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searchingwardrobes · 5 years ago

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Happy belated birthday, @courtorderedcake ! I am so sorry this gift is late! It’s been a week, we’ll just say that, and I wanted your gift to be good. I know you have been through SO much difficulty, my dear, and I wanted to write a fic focusing on Emma’s tough past and her strength because I know you identify with her so deeply. This turned out going in a much different direction than I anticipated, especially with the Daddy!Charming at the end. Nevertheless, I hope you like it! I based this on the song of the same name by Pearl Jam, and the two lines I used at the end made me think of you, Court, as well as Emma: “She holds the hand that holds her down/ She will rise above.”

This fic doesn’t follow the season seven timeline simply because it makes my head hurt and it was just easier to ignore it. I also needed Emma’s past in the Land Without Magic to touch her in the present, and the whole “all the realms are in Maine” wouldn’t really work here. Therefore, this is three years after the season six finale. Henry is sixteen Neal Nolan is three, and baby Hope is two months old.

Summary: The past collides with the present when Emma gets an upsetting phone call. But she isn’t a lost girl anymore.

Rating: T for brief discussions of child neglect, emotional abuse, and alcoholism

Words: 3,500 and some change

Also on Ao3 and part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist

Tagging the usuals: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @xhookswenchx @welllpthisishappening @let-it-raines @teamhook @bethacaciakay @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @distant-rose @delirious-latenight-laughs @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @profdanglaisstuff @tiganasummertree @resident-of-storybrooke @snidgetsafan @thislassishooked @branlovestowrite @scientificapricot @stahlop @hollyethecurious @shireness-says @winterbaby89 @wellhellotragic

Neither Emma nor Killian would say that their pasts were a faded, distant memory. Trauma just wasn’t that easy to get over. They would say, however, that this life they’d built in Storybrooke made the memories easier to handle. They had legit, “I’d go to hell and back for you”, family and friends. They had the home of their dreams where they could give Henry and Hope all the things they never had. They no longer felt the pang of hunger or the bite of cold.

Most of all, they had each other. Having each other meant sharing the burden of those memories for the first time. It was like peeling an onion, and Emma didn’t mean that metaphor in the usual sense. She meant the layers stung like hell, so they could only handle tiny bits at a time. It was okay, though, Killian told her. They had a lifetime together.

Taking the pain a tiny piece at a time was why the phone call came as such a shock for both of them. It wasn’t that Emma forgot about Hank, it’s just she’d never heard anyone speak of him aloud in almost thirty years.

Killian watched her face go pale, saw her arm go limp even though he could still hear a tiny voice coming through the speaker of her phone.

“Emma? Is everything okay?”

She dropped the phone without ending the call, and it hit one of the throw pillows and slid to the edge of the couch. Without saying a word, she headed upstairs, and Killian snatched the phone up and pressed it to his ear. The person on the other end was saying “hello? Ms. Swan, are you there?”

“This is Mr. - this is her husband,” Killian said. Though Storybrooke was no longer isolated from the outside world, Killian still essentially didn’t exist outside of its borders. Their marriage, though real in every way that mattered, wasn’t legally official outside of their little hamlet of fairy tale characters.

“Oh,” the woman on the line said, “well, could you just let her know that visiting hours end at nine pm?”

Killian’s brow furrowed. “Visiting hours?”

“Yes, if she’d like to come visit Hank Gregory. Her foster father?”

Killian sank to the edge of the couch. “Could you fill me in, please? My wife was a little - overwhelmed by your call.”

“Well, Mr. Gregory was admitted to Maine Medical Center here in Portland about two days ago with complications from both liver disease and diabetes. We’ve done all we can for him, but he’s been admitted into the ICU.” The woman took a deep breath, as if gathering her strength to get the next words out.

“I told your wife this already, but he doesn’t have a lot of time. We asked if he had any next of kin he’d like us to contact, and your wife’s name and number was all he gave us. He said she was his foster daughter?”

Killian rubbed the curve of his hook against his chin. No wonder the nurse phrased it as a question - this call likely wasn’t going the way she had envisioned. Across the room, Henry had discarded his video game controller and was watching Killian with a question furrowing his brow. Killian wished he weren’t so worried himself because it’s one thing for the man to have Emma’s name. It was quite another for him to have her cell phone number.

“Let me jot down those visitation hours,” he finally told the nurse, motioning to Henry to get a pad of paper and a pen. The lad dashed to the kitchen and fished them out of the junk drawer. Killian repeated the information from the nurse as Henry scribbled it down. After ending the call, Henry regarded him intensely.

“What was that all about? Mom seemed really upset.”

Killian sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not one hundred percent sure yet, Henry.”

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

“Are you’re absolutely positive that you want to do this, love?”

Emma was clutching the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip, but she nodded at Killian anyway. They were twenty minutes outside of Storybrooke, and she’d been completely silent the entire time.

“I need answers. The man treated me like shit for two years, and now, 24 years later, he calls out of the blue?”

Killian really wasn’t sure what to say, so he merely rubbed Emma’s arm with the curve of his hook. She smiled at the gesture, and her body relaxed. One of her hands released the steering wheel, and she reached over to grasp his. He lifted it to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

“The bastard isn’t going to die without me getting a thing or two off my chest, either,” she added with a bitter chuckle.

There was a time a few years ago that the anger radiating from her and the harshness of her words would have him worried. His mind would have gone immediately to his own bitterness towards his father and the darkness that kind of path leads to. But now he knew better. Emma had faced the darkness and risen above it. He also knew she had to face her demons on her own terms.

“I’m right beside you, Swan, you know that.”

Her face relaxed and she turned her palm to lace their fingers together. She lifted their hands and pressed her lips to the back of his before letting go so she could put two hands back on the wheel. She bore right and soon the Bug was heading down 295 to Portland.

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

Maine Medical Center was enormous, comprised of several different buildings. To make matters worse, parts of it were being renovated and construction zones were everywhere. They finally found the correct building, finally found a parking deck, and then walked what felt like a million miles to the ICU. Killian had never been anywhere but Storybrooke General, but this massive place had the same sterile smell and chilly air. He noticed Emma shivering and put his arm around her as they walked. She leaned into him, clasping his prosthetic hand in hers, his hook not exactly appropriate for the setting.

“Thank you for coming here with me,” she whispered.

“It’s what a husband does,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her temple.

His quip at least elicited a tiny chuckle from her. They approached the nurses station for the ICU, and Emma told them who she was and that she was here to see Hank Gregory. A smiling woman in her sixties whose spectacles reminded him of Granny Lucas led them to the correct room, which looked more to Killian like a glass prison. She eased the door open and called to the patient in the bed with a voice only slightly above a whisper.

“Mr. Gregory, you have visitors.”

The man’s eyes blinked open, and he turned his head towards the open door. He was covered in wires and tubes, and things blinked and beeped all around him. The nurse pressed a gentle hand to Emma’s arm.

“I’ll let you visit.”

Emma simply nodded, and Killian could tell she would rather flee. But she let out a long, slow breath and then took a step closer towards the man in the bed. His skin was pale and looked as thin as paper, littered in bruises. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks sallow, and there was a yellowish pallor to his face. He was mostly bald with only a few wisps of dingy gray hair. Killian glanced at Emma. She dropped her arms to her sides, and her hands were balled into tight fists.

“Emma,” the man said on a struggled breath, “you came.”

“How the hell did you find me?” she bit back.

The man’s eyes blinked, moist with tears. He looked sad, resigned, but not angry or defensive. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you over the years. Trying to, anyway. You can be a hard girl to find.”

“Yeah, I kinda pride myself on it.”

He ignored her jab, and smiled at Killian. “And who is your young man here?”

“I’m not ten anymore, Hank. This isn’t my young man, he’s my husband.”

“Killian Jones.” Killian gave the man a slight nod, unsure if he should attempt to shake his hand or not. He glanced nervously at Emma, wondering if she was offended by his polite greeting, but her gaze hadn’t left the man in the hospital bed.

“Nice to meet you, son.”

“He’s not your anything.” Emma propped her hands on her hips. “How. Did. You. Find me?”

He sighed, his head sinking even farther into his pillow. “I saw you in the papers a few years back. Emma Swan Always Gets Her Man, that was the headline. I’ve done some, well . . . work with computers, so I -”

“You obtained my personal information illegally, right? Did you know I’m a sheriff now?”

Hank tilted his head. “No, actually, I didn’t. Funny thing, I was following your career in New York, even found out about your son -”

“You stay the hell away from Henry!”

Hank ignored her “-but then the two of you just . . . disappeared. I held onto your number, though. When I gave it to the nurse, I wasn’t sure if it would even work. I was even less sure that you would come.”

Emma’s chin was tilted, and Killian knew what that meant. “Why me?”

“You’re all I’ve got left, Emma. You were my daughter, for God’s sake!”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your daughter. I never was.”

“Maybe not by blood, but I loved you like my own -”

“You don’t know what love even is!” Emma was shouting now, and Killian glanced nervously at the door. He wasn’t going to stop her, though. Obviously, whatever was pouring out of her had been bottled up for years. Hank was obviously not long for this world, and he knew better than anyone that his wife needed to say everything that had been left unsaid.

Hank was crying now, tears catching in the wrinkles that marred his face. “I didn’t treat you right, I know that, but I did love you, Emma. I did.”

Emma shook her head. “Really? You loved me so much you spent all of the money on liquor while I starved? Loved me so much you spent every waking moment in that damn recliner with the tv on? Do you know how many times I had to clean you up after you’d puked all over yourself? How many times I had to haul trash bags full of empty bottles out to the curb?”

“I know, I know!” Hank was sobbing now, his voice breaking as he struggled to speak. “When Denine and I took you in, we were gonna do it together. We were so excited to give you a home. But then she died, and I . . . she was my life, Emma. I was grieving so badly that I lost myself in the drinking, and -”

“I was grieving too!” Emma shouted. “And I was only ten!”

An awkward silence fell then, the sounds of the hospital machines louder within it. Hank’s gaze trailed to the ceiling, and his hands picked nervously at the thin hospital blanket. He let out a shaky sigh before finally speaking again.

“I’m dying, Emma. My liver’s useless, my kidneys are failing.” Groaning, he struggled to sit up in the bed, his right hand shaking violently as he reached for the blanket across his lap. When he yanked it aside, Killian’s eyes widened in surprise to see legs that ended in blunted stumps where feet should have been. Emma, however, didn’t react at all.

“Look at me,” Hank choked out. “I hated myself so much, I literally killed myself. Didn’t give a shit about my diabetes, so I lost my feet.”

“Serves you right,” Emma replied coldly.

“You’re right, it does,” Hank agreed, awkwardly covering himself back up and collapsing against his pillows. “Denine would be devastated if she saw me now.”

“She was good to me,” Emma whispered, hugging her arms around herself.

Hank nodded, tears gathering in his eyes once again. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was before it’s too late. I hoped that maybe we could -”

“Fine,” Emma interrupted him, “you got to apologize, but if you think that means I’ll forgive you, then I guess you’re gonna die disappointed.”

Emma completely ignored the broken man as he sobbed in the hospital bed, turning instead for the door and striding from the room. Killian followed her, but he couldn’t help glancing back at Hank Gregory with sympathy.

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

Emma felt physically drained, yet a buzz of righteous anger still tingled along her skin. Killian, however, had fallen into a melancholy she couldn’t understand. They had decided to get lunch in the hospital cafeteria rather than drive around trying to find a place to eat. They had found a spot to sit next to a window looking out at a courtyard, and Killian seemed far more interested in watching the people walking past than the food in front of him.

“Hey,” Emma said softly, reaching out to grasp his hand, “what’s wrong?”

He gave her that smile that never fooled her because it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing, love, really.”

As if to try and prove it to her, he picked up his fork and speared a piece of broccoli. Not very convincing, however, when it never reached his mouth. Emma sighed and put down her grilled cheese.

“Yeah right, nothing.” She regarded his brooding nervously, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “Do you think I’m an awful person? To yell at a dying man like that?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. As difficult as it was, it had to be said.”

If anything, Killian’s words only made him look more depressed. Emma frowned. “But you think I should go back and forgive him?”

Killian shrugged. “I can’t tell you what to do in a situation like this. I confess, I wish you would, but . . . “

“But what?”

He finally met her eyes, dropping the fork with the uneaten broccoli. “Can’t you see it, Swan?”

Her brow furrowed. “See what?”

“Is there really that much difference between me and Hank Gregory?”

Emma couldn’t help it, a short laugh escaped her lips. “You can’t be serious.”

“A one-handed pirate with a drinking problem,” he grumbled.

“What?”

Killian rubbed his forehead, unable to look at her. “It’s what Pan said in Neverland when I told him you were finally seeing me for who I really am.”

Emma rolled her eyes, though she knew Killian was serious. “And you’re going to believe that psychopath?”

“Well, he wasn’t wrong. And here you are, refusing to forgive . . . an alcoholic with no feet.”

Emma’s eyes widened as his words sank in, then her face softened and tears moistened her eyes. “Oh babe,” she told him softly, grasping his hand again and rubbing his knuckles with her thumb, “you’re nothing like him. I’ve seen you drink too much, sure, but you’re not an alcoholic. You’ve never neglected me or Henry or Hope. You’ve done nothing but put us first.” She let out a long, slow breath, relieved when she saw a tiny glimmer spark in her husband’s eyes. “Hank ignored me, neglected me, yelled at me and called me names for two long, excruciating years.”

“Oh Swan,” he told her in a choked voice, “I’m not sure I was much better after losing Milah.”

“No, stop it,” she said firmly, grasping his prosthetic and his hand firmly in both of hers. “That may be true, but I know you, better than anyone. I have no doubt in my mind that if a child needed you, you would have been there. As a matter of fact, you did just that, for Neal - I mean Bae.”

“And then I mucked it all up like I always -”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Jones.”

He gave a small laugh, and ducked his head. Since she didn’t seem to be getting through to him, she got up, plopped right down in his lap and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.

“Forget the past, remember? Isn’t that what we said on our wedding day?”

“Yes, but -”

“No buts. Hank Gregory was never a father to me. He sucked, okay? You, however, are the best father I could ever dream of for Henry and Hope.” She punctuated her words with a searing kiss, not giving a damn that they were in the middle of crowded, bustling Maine Medical Center.

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

Emma rubbed her palms on her jeans nervously as she watched the dying man through the glass of his room in the ICU. Killian put his arm around her and pulled her close.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

Emma nodded. “Yes. You were right, I did need to say those harsh words.” She turned to him and shrugged. “But they weren’t the only words. I guess I have too much of my parents in me.”

He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be waiting right here for you.”

With a steadying breath, she stepped away from her husband and opened the door. She had thought Hank was sleeping, but she had been wrong. He turned towards the door and smiled when he saw her.

“I didn’t think I would see you again.”

“Yeah, well . . . “ Emma shrugged as she approached his bed. She stepped to the foot of it and grasped the edge with both hands. “I was talking to my husband, and he reminded me that people can change.”

Hank’s eyes brightened with hopefulness. “I have changed, Emma, and I was hoping maybe I could get to know my daughter again.”

Emma lifted her hand. “Please don’t call me that, Hank. I found my real parents, and they’re wonderful people. My dad and I especially are close. He and I -” she chuckled, surprised when tears rose up in her eyes thinking of David. “Well, we’re a lot alike. My mom definitely says so about a hundred times a day.”

Tears rolled freely down Hank’s cheeks. “Oh, Emma, I’m so happy to hear that. Knowing that, I really think I can leave this world in peace.”

Emma blinked, startled. “What?”

“I was such a horrible parent to you, Emma, and you were so innocent. I never forgave myself, and I tortured myself after children’s services took you away wondering what happened to you. Wondering if you ever found a family to love you the way you always deserved.”

Emma nodded, the tears flowing freely on her own face. “I have. I really have.”

“Anyone else besides Henry, your parents, and that handsome husband of yours?”

“Yes,” Emma said, pulling her cell phone out of her jacket pocket as she came around to the side of the bed, “my baby girl Hope. Here she is on the day she was born.”

Hank’s trembling hand came out to bring the screen closer. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is, isn’t she?”

An awkward silence fell as Emma pocketed her phone. She shifted her feet awkwardly, wondering if she could really spit the words out she had come here to say.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Hank finally said.

Emma’s face softened as she held his gaze. “Yes, I do. Not for you, but for me.” She took another deep breath and reached out to grasp Hank’s hand. “Hank, I forgive you.”

The man let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes closing as he whispered, “thank you.” He must have been saving that breath for Emma’s words because as soon as it fell from his lips, every machine in the room started beeping. Emma was shoved out of the way as doctors and nurses rushed in to attend to the dying man. She found herself back in Killian’s arms, weeping against his shoulder.

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

The drive home was a bit surreal with nothing but silence their companion back to Storybrooke. Emma didn’t think the feeling was grief - she’d known that, and God, she’d never forget it. Yet she did feel emotionally spent, and wrung out of all coherent thought. Killian didn’t seem concerned by her silence, content to watch the scenery go by and hum along with the radio. Occasionally, he would take her hand in his and give her a reassuring smile.

Emma was surprised when she saw the Welcome to Storybrooke sign - it was like she had driven home on autopilot. When they parked outside of their house, her heart flipped to see her dad’s truck. David came out on the porch before they had even exited the vehicle, Hope cradled in his arms.

“Snow needed to take Neal to t-ball practice so I -” David’s words were cut off when Emma launched herself into his arms. His free arm came up to cup his daughter’s head, and he was shocked to hear her crying against him. He looked to Killian with a startled expression and was relieved when his son-in-law gave him a small smile and a tiny nod that Emma was fine. Killian gently took Hope from him, grinning as the two month old squealed in delight. His arms free, David held Emma tighter.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” he finally asked her.

Emma pulled back, a smile lighting her face despite the tears. “Yeah, I am. Better than okay. I just . . . I love you, Dad.”

David swallowed back the lump in his throat. “I love you, too.”

She holds the hand that holds her down / She will rise above.

#cs ff #cs future fic #emotional hurt/comfort #daddy charming #killian's self loathing #emma's past #emma facing her past

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rosebloodcat · 7 years ago

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Where is he?

Warning! There is violence and swearing in this one! Nothing too bad, but I thought you’d like the heads-up.

Henry wasn’t looking forward to this. Something wasn’t right, and he needed to talk to Joey to find out what is was. No, not talk. Interrogate.

When he had come in after Halloween, Joey had met him at the door looking exhausted but positively giddy, and presented him with an actual, living, breathing version of Bendy. There where a few minor differences from the model sheets Henry had drawn for the studio (this Bendy had a tail, a scar of some kind by his widow’s peak, and green tinted eyes) but it was undeniably the same Devil Darling he had created in the early days of the studio.

At first Henry had been amazed and delighted, but almost as soon as Bendy had shyly greeted him, he remembered the teenager they had hired to be Bendy’s voice for the cartoon.

He had promptly asked Joey what this would mean for Harry’s job, since the man had essentially rendered it moot. A strange look had come over his friend’s face, but he’d assured Henry that there was nothing to worry about.

Harry hadn’t come in to work that day, and he had gone to Joey’s office to ask if he knew why. Joey had said that he had given Harry some time off because of all the hard work he had put into the past couple episodes. At the time, it hadn’t seemed to outrageous. And now Bendy was there to voice his own lines, so the schedule wouldn't be held up by it.

But then Harry hadn’t come in for the rest of the week either. He hadn’t heard from the teen at any point during that time, and he had started to get really worried about him.

And just that morning Harry’s landlady, a kindly woman by the name of Ivy Monroe, had called the studio and Henry had been the one to answer. Apparently Harry hadn’t come back to his apartment at any point in the week, she called a few other people she knew the teen hung around and none of them had seen him. As far as she could tell he was missing and she was getting frantic about it.

Henry had told her he would ask around and find out if anyone at the studio knew where the teen was, but he had a suspicion that had been bugging him for a while now.

Bendy had a lot of odd habits. The odd slang he used, food and drink preferences that had never appeared in the show, verbal and physical ticks that Henry knew he had never come up with for the toon. All of them were habits he had only ever seen in the toon’s missing Voice Actor. It raised more warning flags than he didn’t like, and it definitely wasn't good for Henry's peace of mind.

Harry had stayed late to talk with Joey about something on Halloween, then the next day an actual living Bendy is introduced to everyone at the studio and Harry just up and vanishes without a trace?

No, that couldn’t be a coincidence.

He had searched around the studio and asked his coworkers if they had heard anything from the missing teen, hoping to find something to disprove his suspicion. But there was nothing, no one had seen or heard from him.

Then Henry searched the Voice actors area of the music department, and found Harry’s belongings haphazardly jammed in a rarely used supply closet in that section of the studio. Heart sinking, he had searched the items, but still found nothing hinting at what had happened. A polished stick had fallen from Harry's jacket (from a sleeve or pocket, he couldn’t tell), and Henry had picked it up.

It had looked like a “classic” wizard’s wand, and considering Harry’s own (rarely seen) interest in magic, he had assumed it had been for a costume that Harry had planned to wear that Halloween. He had tucked it into his pocket, hoping it wouldn’t have to act as evidence for his theory about what had happened to its owner.

He had gone to the ink machine room to try and think about things.

It wasn’t the quietest room in the studio by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the least likely to have people wandering through while he tried to put his thoughts in order and figure out what could have happened to Harry. He had kicked something by accident on his way there, and when he saw what it was, it only acted as more evidence of his growing theory. And Henry didn't like the theory in question.

He rapped his knuckles against Joey’s office door, then opened it without preamble. He needed to know what was going on, and he couldn't let Joey have the chance to try and weasel his way out of it.

“Joey, we need to talk. Right now.” Joey looked up from the papers on his desk, confusion on his face. Henry’s jaw set. “How did you bring Bendy here?”

Joey blinked at him in confusion.

“I already told you Henry, I brought him to life with magic.”

“Yes, but how did you do it?” Joey leaned back in his chair, a confused look in his eyes, but a smile on his face.

“Well, I did a ritual. In the Ink Machine room, since Bendy needed to be made from Ink being a toon and all. I had to use some... hard to get ingredients, but the ones that I used ensured that Bendy would be able to live well and even be able to do actual magic.”

Henry kept his face blank throughout Joey's speech, which served the purpose he wanted, since Joey began shifting uncomfortably in his chair under his gaze.

“Those “hard to get” ingredients wouldn't happen to have something to do with Harry hasn't been seen anywhere for the past week, would they?” Henry very carefully pulled the object he'd found out of his pocket, and set it on the desk. Joey's posture stiffened, his eyes widening and face paling at the sight of it. “Or why I just so happened to have found Harry's glasses in the hall outside the Ink Machine room? The glasses we both know he can't see worth a damn without?”

Henry leaned on the desk, his eyes narrowing at Joey, who shrank away from him. The blonde swallowed nervously.

“I really don't want to think you did something to him, Joey. I really don't. But right now, I'm finding it really hard to come up with reasons to not suspect you. I want answers Joey. And I want them now.”

Joey twitched, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt anxiously. Henry could tell he was struggling to come up with something to pacify him, without putting the man's own neck on the line. Henry had always been a force to be reckoned with when he was angry, it was good to know that Joey hadn't forgotten it.

“W-well. I- um...It's..Alright,” Joey sighed, nervously running a hand through his hair. “I- uh, maybe I did do something. Harry's- You've seen he has issues, right? With being touched and being around people. He's a good kid, so I de- uh, I thought it would be a good idea to, you know... To give Harry a bit of a second childhood, you see-”

“Stop beating around the bush and cut to the chase already, Joey.” Henry ground out. He hated when Joey would try to dodge around a subject. Especially with the fact that they were talking about a person right then. It gave his sizable imagination far too much time to make its own conclusions. And they weren't good ones.

Joey flinched, seeming to fully realize the impending danger looming over him right then. He tugged at the collar of his shirt.

“W-well, I needed to use Harry to, um, to make Bendy-”

“Define 'use' for me, Joey.” Henry's tone dipped dangerously, until it was just barely above snarling. That was… Living people weren’t...

“I, um, used the ritual I mentioned to, uh, t-turn Harry into Bendy?”

“You… You did what?!” Henry was torn between disbelief and fury. How was that even possible? Why would Joey try to do something like that? There was no way Harry would have just sat back and allowed him to do that, Joey would have had too…

Joey flinched at Henry’s darkening expression and hurriedly continued speaking.

“W-well, Harry was actually magical, and I would need magic to bring Bendy and the other toons to life without resorting to more drastic magics. The first ritual had to be done with a magical person in order to ensure the toons would come out stable, and without having to sacrifice more people to bring them to life! And-and this way Harry can have a second chance to-”

There was red seeping into his vision, and before Henry could stop himself, he had cut Joey off by slugging him. Joey reeled back at the punch to the jaw, caught by surprise. He tumbled from his seat, clutching at the new injury. He stumbled to his feet, backing a couple steps from the enraged animator.

“N-now Henry, there’s no need to get so aggressive.” Holding out his hands, Joey futility attempted to placate the man. Henry snarled and took another swing at Joey, who saw it coming this time, and barely managed to duck under the hook. He knew Henry’s strength. The first punch would ache for a good, long while (and would leave a hell of a bruise later), but if he managed to land another, serious punch on him... Then Joey would be leaving the studio with a broken jaw.

If he was lucky, that was.

“You FUCKER!” Henry took another wild swing at his boss that didn’t connect, before leaping at Joey with a furious yell. Joey hit the floor hard, the wind getting knocked out of him under Henry’s weight and he was easily pinned by the stronger man.

“Henry, stop, you’re being irrational!” Joey pleaded fearfully, writhing and squirming to escape Henry’s considerable grip. He had expected Henry to get mad at him for changing Harry, but not a full on rage of this intensity. He needed to think of a way to calm Henry down, and fast.

“Irrational!? I’m being irrational?! You-” Henry spat, too angry to formulate the rest of his words, instead taking the opportunity to swing another right hook into Joey’s vulnerable cheek. The blonde let out a pained yelp, his struggles growing more frantic. Another fist sailed, slamming into the nose and making it bleed fiercely. Through the chaos, neither man noticed Bendy entering the room, possibly looking for one of them. Seeing the two fighting, and the blood on Joey’s face, the little ink devil had panicked, scampering out once and returning while dragging a confused Wally in by the cuff of his sleeve.

The janitor’s confusion quickly morphed into shock and alarm at the scene.

“Henry?! What the hell man?!” He lunged forward, hooking his arms under the animator’s to keep him from throwing any more punches at their prone boss. An equally distressed Bendy grabbed onto Henry’s shirt and started pulling him back. It took their combined effort to pry the seething man off of the bruised and bleeding Joey.

“Henry, what the hell has gotten into you?!” Wally grunted out, still restraining the man.

“THAT FUCKING BASTARD KILLED HARRY!” he screeched, writhing and straining to escape their grip. Wally just gripped Henry’s arms tighter, gritting his teeth a bit at the accusation.

~~B~E~N~D~Y~~H~A~R~R~Y~~

Bendy looked between the enraged Henry and the injured Joey, while still helping Wally restrain the smaller man. He had eavesdropped on part of their conversation, before they had started fighting, and now he was feeling a bit lost about the whole ordeal.

People had mentioned “Harry” to him before. That he had been Bendy's voice in the show, before Joey had brought him to life. He’d heard them wondering what it would mean for the actor’s job, but no one had seen or heard from him since Halloween. (Why did their mentioning him make him feel strange? Like he had forgotten something important) But, why would Henry think Joey had killed him?

Yeah, he’d heard Joey mention something about sacrifices earlier, but he also started to say something about Harry having a “second chance” of some kind. Second chances were good things, right?

(His head was starting to hurt. Why was it starting to hurt?)

“Izzat… Izzat true Joey?” Wally looked and sounded distressed, his eyes peering at Joey over Henry’s shoulder. He must have said that out loud. But why were they all so upset? Was there something he was missing about all of this? (My head hurts…)

Something caught on the edge of Bendy’s glove when he adjusted his grip on Henry’s clothes. An ever curious little demon, Bendy couldn't help peering at the thing that had caught his glove. There was something slim and wooden poking out of Henry's pocket. And he had the sudden, irresistible urge to pull it out and examine it. He carefully grasped it and tugged it free of the pocket, finally pulling Henry’s attention from strangling Joey.

“Bendy? What are you...”

The little devil ignored him, far more curious about the stick that he had pulled out. He could hear the humans around him talking (Joey was asking about the stick, Henry said he’d found someone's stuff, Wally was asking his own questions), but their voices faded into the background. He turned it over in his hands, examining every curve and nick and stain in the wood.

It felt strangely... familiar. Like he had seen and held it before but he couldn't remember where. He could swear it was warm to the touch. Possibly from being in Henry’s pocket? Was the tip of the stick glowing? His headache was getting worse. Why was it getting worse? (Not a stick…)

(“Arigh’, now we just need t’ get yeh yer wand, best get t’ Ollivanders…”)

This was… This wasn’t a stick. It was a wand.

(“Unusual combination – Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”)

It- It was his wand.

Bendy’s head throbbed painfully, a hand moving away from the wand to clutch at his head, suddenly feeling dizzy. A sharp spike of pain shot through his temples, the world spinning, and a pained keen tearing from his throat. His legs gave out under him, curling in on himself in a vain attempt to escape the pain he felt.

“Bendy!!”

He groaned, his eyes squeezed shut to escape the spinning room. A painful ringing blocking out the other voices in the room. And slowly, the world faded from his senses.

When he woke again, he was wrapped in soft blankets and laid out on one of the camp beds in the infirmary. With the lights turned low and only the distant rumbling of the Machine in the upper floors filling the silence. He still had the wand, no, his wand clutched tightly in his hand.

He sat up slowly, listening for any signs of someone besides himself. He heard the sound of soft breathing coming from the other side of the room. He glanced over, spotting Henry slumped over on the couch there, snoring slightly where he sat. A small smile tugged at his lips and the sight of the dozing man, then his gaze dropped back to his toony, gloved hands, and the wand he still held.

He remembered who he was now. He wasn’t Bendy, he hadn’t been born as the little toon. He was Harry James Potter. A wizard that had been displaced in time.

And now he was a living cartoon demon, thanks to Joey Drew. He couldn’t remember what had actually been done to him, but it seemed obvious who was responsible for it (the tea, Joey must have drugged his tea. No wonder it had tasted odd).

He wanted to be angry at Joey for what he’d done to him, but…

When he’d woken without his human memories, thinking he was just Bendy, Joey had been so kind to him and so careful while “introducing” him to the world. And he’d done so much to get him comfortable in the Studio and to make sure he was safe and healthy. And even before then, Joey had always been such a kind, well-meaning person, he…

Harry was angry with him but he felt like, given enough time, he could come forgive the man for what he’d done.

“At least I still have my wand, I guess…” Harry mumbled to himself.

Harry idly turned his wand over in his hands, running his fingers over the ridges in the wood, and felt a lump build in his non-existent throat. Now that he wasn’t human anymore, would he still be able to use it? Could he use any magic? The thought sent a fearful chill down his spine. His wand was one of the few things of his real life and name that he still had, if he couldn’t use it…

Hands shaking slightly, he raised his wand and whispered the first spell to come to mind.

“Lumous.” He nearly sagged in relief at the pale blue light that appeared at the tip of the wand, unaware of a soft intake of breath from the couch. But Harry couldn’t help wondering, now what? He couldn’t exactly walk into the nearest magical hospital and ask for a potion to turn him back into a human. Was there even a way to change him back?

And what about Mrs. Monroe? She was a part time Unspeakable, so by now the DoM would know about him disappearing. It was only a matter of time until that had Aurors look into the situation, and that would lead them to the Studio. What would they do when they found him? What would happen? And what would they do if they found out about what Joey had done? What he could do? They couldn’t just obliviate the staff and expect it to end there.

There wasn’t a quick fix for this, it was just too complicated. (He didn’t want to leave. He liked being where he was. He liked his coworkers, his friends, he didn’t want to be taken from them. He didn’t want them to forget him...)

He jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder. Looking up, green eyes met with Henry’s hazel eyes, illuminated by the pale light from tip of his wand. There was a strange look on Henry’s face, like he was searching for something in his face. He seemed to find it, as he carefully sat down on the bed next to Harry’s (much) smaller form.

“Harry, is… Is that you buddy?” He asked, his voice soft with a hopeful tint to his tone. Harry’s throat felt tight, part of his saying he should lie, or do something to prevent Henry from knowing about. But he couldn’t, Henry didn’t deserve lies, or to have part of himself taken just to keep a law he never believed in safe. Harry felt himself give a slight nod, his eyes watering slightly.

Henry startled him against by wrapping him in a hug, giving the human-turned toon a slight squeeze.

“I’m so sorry Joey did this to you, Harry. He shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t have even considered doing it. I’ll do everything I can to find a way to fix this, I promise.” He buried his face into Henry’s shoulder. He didn’t think Henry could keep that promise (this was too complex, too advanced, for him to fix. For either of them to fix), but he still found some comfort from the actions and words.

He needed to think of what to do, he had to.

#Harry Potter #harry potter crossover #Harry Potter au #hp #hp crossover #hp au #bendy and the ink machine #bendy and the ink machine crossover #bendy and the ink machine au #batim #batim au #batim crossover #voice actor Harry #bendy harry

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bloggerblagger · 6 years ago

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85) Hashtag Strap-on. Edinburgh Fringe 2018, explored, explained, and reviewed.

If you have a spare few days left in August, drop everything and take advantage of my top holiday tip. Take the high road or the low road, the plane or even the train (provided you’re prepared to stand for four or five hours) and hightail it to the Athens of the North.

The Edinburgh Fringe is truly a once in a lifetime experience. And that’s an understatement. Because once you get the bug you may very well find yourself - like me - going back year after year.

Never mind that the weather is often, inevitably, dreich. (Dictionary definition: Scottish dialect for ‘Bleak, miserable, dismal, cheerless, dreary.’ And pronounced and meaning almost exactly the same as ‘dreck’ which is Yiddish for lousy. How curious.)

Worry not that the restaurant prices are ludicrous - in a bad way. Nor that you’ll be lucky to get a room you could swing a kitten with dwarfism in, no matter how much you’re willing to pay - ‘how much?!!!’. Nor even that the pavements are so crowded - ‘OMG, will you just get out of the fucking way?!’ - you have to walk in the road if you want to travel above sub sloth pace.

Because, really, who gives a shit? What’s the occasional near death experience compared to the non stop adrenaline rush of the Fringe.

If there is a better legal high available, answers on a postcard please.

Do mind the quality and still feel the width.

It is said there are 3000 shows on during the Fringe and that, during August, the population of Edinburgh doubles. Frankly when you’re there it feels like these are gross under estimates.

Every lecture hall, every room - very possibly every broom cupboard - in the University campus becomes a theatre. Every basement in every pub and every loft above every bar seems to have a mic and a makeshift stage. And every doorway in every street seems to lead to a stand up comedian, or a sketch show, or a play, or to music or magic or mime.

The standard length - and it rarely varies - of any performance is one hour and shows begin at 9a.m and go on to 1 or 2 the following morning. If you had the stamina and could survive the sensory overload, you could, theoretically, do ten shows a day. But even if you did, you would still see less than 10% of what is available.

And the standard is astonishing. True, every so often you come across a dud but, in my experience - three years now - for a show even to be average it has to be pretty damn good.

Essential Fringe primer.

Eight super-cunning tips (in no particular order).

1) If you want to know the best things to see, find a friend who has been and ask them. LIKE ME! My reviews are below and as regular followers of my blog know, I am never wrong. Failing that, Google the recommendations from The Guardian, the Beeb and The Scotsman.

2) It’s useful to understand the basic ‘architecture’ of the event because there are several events going on in parallel in Edinburgh.

First, the original Edinburgh Festival festival which takes place in proper venues and is sort of proper culcher and proper expensive.

Second, the Edinburgh Fringe which, as it name suggests, exists outside the Festival proper, began nearly 50 years ago, has grown like the Beanstalk on steroids, and in which, shows, generally speaking, charge £10-12 for entrance.

Third, there is the Free Fringe, in which you find acts, so far as I can tell, that are not in the actual Fringe and for which you can get a separate programme, and which, as the name suggests, don’t charge.

(There are also lots of other things going on - like the Edinburgh Book Festival - but I am not sure where they fit into the scheme of things. Might be part of the actual Festival, but not really relevant.)

3) Download and use the Edinburgh Fringe App. It’s really cleverly designed and once you’ve worked it out, it’s a great way to narrow down the insane choice, to find out what tickets are available, and offers an easy way to buy them. (I didn’t even bother getting the hard copy brochure/guide. Who wants to schlep a telephone directory around?)

4) There are lots of shows you can take children and young teens to, but if you want to avoid a lot of the kids, go on August 15th or afterwards. Because, as odd as it seems to us non-Scots, Scottish schools return for the autumn term in mid-August. I am inclined to think that is the best time to go anyway. After a couple of weeks the shows will be properly grooved.

5) If you are part of a couple try it to make sure you are there on a Monday and Tuesday. There are lots of two for one offers available to all on those days.

6) Couples going for a few days or more, should get a Friend of the Fringe membership. Costs £35, and there lots of other ‘two for one’ offers available every day to FOFs.

Otherwise, to see 3 or 4 shows a day (the right level, for a serious and hardy Fringe goer, I would say) you need to budget about £40 per day per person for entertainment before costs of food, drinks, accom etc. Well, I never said it was cheap. ((By the way, my max fringe binge this year was five shows in one day.)

7) Build your schedule around the plays at the Traverse theatre. The Traverse, known as one of Britain’s leading centres of new writing, is not strictly part of the Fringe nor part of the Festival but hovers somewhere in between. HOWEVER, its programme is included in the Fringe. (No, I don’t quite understand either, but that’s what I was told.)

Anyway, notwithstanding that, they put on about half a dozen plays of about 60-90 mins length - why aren’t all plays that short? - cuts out nine tenths of the snoring - and they rotate them so they play at different times every day. Invariably brilliant stuff and probably all sold out this year. But they do get RETURNS. Call them on 0131 228 1404 to find out how to get one.

8) My strong advice is to book accommodation as far in advance in possible - like right now for next year - even if you are not 100 per cent sure you are going. You can always cancel. I stay 20 miles out of town with friends - lucky me! - and this year, hired a car and every day drove into a Park n’ Ride (50p per day) and caught the train in for the last 5 miles. Inexpensive and just about manageable, although it took some organising. So if you have some mates in striking distance, blag a room.

If you have a ‘winibago’, you could do as a few enterprising Fringe goers do and take your leviathan and park in a Park ’n Ride. (There are quite a few situated all around the borders of Edinburgh.) Not sure I would want to stay in the Hotel Park n’ Ride but I saw people who did it.

This year’s BloggerBlagger reviews.

I went to twenty three things in all. (22 performances of one kind or another plus 1 something else.)

These comprised, again in no particular order:

Five straight plays.

Games. A two hander based upon the story of two Jewish women at the time of the Berlin Olympics and simply stunning, as were Borders and Angels, the last two fringe offerings written by former comedian Henry Naylor. Henry, (who I am pleased to call a friend from the time I directed him in a Direct Line campaign 20 years ago - yes, funny old world) was bracketed by one reviewer with Athol Fugard after the recent off-Broadway production of ‘Angels’.

His standard does not drop. ‘Games’ is gripping from first to last and subtly draws chilling parallels with the era of Trump. Commit murder to get a ticket. (You may have to.) Five Bloggerblaggerstars.

Freeman. Half a dozen actors, with no scenery, constantly switch between different roles and different centuries to produce a riveting commentary on the sins of slavery and it’s rippling effect into the present day. Wonderful performances. Great imagination. Utterly compelling. Not on any account to be missed. Five Bloggerblaggerstars.

Revenants. A more conventional piece of theatre set in 1942 in which Queen Mary (widow of George V) is portrayed as a game old bird with a touch more brain power than the Royal Family are usually said to have. Surprisingly this too, turns out to be a story about race.

Had its moments but didn’t quite do it for me.Three Bloggerblaggerstars.

Underground Railroad Game. A theatrical experience like no other I have ever experienced. Once again this is about slavery, a mesmerising two hander at the Traverse presented in a constantly shifting context and style. Sometimes comedic, sometimes tragic, and sometimes explicitly and, even for a man of the world like me, shockingly sexual, it never stops surprising.

Two wonderful performances, particularly by Jennifer Kidwell, an actor of astonishing power. You may have to commit a murder for this one too, but well worth a lifetime in prison so go for it.

My joint pick of the week.Five Bloggerblaggerstars Plus.

Chihuahua. A clever one woman performance that switches between the life of a character in an Edith Wharton novel and that of a waitress in a coffee shop in Scotland; two women who are linked in a not very defined way by chihuahuas. This was presented in a much smaller venue than the other plays I saw, and also unlike those, it was only half full.

I thought the actress and writer, whose name I didn’t write down and now can’t locate on the internet, was heroic in the face of such a small audience. I think the title might be the problem. I am sure there must be something that would grab a passer-by or a flicker-through with much more grip. Three and a bit BloggerBlaggerStars.

Two plays with music.

What are Girls Made Of?. Another Traverse presentation, this one with four excellent actors, three of whom were obviously at least as gifted as musicians, and the fourth of whom sang wonderfully. Apparently she would have danced too had she not suffered a nasty injury at some previous performance, a misfortune that the disembodied voice of the artistic director of the Traverse told us about at the outset, before apologising for the show’s relative shortcomings and begging the audience’s indulgence. She needn’t have bothered her invisible head.

Cora Bissett, the injured singer, was so assured in this tale of the sudden rise and precipitous fall of a young rock star, told as she approaches forty, that neither she nor we missed a step. She was completely convincing in the role, unsurprisingly in a sense, since it was her own true life story she was telling, and, of course, she wrote it. Five Bloggerblaggerstars.

Vulvarine. Much more authentically Fringe in that it was conceived and performed by five fresh faced performers with great verve and obvious talent but with the odd rough edge still to be professionally smoothed. ‘Vulverine’ is a more than creditable attempt at a musical comedy with a sort of ironic feminist theme and has some quite decent tunes and lyrics and more than a few genuinely funny bits.

Allie Munro, plays the lead part of boring Brony Buckle who is transformed into Superheroine Vulvarine, and she was, I thought, terrific. Likewise the rest of the cast with one obvious exception. But given the youthful gusto that made this show so much fun, it would seem mean to name the culprit so, should you go, you can decide for yourself who I meant. Four Bloggerblaggerstars.

Four other musical shows.

21st Century Speakeasy Andrea Carlson and the Love Police. Andrea Carlson, who, I would guess, is comfortably north of fifty, has a sweet voice, vaguely reminiscent of Blossom Dearie if you are old enough to know who that is or maybe Maria Muldaur if you’re a little bit younger.

Sadly she had a rather faded quality - her costume seemed a little contrived and dated - and I don’t think it was intentional. The tunes were, by and large, pleasant enough and she and her rather elderly backing musicians performed faultlessly, but the whole thing felt slightly tragic to me, an impression not helped by the only half-filled room. Two Bloggerblaggerstars.

Jess Robinson - No filter. This was not a name I knew but she played to a packed audience in a relatively large venue so evidently a lot of people knew what I had been missing. Jess Robinson seems to be not just a singer, but an impressionist and has, according to Wikipedia, been on the telly quite a bit, in Dead Ringers amongst other things. (She also nearly made the final of Britain’s Got Talent, seventh series.)

Regrettably I didn’t know many of the people she was impersonating as her cast of characters didn’t include Vera Lynn or Gracie Fields or Marie Lloyd or Mrs.Patrick Campbell. My companion on the night described it as a bit ‘low rent’ which I thought was a tad harsh, but I knew what she meant. Two and a half Bloggerblaggerstars.

Johnny Woo’s Brexit Cabaret. Not a terribly clever musical revue with nothing very original to say about you know what. I didn’t realise Johnny Woo was a drag artist and I probably wouldn’t have gone if I had. (More fool me for not perusing the blurb closely enough.)

I have never understood the point of drag - never got panto dames or Danny LaRue - although I suppose I do remember liking the film of La Cage Aux Folles. And in the modern world, where, happily, everyone in enlightened countries has the opportunity (theoretically anyway) to be what they want to be - drag seems to me to be somehow redundant. Slick but shallow is about the best I can say of this effort. Two Bloggerblaggerstars.

Frau Welt. Another drag show, though this time, I had a better excuse as it was the only show on in the place where I was, at the time I was there, and I was determined to see something, anything. This one was full-on screaming camp and I found the first ten minutes spectacularly unamusing. One word kept coming to mind: WHY? Then I left. Zero Bloggerblaggerstars.

Five stand ups.

All the stand-ups I saw this year, apart from the polished old stager, Fred MacAulay - whom I caught in the second half of The Best of Scottish Comedy, which a friend smuggled me into after I had fled the horrendous Frau Welt - were just a little disappointing. None were remotely bad, but none got me guffawing uncontrollably.

They were all watchable and, every so often, amusing and applaudable but, apart from Maisie Adams, none seemed to me to have any stardust sprinkled on them. She has a routine in which she discusses her own epilepsy, and at 24 - she told us that - is clearly a natural performer. But she wound up by telling us how she had overcome her disability, and being the ancient curmudgeon that I am, I found that bit a touch self-congratulatory.

AAA (Batteries Not Included) with ChrisTurner

Gràinne Maguire

Jan Lafferty: Wheesht!

All two point six seven three ( why not?) Bloggerblaggerstars.

Maisie Adams Three and a tad Bloggerblaggerstars.

The Best of Scottish comedy: Fred MacAulay. Four Bloggerblaggerstars.

Three other comic turns (I think you would classify them as ‘absurdist’)

Siblings. This two girl comedy duo is made up of the Bye sisters, who, as the ultracognoscenti know, are the real life daughters of Ruby Wax. (And Ed Bye - poor bloke, never gets a mention.) I saw them last year and thought they were hilarious, but, as I remember it, their routine was slightly more conventional, in that there was a logical thread that you could just about follow.

This year it seemed to have a larger element of out and out bonkersness which didn’t really work for a couple of the people I had insisted accompany me. “You will LOVE them” I had said, but it was quickly evident they were just baffled. I would say (the) Siblings probably weren’t quite as funny as last year but I really can’t be sure because all I could think about were the fingers of blame that would be jabbed at me afterwards.“You said we’d love them.Love WHAT?”

Three Bloggerblaggerstars. (My friends are superannuated old gits, so what would they know.)

The Kagools. Another female duo, Aussies Claire Ford and Nicky Wilkinson, who have a completely word-free act that is simply ingenious. They interact with a film of themselves so that they are live on stage one moment and the next vanishing behind the screen to reappear in the film. It is clearly rehearsed to the millisecond because the timing is absolutely perfect - a moving arm is half live and half on film at one point, seemingly without a join.

The really impressive thing though is that, despite the precision, it all seems completely spontaneous. The technique never gets in the way of the comedy and The Kagools are simultaneously wonderfully silly and completely charming. An absolute delight, they are the other half of my joint pick of the week. Five Bloggerblaggerstars Plus.

Claire Sullivan, I wish I owned a hotel for dogs. Another Aussie, Claire takes absurdist comedy to new heights - or to new records of excess in whichever dimension absurdism exists. Think Vic and Bob on acid. And then some. Quite honestly, I didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on at any time, but she has a winning way which can’t but help force a smile. I did like her but I really don’t know why. Two and a half Bloggerblaggerstars.

One acrobaticky sort of show.

360 All Stars. Five blokes in baseball caps worn at various angles doing tricks on BMX’s and with basketballs and breakdancing mentally and doing somersaults and all that sort of thing. Probably great for the ten and unders and not too bad for the rest of us. But I wouldn’t be falling over myself to go again. Seen better Circusy things at the Fringe.Two and a half Bloggerblaggerstars.

Two ‘well known names’ shows.

Maureen Lipman. As those with knowledge of my murky advertising past will know, Maureen and I go a long way back, so in aiming for proper objectivity, I might have to have be more critical than I normally would be. In which case, she was even better than I thought, and that was very, very good indeed.

Her show was a splendid mixture, of comedy monologues, jolly good jokes and some excellent music supplied by Jackie Dankworth (Cleo and Johnny’s daughter I assume), a fine pianist and, extraordinarily, on guitar, Harry Shearer, legendary Simpsons’ voice and co-writer and co-star of Spinal Tap.

At 72 - don’t think I’m giving away secrets there - and now in Coronation Street, Maureen has, despite achieving national treasure status, most definitely not run out of creative steam. Sadly you can’t get tickets for this show no matter who you kill, because her run has finished. Five Bloggerblaggerstars.

Nina Conti. *And now, at last, to the explanation of ‘hashtag strap-on’. Nina Conti’s show began with another pre-performance announcement, this time to tell us that there was a Tourettes sufferer in the audience and to ask for our understanding. She turned out to be sitting a few rows behind my seat and began to randomly pepper the show with lots of very audible ‘biscuits’ and suchlike. I can’t say this wasn’t slightly off-putting while at the same time provoking an occasionally guilty giggle, and it would have been a fearsome challenge for most performers.

Fortunately much of Nina Conti’s incredibly clever ventriloquist’s act - I was in the front row and never saw her lips move once - is ad-libbed and she somehow contrived to incorporate one or two of the Tourettisms into the show, notably ‘tortoises’. (Really can’t explain but it was both utterly surreal and bloody funny.) The highpoint came when Nina, who uses volunteers from the audience as her dummies by fitting pigs’ masks on their faces, and operating the lips with a hand control, was fiddling about with one of the velcro ties that holds each mask in place. ‘Hashtag Strap-On’ shouted out the Tourettes lady and almost literally stopped the show. Five Bloggerblaggerstars.

One participation game-show (no audience)

Werewolves. A parlour game with twenty participants paying a tenner each, played at midnight every night, masterminded by an Australian (they’re everywhere in Edinburgh) called Nick who sports a long beard, a topper and full Edwardian costume including an ankle length fur coat that must be a fraction too warm even in a Scottish summer.

The rules are a bit too complex to explain but think of it as a sort of super de luxe, infinitely wittier version of the game where you wink at people to kill them. I warn you. It is addictive. Having made my debut last year, I played three times last week- meaning I was still up at two on three mornings! - and loved it. (Also a winner - twice! Not that I’m one to brag.) Totally recommended.

Twenty Five Bloggerblaggerstars at least.

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