#but yeah they’re not the best candidate to ask favors from since they’ve got a bad brain too but like i said. i value her insight immensely

[mxnosferatu]

augh i’m having my friend help me with this chapter (not quite beta but idk how else to describe lol) and i fear i just posed a few too many questions and overwhelmed them. it took forever to get her to look at it, so im a little nervous about how timely these answers will be

[lastbluetardis]

Sacred New Beginnings (1/?)

Summary: James Noble thought he traded away his chance at love and a happy-ever-after when he signed a contract with a record label that turned him into an international celebrity. But a chance meeting in a dive bar may prove him wrong.

Ten x Rose AU, @doctorroseprompts

This Chapter: Teen, ~5500 words

Note: Er... surprise? This idea has been in my head for months but my brain took it and ran with it this weekend. I plotted the whole thing and am gonna try to update every weekend. I don’t anticipate this being more than like... 7-10 chapter? I’d love to keep it under 5 chapters but that might be trimming things down too much for my liking. Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this little story!

AO3

Flashing lights and shrieks of his name greet James the moment the back door to his armored car is opened. His head of security ducks out first and James can only see a mass of feet and legs but it’s more than enough to let him know it’s a heavier than usual crowd. Not surprising, considering the news of his latest break-up just dropped while he’d been flying back from a visit to America.

He slides out of the car, helped by hands that pull him as much as guide him through the throng. He ignores the shouts of his name—telling him to look left or right or up or down or every combination therein—and the barrage of questions and jokes that aren’t funny.

Was it you or him that ended it?

Three weeks, is that a new personal record?

Another notch in the bedpost, eh James?

Got another beau lined up yet?

If you’re looking for candidates, what do we have to do to get our names in the running?

“Ignore them,” he mutters to himself, too quietly for anyone except his security team to hear.

In answer, one of them gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as they reach his front door. Someone has already unlocked it for him and the darkness within is a blessing he’s all too willing to be shoved into. The cacophony muffles once the door shuts, and finally he’s alone, a rarity for him. If it’s not his security, it’s personal assistants and writers and producers and photographers and the paparazzi.

Or his lover of the month, as the papers have taken to calling his partners.

But nope, his home is empty and quiet and bloody freezing. A shiver ripples up his spine as he treads to the thermostat controller. Summer finally released its hold on London, and the muggy heat has been replaced with a damp chill that burrows down into his bones.

Several button-presses later, James hears the familiar clank of the radiator and he can smell the heating kick on. It’ll take a while for his house to warm up, so James keeps his peacoat on for the time being as he putters around his home, checking the fridge and the cabinets. As always, they’re well-stocked. He hasn’t had to do anything as mundane as grocery shopping in the five years since his YouTube channel full of acoustic covers of popular songs went viral and landed him a lucrative deal with a prestigious record label. Only in his wildest dreams had he expected to find fame and fortune in the hobby he loved so much—for it to have actually happened still took him by surprise, as though any minute he’d be told “it was fun while it lasted, but it’s time for you to leave wonderland now.”

Shaking his head of those thoughts, he goes to the antique dining table that can easily seat ten people, which is great for holidays or in-home meetings, but just plain depressing every other day of the year. A stack of mail has piled up, and he spends the next five minutes attempting to sort it before giving up and telling himself he’ll look at it in the morning, once he’s not quite as groggy—transatlantic flights always take it out of him.

Instead, he rootles around his fridge until he comes up with the necessary items to make himself a ham and cheese sandwich. With the prospect of food in front of him, James realizes he is starving. He shoves a whole slice of ham in his mouth while he assembles his pitiful meal, heaping on lettuce and sliced tomatoes as though that’s enough to negate the pile processed protein and greasy chips he layers in for crunch.

It’s tastier than any sandwich as a right to be, and he nearly makes himself a second one before catches sight of his phone screen and the slew of incoming notifications. His work is never finished, is it?

There are several texts from his publicist, Donna, welcoming him home and congratulating him on not making an arse of himself just by trying to walk up the front drive of his home. (To be fair, he felt entitled to channel his inner crotchety old man and tell reporters to get off his damn lawn if they encroached on his personal property.)

“Though some photos are surfacing of your trip to New York… Anything you need me to get ahead of?”

He rubs his fingers into his eyes, knowing she’s probably referring to his last night out in the city, where he went bar hopping until the wee hours of the morning to try to forget the text his subsequently-ex-boyfriend had sent him.

Thanks for everything, but I need to focus on my career. Cheers mate.

The career that James had kickstarted for him by introducing his rising actor boyfriend to several of his friends in the film industry, because James had been so damn desperate for affection that he’d once again let the wool get pulled in front of his eyes.

And so James had reached out to mates who lived in New York and they’d all gone out and acted half their age and had a wonderful time once James forgot about why he’d gone out in the first place.

But none of that now. Nope. No sir.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he replies. “Let me know if you catch wind of anything.”

Despite the fact that he only just got home and he’s jetlagged and still feeling the effects of his night out in New York, James can’t stay in his house right now. It’s so quiet that his brain is creating its own white noise. He can’t stand being in his head on a good day, and today is not a good day.

He grabs his keys and wallet and makes for the back of the house. His property is landlocked with the back gardens of other houses; the paps have learned the hard way that James is dead serious about protecting his neighbors’ privacy and will not hesitate to phone the police to arrest and sue anyone caught trespassing on private property to snag a photo of him. James hosts dinner for his neighbors several times a year and buys them gifts any chance he can to show his appreciation for their patience and tolerance.

In the dead of night, he slips out into his back garden, the crisp October air burning his lungs in the best way as he ducks his way through the neighborhood, his feet taking him far away from the crowd of reporters that are still stationed in front of his own home. Hopefully they’ll all have dispersed by the time he gets back. Perhaps he should have turned on music or a movie or something, made them think he was settled in for a lazy night in.

He wanders aimlessly for a while, enjoying this taste of freedom and trying to remember the days when he could leave out the front door of his flat without any fanfare.

It’s dark, and thick clouds obscure whichever moon phase they’re in, but the street lamps glow yellow on the damp pavement, lighting his way forward. A crisp autumn breeze ruffles his hair and the leaves, sending them tumbling around him and skittering across the residential street that’s so much quieter than the bustle of New York. It’s good to be home, though.

He arrives at a bus stop and catches one headed into the city proper. It’s no secret that James lives in London, and therefore the general population has gotten used to glimpsing him on the tube or walking on the street or frequenting pubs. He knows people snap quick photos of him, and he’s always happy to stop and pose for a selfie with respectful fans, but mostly he’s left alone when he’s out by himself like this.

Nevertheless, he hears the excited undertones of people trying to inconspicuously point him out to their oblivious friends. He keeps his head down, mindlessly opening and closing apps on his phone for something to do as he pretends he doesn’t notice them. He won’t be on the bus much longer anyway.

Several people get off the bus with him, including a group of teenage girls who are whispering heatedly among themselves. It’s almost funny, watching them debate amongst themselves before one of them approaches him.

She’s red-faced but determined as she blurts, “Can we get a photo?”

“Sure thing,” he says good-naturedly, inclining his head for them to come closer. “Need me to take it?” He holds out a lanky arm and flops it around a bit. “Got a longer reach than any of you.”

He’s certain one of the girls is about to start crying with joy as they all nestle into his side and hand him a new-model iPhone. Damn, it’s fancier than his own. When he was their age, he had an old flip phone that lost reception if he breathed on it wrong. It was a tank though—he’d dropped that thing hundreds of times, and nary a scratch.

“Do me a favor,” he says, handing the phone back to its owner, “and don’t ping our location if you post to social media, yeah? I appreciate it.”

“You’re my favorite person ever,” one of the girls squeaks.

His face splits into a grin and he tucks his hands into his pockets. “Is that so?”

The girls spend the next five minutes chatting with him about music and how they’ve been following him ever since his YouTube days. He listens and chimes in every now and then when they ask him a direct question, but he prefers being passive in exchanges like this, content to hear peoples’ stories. It makes him feel normal, if only for a little while.

Finally, they take their leave, and James turns in the opposite direction even though the destination he had in mind is down the street the girls had just taken. But he’s been burned far too many times by encounters with seemingly innocent fans, only for them to begin following him around and showing up outside his house to talk to him again. He makes a point of not drawing out public encounters with his fans.

He wanders down a street he’s vaguely familiar with, figuring he can backtrack in a couple blocks. The night is too beautiful for him to be upset about needing to take a detour.

Everything looks different in the dark, the glow of neon signs bathing everything in hues of greens and blues and pinks and yellows. Shops and restaurants are mostly shut up for the night, their windows dark or blinds drawn. Dingey motels with pay-by-the-hour rates are in full swing, as are the pubs that have a revolving door of people in varying states of intoxication.

Deep bass that he can feel all the way in his chest catches his attention, and he gets turned around a few times, but he eventually finds the establishment: Bad Wolf Brews. At first, he doesn’t think it’s open, and that he must be mistaken about where the music is coming from, but the heavy front oak door opens, and he realizes the glass on the door is tempered so that the interior lights don’t shine through. The music is clear and heavy and vibrating in his bones. He doesn’t think twice before catching the door before it closes and slipping inside.

The air is humid and smells of sweat and stale beer. Bodies are writhing and gyrating to the rhythm blasting through invisible speakers. The acoustics are phenomenal; none of the layers are lost and the sound quality is nearly as good as if he were listening to the record at home on his own stereo system.

The lights are low, and he’s sure he trips into a few people in the minute it takes for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, but finally, he’s at the bar. There are three open stools, and he claims one between a blonde woman and a red-haired man as he wonders what the hell this dive bar serves. He can see beer taps, but he’s more of a cocktail guy. He must look as lost as he feels, because the bartender hands him a menu that looks like it was hand-written and then photo-copied. It jives with the overall vibe of the pub.

The bartender checks in with him a minute later. James opens a tab and orders a sidecar sans sugar, and is pleasantly surprised by the quality. Not to make assumptions, but he’d figured an establishment such as this would have cheap liquor. If the alcohol in his drink is cheap, it’s well masked.

When he’s drained the last drop and about to signal for another, a hand rests on his shoulder. “Can I buy your next round?”

James looks up into the face of a stranger. It’s a woman with striking green eyes and a disheveled pixie cut. Judging by her crimson cheeks and glazed eyes, she’s three sheets to the wind. There’s buzzed, then there’s drunk, and then there’s plastered. He prefers not to let himself get to that last category, and by extension, he doesn’t really like to associate much with people who won’t remember the night come morning.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” he says with his most charming grin. “G’night.”

He has no idea if the woman knows who he is, but the way she shrugs and saunters to the gentleman sitting beside James, he doubts it.

He gets clumsily propositioned a few more times and always politely declines with a smile. So far, nobody here seems to recognize him and he is going to ride out this anonymity for as long as it’ll last. It has been too long since he’s been able to sit in a pub and drink quietly. Well, quietly, insofar as crazed fans or paparazzi aren’t harassing him—the music is loud enough that he’s sure to have ringing in his ears for a few hours once he gets home.

But he’s not really in any rush to get home, and so he orders his fourth cocktail before making his way to the loo. Alcohol goes right through him, and it’s nearly gotten him in trouble on tour a time or two.

There’s no line, but the loo is crowded, and he tries to ignore the double-takes as he stands in front of a urinal to take care of business. If he wakes up tomorrow morning to find that someone snapped a photo of him having a piss, he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

Bladder tended to, James keeps his head ducked and shoulders his way back into the bar. His stool is unoccupied, and when he steps forward, he realizes why. A purse sits on it, seemingly reserving the seat but he can’t figure out for whom. He’s about to take the cocktail the bartender hands him and stand against the shadowed wall when someone picks up the purse.

It’s his blonde-haired stool mate. She flashes him a broad grin that lights up her entire face and squeezes something deep in his stomach.

“Saved your seat for ya,” she says with the ease and confidence of someone who’s known him his whole life.

“Thanks,” he manages through a suddenly dry mouth.

Feeling like an idiot for standing and gaping, he slips into his seat and downs half his new sidecar in one go. It’s as though the ice has been broken now, and she turns to him, her elbow on the counter and her cheek propped on her fist.

“Pretty sure you could outdrink a fish, mate,” she drawls, smiling again in that easy way that does too many strange things to his insides. “You’ve been knockin’ ‘em back for over an hour now.”

Has it really been that long? James checks his watch, and yup, it’s half past ten. The paps should be gone from his house by now, but he feels no draw to leave this place. The alcohol has left him pleasantly tipsy and warm, but he’s more drunk on the fantasy that he’s just a normal bloke having a nice night out in a newly-discovered dive bar.

“Fish don’t really drink though, do they? They absorb water through their gills via osmosis,” he replies, and he wants to bite his tongue off because what the fuck was that??

This woman, whatever her name is, doesn’t seem to mind his answer though, because her face scrunches in a giggle. His body is hot and throbbing with more than drink now, and he wants to hear that sound again but his brain has stopped working.

“Is that so different from you absorbin’ alcohol through your bloodstream?” she muses, finishing off whatever is in her short tumbler.

“Can I buy your next round?” he blurts rather than responding to her question, which he’s almost certain was rhetorical.

Her smile melts into something softer, something private and a little shy. “If you’d like.”

“I do.” He flags down the bartender and glances at his new companion expectantly.

“Gin and tonic,” she says. She thanks the bartender, then James when she takes her first sip. “I’m Rose, by the way.”

“James,” he says, feeling stupid because his face is plastered all over London, which likes to boast that it’s the home of international celeb James Noble. But wouldn’t he seem more of an arse if he just assumed this gorgeous woman knew who he was?

Nevertheless, his stomach sinks a bit when she snorts into her drink and says, “I thought it was you.”

“Yup, it’s me,” he forces, his voice flat. He hides his frown with his glass, knocking back the rest of his sidecar like it’s a shot. The room sways slightly with the violent motion of his head, and maybe he’s slightly drunker than he’d thought.

If Rose catches on to his sudden sour mood, she doesn’t mention it. “What brings you here to Bad Wolf?”

He shrugs and blows out a noisy breath. “I dunno. Went for a walk, ended up here.”

“Those are the best sort of adventures.” She hums wistfully. “Sometimes you find what you didn’t know you needed when you let yourself get lost.”

That observation is far too astute for his current state of mind, so instead he says, “Would you like to dance with me?”

Her eyes flicker across his face for a brief moment before she says, “Okay.”

He hops down from his stool, but Rose hesitates, clutching her purse and coat awkwardly. The bartender helpfully tells her to keep them on her stool, and he’ll keep an eye on it. Rose flashes him a grin that James would rather she flash at him, but he realizes that is utterly absurd, so he simply rests his coat on top of her things to better hide them from view. He then holds out his hand for her. Her palm is soft and warm against his as he leads her to the crowded dance floor.

They find space towards the back of the pub, hidden in the shadows of a hallway that states it’s closed off to patrons. And of course, of fucking course, right when he rests his hands on her hips to find the rhythm of the song, a new one comes on, and his own voice belts from the speakers.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. He loves his music—he made it, after all—but he can’t help but feel pretentious and more than a little silly to dance to it like this.

Rose, however, grins and says, “Oh, come on, this is one of my favorites.”

She catches his hands where he’d loosened them at her waist and forces him to grab hold of her. She’s wearing high-waisted trousers and a top that leaves a sliver of her belly exposed. His thumb grazes the skin of her bare side, and it’s enough to send tingles through his body. Rose, meanwhile, slings her arms around his shoulders and begins to rock her hips from side to side in sync with the bass, embellishing the motions until she looks absolutely ridiculous but so, so beautiful.

He can’t help but grin and laugh, and he mirrors her movements until they’re both dancing like idiots to his music.

“This is how my baby brother dances,” she explains, bouncing up and down while twisting her hips. “We have regular dance parties together.”

“How old’s your brother?” he asks.

“Just turned four.”

He blinks, and blood rushes from his face. “And… and how old are you?”

“A perfectly legal twenty-four,” she drawls, reaching up to flick his nose. “You can start breathing again.”

Thank fuck.

“That’s quite the age gap.”

“My mum got remarried when I was nineteen,” Rose says with a shrug. “She and my stepdad didn’t waste much time.”

“Clearly,” he mutters under his breath.

“It does feel a bit like they’ve started over,” Rose confesses with a too-stiff shrug. “New family, new life, and I’m the interloper.

There is no way this vivacious woman in front of him could ever be considered an interloper, but before he can tell her that, she continues, “Mum does her best to assure me otherwise, but still. It’s hard to watch all the things Mum and Dad are able to do for Tony—that’s my brother, Tony—when Mum struggled so much as a single mum with me.”

“Your dad’s not in the picture?”

A sad smile pinches her face, and he regrets asking.

“No, I never knew him. He died when I was a baby.”

“I… I’m so sorry.” Well, he’s totally buggered this all up, hasn’t he? He wracks his brain on how to salvage the easy banter they’d had at the bar, but draws a blank.

Rose seems to realize they’ve lost the mood, but she breaks out into a lazy grin and says, “Since you seemed so opposed to dancing to your own music, it’ll please you to know a new song’s on. C’mon, show me your moves.”

He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, and so he follows her lead, watching her dance her heart out until her cheeks are pink and her hair is damp with sweat. He’s sure he doesn’t look much better, since he can feel the perspiration beading down his back and beneath his arms, but he can’t bring himself to care. Tonight has been the most fun he’s had in a very long time. Clubbing in New York had been a lark, but he’s been swarmed by his American fans half the night, and had been busy drowning his latest heartbreak to fully enjoy it. But here, now, with Rose, it’s like he’s any other bloke in a pub, chatting up a pretty girl he wants to get to know.

Their bodies are wrapped around each other with the ease and grace of partners who have known each other for years, and he forgets that he has known Rose for all of a few hours. He never wants this night to end. He wants to cling to this fairytale and pretend that the clock isn’t about to strike the proverbial midnight.

But time marches on as always. The clock really does strike midnight, and the bartender begins to clear people out of his establishment. James is as exhausted as he is exhilarated, no longer drunk on booze but rather the company of Rose and the magic they made together by simply dancing the night away.

They head back to the bar to retrieve their coats and her purse, and to close out their tabs. James slides his credit card to the bartender and asks him to charge everyone’s tab to his card. If the bartender is surprised, he hides it well. A few minutes later, James is signing off on the receipt of purchase of several thousand pounds-worth of alcohol. His personal assistant is sure to be confused as hell when she wakes up to see the charge. He fires off a quick warning text to her so she doesn’t open up a fraudulent charge claim.

James salutes the bartender, knowing he’ll come back to this pub as often as he can until he’s found out and this place once again becomes somewhere that’s overrun with his fans.

The night is refreshingly cold when he and Rose emerge into it, a nice change after the stifling, sweaty heat of the bar. However, she hunches her shoulders against the chill, prompting him to wrap his arm around her waist and tug her into his side, all too eager to lend her some of his body heat.

“Can I walk you somewhere?” he asks, glancing around the street that is now full of the drunken patrons who’d been in the pub with them. They all disperse in different directions, stumbling home or to a different bar that is still open. “Or wait with you ‘til you catch a cab?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, pulling up her phone to order a ride. She taps on the screen for a few quiet moments then says, “Done. Should be here in a few minutes.”

They descend into a slightly awkward silence that James wants to break, but he can’t think of anything clever to say. So he says nothing, and finally headlights wash over them, momentarily blinding them before a taxi pulls up.

“D’you wanna share?” she asks, opening the door to the back seat.

Is she as reluctant to leave him as he is to leave her? Or is she being polite and eco-friendly by ride sharing? Nevertheless, he nods and slides into the back seat beside her.

There is something incredibly intimate about sitting with Rose in the dark interior of the taxi, and he feels like he’s fifteen and wondering how to hold his date’s hand after a cheap night out at the cinemas. He fists his hands together, knotting his fingers until his knuckles pop.

The driver goes to the address Rose provides first, and all too soon they’ve arrived.

“I’ll cover the fare,” he says when she makes to hand over some bank notes to the diver. “It’d be my pleasure.”

She hesitates, but nods, then opens the door to climb out of the car. His pulse quickens as he watches her walk away with nothing but a, “Goodnight.”

“Can you wait just a minute?” he asks the driver.

“Meter’s still runnin’,” he grunts.

“That’s fine.”

James scrambles out of the taxi. “Hey, Rose?”

She turns back to face him, frowning.

“I… er… I had a great time tonight,” he says lamely, but her frown relaxes into a smile. “It was fun. With you. I had fun.”

“Yeah, me too,” she answers.

He licks his lips; his mouth is bone dry and his pulse pounds in his ears, making his vision throb with each frenzied beat.

“Do you… do you maybe wanna do it again some time? Hang out together? I… I’d really like to see you again,” he says, cursing his clumsy, fumbling words.

She scrutinizes him for a long moment, her expression indecipherable. His stomach sinks. Maybe this was a one-off, a story for her to tell her mates.

You’ll never guess who I met at the pub last night. James Noble! He paid for all my drinks and we danced like idiots.

He stews in his misery of doubt, and just when he’s about to tell her to forget about it, she slowly nods.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

“Really?” he asks, a hopeful edge creeping into his voice.

She laughs. “Really.”

“Brilliant!” James fumbles in his pocket for his phone, and he thrusts it at her. “Give me your number? I’ll text you. Or call.”

He rocks back and forth on his toes and heels, waiting for her to finish up with his phone. He has a sudden, potent bolt of panic that she’s snooping through his private messages or photographs for something to use against him to make a quick profit, but before that panic can take root, she hands his mobile back to him. It’s open to a new texting conversation.

From: 🌹 Bad Wolf Girl 🌹

Now I’ve got your number too 😉

He beams at the name she’s given to herself in his contacts, then he pockets his phone.

“I’ll see you later,” he says.

“You better,” she replies with that knee-weakening smile he’s grown to love over the course of the night. “See ya.”

“Bye.”

He stands there like a moron until she’s safely inside, then he turns back to the taxi and climbs in. The deserted streets streak by as the driver takes him to his neighborhood. He never gives his address though; he always chooses a destination a few streets away, just in case.

James generously tips the driver and bids him goodnight before slipping into the night to his home. He was right: the paparazzi are gone. There is no fanfare as he slips his key into the lock and lets himself into his house. It’s warm and cozy, but still too quiet for his liking.

Between the plane ride and his night out, he feels greasy and disgusting, and indulges in a hot shower before bed. He washes Rose’s scent off of his body, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that’s as sweet as it is musky.

He’s groggy by the time he crawls into his giant, king-sized bed and burrows deep into his mounds of pillows and duvets. One of his ex-girlfriends once teased that he turns into the marshmallow man when he sleeps.

His sleep is deep and dreamless, and when he awakes with the sun the following morning, he feels more refreshed and invigorated than he ever remembers being. He’s got a full day of meetings with his songwriting team to brainstorm his next album, and he is ready.

But first, he checks his phone. There’s nothing from Rose, which makes him a little sad, but also nothing from his publicist, which is always a good sign. If ever she messages or calls him first thing in the morning, it always means there’s some sort of dumpster fire to put out. Usually a dumpster fire full of compromising photos of him.

He makes a point of not Googling himself, but he does occasionally check his social media pages for new posts about him, wanting to know when, where, and how his fans came across him in the wild. He easily finds the photo that he took with the group of teenage girls, and makes a point to like the original post and type a quick, “Nice to meet you all. Thanks for chatting with me last night - J” in the comments section. He snorts to himself as his comment blows up within seconds.

But other than some grainy photos of him riding the bus, he can’t find any other photos of himself. Nothing of him wandering the streets or drinking in the pub or even having a wee in the mens’ room. And best of all, there’s nothing of him and Rose. No photos of them dancing together or sharing a cab. If Rose has a social media account, it didn’t post any sneaky photos or bragging stories about dancing all night with James Noble.

He can’t quite believe it; he managed to have a fun night out drinking without it all being thrown back in his face the next morning. Within seconds, he’s grinning to himself and pulling up Rose’s contact information. It’s still in his phone, further proof that his night with her wasn’t some sort of jetlagged fever dream. She was real.

“Good morning. I hope you slept well. Thanks for last night.”

She responds almost instantly. Good morning to you too. I should be thanking you for paying my drink tab and taxi fare 😉 And for being an excellent dance partner.

“The pleasure was all mine, on all counts.” He sends that message, then types out a new one, “I’m gonna be in meetings all day (yes, I know it’s Sunday), so please don’t be discouraged if I don’t reply. But I’d really like to see you again. Want to do dinner or drinks or coffee or something?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, needing to make himself presentable for when his driver picks him up in an hour. Yet he can’t help but check his phone every three seconds, until finally there’s a message from Rose.

Yeah, I’d like that. I work ‘til five most nights, but I’m free after that. Or we can wait ‘til the weekend.

With spirits lighter than they’ve been in months, James steps out of his house with a broad, stupid grin that the ever-present crowd of paparazzi are all too happy to photograph.

[smallblueandloud]

hi!! cj/toby or cj/toby/andy + love confessor and first kiss😊 thanks so much ily!! i’m really annoying so i’m going to send another request with these ships so you can do both, neither, or whichever one strikes inspiration

i cheated a little on this one, oops! also i just wrote a full-out fic for it because i wanted to. for this ask meme, which will be open until tomorrow. sorry about the angst?

but i could only look down (1.3k, toby/cj/andy and toby/cj)

They go up to him after his speech. The crowds are still small, now, easy to push through. Toby knows they’ll get bigger. Leo McGarry turns, notices them at his elbow, and pokes Josiah Bartlet on the shoulder.

“Yes, I’d be happy to discuss that with you later, but right now my jerk best friend is tearing me away. What is it, Leo?”

“Jed,” says Leo, gesturing at Toby and CJ. “This is CJ Cregg. She’s going to be doing our press for us, I hope?”

CJ has stars in her eyes. Toby knows the feeling. It’s hard to listen to a speech by Josiah Bartlet without feeling optimistic, even stump speeches in tiny crowds. He can’t wait to hear him speak on the national stage.

“Nice to meet you, Governor Bartlet,” says CJ, shaking his hand. “I can definitely help with some of the more urgent business, but I still haven’t figured out my long-term plans yet. I’m here as a favor to Toby.”

“Toby?” asks Bartlet, narrowing his eyes. CJ gestures vaguely to her left, where Toby’s been standing this whole time, and he smiles. “Right. Of course. Toby.”

“Jed,” says Leo, at Bartlet’s elbow, and Bartlet’s smile turns apologetic.

“Sorry, kids, but duty calls. Nice to meet you, Ms. Cregg. I hope you can help us out!”

With that, he’s gone.

“Not great with names, is he?”

“No, not really,” says Toby. “He’s not a perfect politician.”

“But he’s a good man, huh?” asks CJ, and doesn’t wait for his answer. She knows him better than that. “Certainly an amazing speaker.”

“Yeah,” says Toby, and clears his throat. “You don’t have a room, do you?”

“You’ve been with me since we got off the plane,” she says. “No, I don’t.”

“You can- you can sleep on my couch, if you want.”

“Just like old times, huh?” asks CJ. She’s watching him carefully.

“Something like that.”

-

“No, no- no, shut up,” says CJ, laughing. “It’s not my fault that all the candidates you ever picked were losers.”

“I didn’t- they weren’t all losers!” protests Toby. “We won a few elections!”

“Mm hmm,” says CJ. “So few elections.”

They’re not drunk, but Toby feels like it, exhausted after two cross-country flights in two days. CJ isn’t tired enough to be as giggly as she is, but he thinks she’s just letting herself relax after a long, long time. They haven’t seen each other for a year, since she visited them for a weekend at their new apartment in DC after Andy was elected, and he knows she doesn’t have any close friends in California. Somehow they’re just as comfortable with each other as they’ve always been.

“What does Leo need me to do?” asks CJ. They’re sitting on the floor up against the bed, and her head slowly tilts to lean on his shoulder. He freezes.

“We need someone to talk to the press, basically,” he says, trying not to move too much. “Figure out which issues we should bring up, and when. Get the major news groups interested in us.”

“Oh, so nothing much,” drawls CJ. “Just everything.”

“Yeah, just everything.”

They sit there in silence for a few minutes. Toby works up his nerve. “CJ-”

CJ must recognize his tone, because she lifts her head up and turns to face him. “No.”

“CJ-”

“Toby, no.”

“Before I say anything else, I’m specifying that that Andy is-”

“We stopped this, Toby,” says CJ, looking at him like she’s begging him to understand. “We can’t do this. You two are married. I moved away. Andy’s in Congress, for god’s sake, and you’re working on a national campaign-”

“It’s tiny!” he says, throwing his hands up. “No one’s paying attention to us. We can do whatever we want, and no one will care, because no one’s even heard of the governor of New Hampshire.”

“They will,” says CJ. “God, Toby, you’re a writer, you know it. This one’s different. You heard him talk tonight.”

Toby doesn’t say anything.

“Besides, Leo McGarry’s on this campaign, and people pay attention to that. Josh Lyman jumped ship from the Russell campaign to be here, and that’s not nothing. You’re here, Toby, and you might be a goddamned fool but people know that you pick good people as candidates. They’ll pay attention to that.”

He stares at her. “New Hampshire. That’s what’s stopping us, huh. Fucking New Hampshire?”

“Toby, even without that, Andy’s been elected. You two are married. You can’t keep- she can’t be seen-”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” says Toby. “We know how to hide this.”

“Not forever,” says CJ. “Not for long, even, not in Washington. Not when Andy’s going to be making noise. And you know she will. She won’t hold herself back, not for you, not for me, not for a thing that ended years ago.”

“It only ended because you wanted it to,” he says. “You know that. Andy and I-”

“You two went and got married!” explodes CJ.

“You told me to propose!”

“Yeah, because you two living together in sin wouldn’t look good! Especially with how much older you are.”

Toby looks up at the ceiling. “Is everything about politics with you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees CJ put her back to the bed again. “Yes. While Andy’s a politician, yes. While you guys are married, yes.”

He closes his eyes. “You keep bringing up the marriage. You know we have a CJ clause, right?”

CJ exhales. “This isn’t last time. I know what’s on the table. I’m not saying no because I’m worried about Andy.”

“I would hope not,” says Toby. “Because she misses you. We both do.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“I love you, you know,” he says, and opens his eyes, turns towards her again. “I never stopped loving you.”

She kisses him. It feels like a first kiss, despite the thousands of times they must have kissed in Boston. They haven’t kissed in years. CJ stayed in a hotel when she took that trip to DC, planned things so she wasn’t alone with them for more than twenty minutes at a time, didn’t allowed any emotional talk, and went to the airport alone.

He’s missed her, missed this, missed being close to her. He loves Andy more than breathing, but CJ feels like his equal in every way. He doesn’t want to do this without either of them.

CJ pulls back suddenly. “No,” she says, and stands up. “We’re not doing this.”

“You’re the one who kissed me,” he says, spreading his hands and laughing a little. “This is all you.”

“No,” she says, “it’s your fault, saying- oh, come on, Toby, don’t look at me like that. This can’t happen.”

“Why not?” asks Toby, standing to face her. “Give me your reason, CJ, and I’ll stop asking.”

CJ closes her eyes. “The American public.”

“Stop- CJ, come on, why are you so obsessed with what the press will think?”

“It’s my whole job!” she shouts. “That’s my thing! I obsess over what the press will think! Andy-”

“Andy forbade either of us from getting involved in her career,” interrupts Toby. “Stop trying to micromanage this for her.”

“This will ruin her,” says CJ, quietly. “I’m not doing that to her. I’m not doing that to either of you. I want to work on this campaign, Toby, and I want to work with you again, and I want to get Josiah Bartlet elected president, because I think he’s a good man and he’ll be a better president. But if you won’t stop asking me for- for this, I’m going back to California.”

Toby stares at her. Finally, he says, “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine,” he repeats. “You’re my best friend, CJ. Nothing else. As long as that’s what you want.”

“It is,” she says, and sounds like she’s trying to convince herself just as much as him. “I’m going to bed.”

“Goodnight, CJ.”

“Goodnight, Toby.”

[junker-town]

The USF vs. UCF live blog: Knights outlast archrivals in the best game of 2017 so far

The War on I-4 delivered.

Fourth quarter

UCF 49, USF 42, :39. While the Bulls were driving, Mitchell Wilcox caught a pass and turned to run, but Richie Grant punched it loose, and Shaquem Griffin pounced on it. That’ll be your final score. Knights win the AAC East and will host Memphis next weekend, with a spot in a New Year’s Six bowl on the line. USF piled up 653 yards to UCF’s 543, with Quinton Flowers a school-record 605 total yards, but the Knights took better advantage of their opportunities overall. This was the best game of the year so far, and I’ll add a full highlight video as soon as one’s available.

UCF 49, USF 42, 1:28. Lmao UCF’s Mike Hughes just ran back the kickoff.

UCF 42, USF 42, 1:41. An 83-yard TD from Quinton Flowers to a WIDE-OPEN Darnell Salomon put the Bulls in position to tie, and Flowers found an equally wide-open D’Ernest Johnson for the two-pointer. So yeah! UCF running in that TD on the previous drive was a bad idea!

UCF 42, USF 34, 2:21. A screen to Otis Anderson turned into a winding, 23-yard touchdown, and this is still just a one-score game. UCF probably should’ve kneeled after the first down line and killed more clock, but points are fun to score!

UCF 35, USF 34, 4:03. Nine-play USF drive ends with a punt. Knights can just about ice the division.

UCF 35, USF 34, 7:13. And just like that, McKenzie Milton completes two big passes, one a streaking 45-yarder to Dredrick Snelson to retake the lead.

USF 34, UCF 28, 7:50. A game that was once totally frantic has stalled out for a while. Prepare for a silly finish.

USF 34, UCF 28, 14:02. Couple punts! We’re taking another break from offense for a little bit.

Third quarter

USF 34, UCF 28, 3:41. One UCF play, one INT by USF. Guess which Bull ran in the TD via juke right after that? Quinton Flowers is now up to 459 total yards and four total TDs.

UCF 28, USF 27, 4:42. The Quinton Flowers and Darius Tice show on that 11-play drive. Flowers is up to 429 total yards, and ...

Defensive linemen have to despise Quinton Flowers, this is so much running by fat dudes to just catch one guy

— BUM CHILLUPS (@edsbs) November 24, 2017

UCF 28, USF 20, 8:30. The Knights are back in business. McKenzie Milton found Tre'Quan Smith to capitalize on great field position, all set up by Shaquem Griffin bottling up Quinton Flowers on a pass rush.

Shaquem Griffin is one of college football's most amazing players everhttps://t.co/IlzHOXJ3YI

— SB Nation CFB (@SBNationCFB) November 24, 2017

UCF 21, USF 20, 11:33. That’s five straight stops by the Bulls. A fourth-and-1 throw from USF’s 28 hits the ground.

Second quarter

UCF 21, USF 20, halftime. Quinton Flowers had the Bulls moving toward a last-second field goal, but an INT by Mike Hughes made it four failed scoring chances for the Bulls. Red zone troubles and a missed XP have cost the Bulls a lot. They’re outgaining UCF, 396 to 247.

UCF 21, USF 20, :55. FOUR STRAIGHT PUNTS BY UCF. They’ve had four or fewer punts in seven full games so far.

UCF 21, USF 20, 2:09. Quinton Flowers ran or threw on six of seven plays in this TD drive, including the 21-yard toss to Mitchell Wilcox. Flowers is up to 365 total yards in the first half lol.

UCF 21, USF 13, 5:08. Look at these defenses! UCF three-and-out!

UCF 21, USF 13, 7:04. These offenses are still pulling off alley oops all over the place, but the defenses have finally caught up. Punt into the end zone by USF after a couple silly gains by Quinton Flowers.

Tyre McCants breaks the USF single-game receiving record... IN THE FIRST HALF!! He's at 201 yards receiving with 8 minutes remaining in the first half.

— Collin Sherwin (@USFCollin) November 24, 2017

UCF 21, USF 13, 10:13.

The Bulls snuff out the screen and C. will punt again. Back-to-back stops for the defense is huge.

— The Daily Stampede (@StampedeSBN) November 24, 2017

UCF 21, USF 13, 11:46. The Bulls stay alive with a 20-yard Quinton Flowers lob to a leaping Temi Alaka. USF missed the extra point, a USF specialty, and two different USF touchdowns on this drive were brought back by penalties, also a USF specialty.

UCF 21, USF 7, 13:49. USF got a stop! Now starting inside their own 10.

First quarter

UCF 21, USF 7, :48. USF punt. Bulls in major trouble. Knights looking ridiculous.

UCF 21, USF 7, 2:23. OK, McKenzie Milton is balling out. The Knights QB ran a really slick option, faking the pitch and keeping before dropping off the delayed pitch to Adrian Killins Jr. for the score.

I love a perfectly timed pitch. So pretty. Bonus being 5 yards past the line of scrimmage http://pic.twitter.com/IEg2IZZzR4

— Big Cat (@BarstoolBigCat) November 24, 2017

UCF 14, USF 7, 4:30. A USF field goal sails wide right, and that’s two scoring chances missed. That ain’t gonna cut it against UCF.

UCF 14, USF 7, 5:41. A scrambling McKenzie Milton made a nice throw over the top to Dredrick Snelson in the back of the end zone, completing a 10-play drive.

USF 7, UCF 7, 8:41. A stop! The Bulls came up short on fourth-and-1 in the red zone. Still probably the right call to go for it, since it’s hard to picture three-pointers winning this game.

USF 7, UCF 7, 11:16. The Knight strike right back with an eight-play drive, ending with QB McKenzie Milton keeping on a bootleg. Why yes, these are two of the country’s best offenses, why do you ask?

USF 7, UCF 0, 13:52. USF fans wanted some screen passes. They got ‘em, and a 47-yard Tyre McCants TD on the first drive of the game.

Wheeeeeeeee! http://pic.twitter.com/H2UJXaVWrE

— SB Nation (@SBNation) November 24, 2017

Pregame

UCF’s looking clean, with each player getting a custom helmet decal of himself:

Awesome idea by @UCF_Football https://t.co/lUo8cAQthl

— SB Nation CFB (@SBNationCFB) November 24, 2017

Preview

Miami may have the best college football team in Florida — though it’s up for debate. The battle for the No. 2 slot wages Friday, and it doesn’t feature the Gators or Seminoles. The No. 15 UCF Knights will welcome the South Florida Bulls to Orlando for an AAC showdown that could determine the Group of 5’s New Year’s bowl invitee. The two teams meet at 3:30 p.m. ET Friday; the game will be broadcast live on ABC (live stream).

The 10-0 Knights have torn through their competition this fall, but the 9-1 Bulls represent the toughest matchup on their schedule — and possibly their last chance to make an impression on the College Football Playoff selection committee. This final-week showdown isn’t just a resume-booster; it will also determine who wins the AAC East. South Florida is the only team left that can knock UCF from its perch atop the division. A title game showdown with Memphis awaits the winner.

Time, TV channel, and streaming info:

Time: 3:30 p.m. ET

Location: Spectrum Stadium, Orlando

TV: ABC

Streaming: Watch ESPN

Odds: UCF is favored by 10 points.

USF vs. UCF news:

UCF celebrated a field goal last week by shotgunning imaginary beers and, oh God, just put them in the Playoff already.

South Florida may have gotten caught looking ahead to today’s game in a too-close-for-comfort win over 2-9 Tulsa last week.

“It was a tale of two halves,” head coach Charlie Strong said. “First half, we moved the ball up and down the field, they couldn’t stop us. We come back in the second half and we couldn’t move the ball at all.”

The secret to Scott Frost’s success? Opening up the UCF playbook.

Despite ranking No. 6 in total yardage, no individual Knight is averaging more than 73 yards either rushing or receiving.

Sixteen players have caught passes, more than Washington State or any of the country’s other eight most passing-friendly offenses. And 13 Knights have carries, a longer list than even Georgia Tech’s.

In 692 plays over eight games, Syracuse has used 17 different ball-carriers. In 406 plays, the Knights have used 23.

Despite a lackluster resume, pollsters can’t ignore a one-loss USF team.

The Bulls inched up a spot to #19 in the latest Amway Coaches Poll and did the same in moving up to #22 in the latest Associated Press Poll.

They were once again joined in both set of rankings by conference foes UCF and Memphis. The Knights checked in at #12 and #13 in the Coaches and AP, respectively, while the Tigers were slotted at #16 and #17.

Will Friday’s game be the departure point for either team’s head coach?

Frost’s turnaround at UCF has been remarkable. In fewer than two years, he’s turned an 0-12 program into an undefeated juggernaut. That’s made him a popular candidate for some high-profile coaching vacancies, and he’s been linked to schools like Florida and Nebraska before his regular season could even end. Strong doesn’t quite have the same buzz at USF, but a big finish to 2017 — and a one-loss season — could make him a candidate to rejoin the Power 5.

USF vs. UCF prediction:

The Bulls may be 9-1, but their 2017 schedule lined up more cupcakes than a bakery. USF’s best win this fall is over either Temple or Tulane — and UCF is a major step up from those two programs. Expect the Knights to finish out their perfect regular season.

[harlequindreams-blog]

Can Massive Knowledge And AI Fix Our Prison</h1>

Whether or not you are a seasoned skilled or a newcomer to the world of photography, it's impossible to ignore the modifications happening throughout the trade. All you really want to know is that the iPhone SE is capable of capturing some remarkably detailed, nicely colored images. It produced the sharpest footage in vibrant gentle, plus it had the best stabilization and the least noise in low mild. These kinds of level and shoot camera are typically known as ‘bridge cameras', presumably since they are the proper bridge from a small compact to a bigger dSLR. It's primarily built for the people who find themselves not skilled photographers and so it entails focus free lenses or autofocus for focusing. Pros: Extraordinarily low price, skinny digicam easily matches in a pocket, 8X optical zoom lens is good in a thin digital camera, constructed-in Wi-Fi and Bluetooth connectivity. 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