient but you’re not that old.” Warlock rolls their eyes in annoyance.

Crowley snorts a laugh that almost sends ale out of his nose when Aziraphale makes a sort of chalk-board squeak in the back of his throat. “Be that as it may, let me tell my story. You can decide on the truth of the particulars as you wish. Now, it’s at this time I was spending some time with my friend Ms Parker having some discussions about her husband’s behaviours and I’m afraid we got rather deep into some of the more contraband drinks.”

Crowley leans back in his seat; tuning out the chatter and the music and everything else as he watches his partner regale Warlock with old stories. He thinks of how much it’s possible to love one single ethereal being and how little of it should be his. But it is, and it will be for millennia to come. It’s still overwhelming years later and Crowley doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being in awe of it all.

We twa hae run about the braes and pou'd the gowans fine. But we've wander'd mony a weary fit sin' auld lang syne.

After a few more drinks the three of them pass back out into the street and follow streets until they find a familiar path that has Aziraphale gently clutching at Crowley’s arm with a smile. “Oh, I remember this place, my dear. There was a wonderful tailor who lived here back in the fifteenth century.”

Crowley stops in his wandering and motions for Warlock to do the same, happy to indulge Aziraphale for now.

“Yeah, makes sense angel. You always did go for the broken down districts.” He teases softly. It’s what makes Aziraphale the angel that most western humans based their stories on. A guardian angel who turned up in the harder areas and made what difference he could just by being there.

“Telling more tales?” Warlock asks archly with a roll of his eyes. Crowley knows he’s trying to goad another story out of Aziraphale. The kid doesn’t believe the stories, but they’re fascinating nonetheless. And it’s still slightly less bullshit than what they hear from their father.

“Maybe we are. You know, the castle being up on the hill like that? Great for defence but not so great for hunting. All the royals used to love that shit-” “Crowley, language!”

“-that bollocks, so they’d have a whole chunk of land set aside for them to hunt on that the commoners weren’t allowed onto. Now, if you’re an actual demon, and like causing fuss, and the laws of man certainly don’t apply to you, you might find yourself stopping to unleash non-native species onto hunting grounds. You might find yourself in a spot of trouble with the local regent. You might even find yourself helped out of it by someone who’s supposed to be your enemy, and who you thought was hundreds of miles away in Asia looking for early written texts.”

Aziraphale tuts at this. “Too many suppositions, Crowley. You’re telling it wrong. Let me, now-”

Crowley grins and falls into relative silence as Aziraphale tells one of the tales of how he had come to Crowley’s aid a few centuries ago.

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn, but seas between us braid hae roar’d

The two of them often had whole oceans separating them across the years. There have been times that midwinters were spent in lonely huts or new year celebrations with mortals whose faces they would not be able to remember in a few decades’ time.

There were years that they were close and yet never close enough. There were years it was a matter of rivers or streams between them.

There were years that it was their own fears alone that separated.

Invariably everything human that either of them did was made all the more special if they could share it together and that had made the last few years something that neither would give away for all the safety in the world.

Seas could roar and oceans could draw chasms between them and yet Aziraphale and Crowley had always been drawn back together, closer and faster each time. It had been pleasant to find that their natural collision actually just led them to settle into the other’s arms. Close enough that nothing but the occasional bickering argument would pass between them again.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere, and gie's a hand o' thine, And we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught for auld lang syne!

The three of them are caught up at the stroke of midnight. The canon being fired at the castle echoes through the streets to cheers and laughter. Aziraphale leans in to kiss Crowley and Warlock politely does Not tell them to get a room.

Before long they’re in the midst of a small group forming a circle and taking up the strains of Auld Lang Syne. Warlock pulls a face as they get past the first couple of verses, entirely lost. Crowley leans in with a smile and leads his old charge through with the smallest of demonic miracles.

At the last verse they cross arms and link hands and Aziraphale can see the pure mischief in Crowley’s face. “Get ready to move, dear boy. We’ll all be heading for the centre.” He warns in Warlock’s ear, knowing that Crowley has no intention of telling the poor thing.

Even Warlock manages a startled laugh as they rush the centre at the end of the song, twisting around each other until they rush away again, facing outwards and into the new year.

Crowley’s face almost hurts from the smiling as he looks to Aziraphale and Warlock; the colours of the fireworks lighting bright faces in the cold night air.

They’ve gained a lot surviving the Apocalypse together and he feels like there’s only going to be more to be thankful for in the future with his heart full to bursting and an angel at his side.

“Happy New Year.” He grins, and it’s almost shy as Aziraphale turns to him practically glowing from within and wishes him the same.

“And so many more.”

#31 days of ineffables #good omens #ineffable husbands #mini fic

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