#buy cufflinks in london

[rom-e-o]

In your Scroogeverse, after the Wolves gain full custody of Bess' siblings and they move back to London back into Wolf's flat (still a few years off from them looking to buy that country cottage they end up in), Bess decides the flat is in much need of a makeover. So, what does she do? Naturally, THRIFTING! (Because this girl loves a bargain in any universe.) And she decides to bring her new sister-in-law along to bond. Plus, she feels a little braver going into the ritzier stores with someone like Connie by her side, still struggling to feel like she belongs in this new strata of society and all that.

I'm absolutely in love with how their passion for thrifting transcends universes (that feels so eternally fitting for these girls, haha).

I mean, I don't blame her. I imagine a bachelor's apartment after decades of depriving yourself of most joys in life could use ... a little TLC. Especially since they're going to both be enjoying the space. It's no longer only his flat. It just needs a little TLC and updating.

Connie is, of course, overjoyed at the invitation. A chance to bond with Bess? Um, OF COURSE she's game. They plan a whole day and route - this is gonna be thrifting with a PURPOSE, after all. She has a few stores in mind where she has had some luck with.

So, the day arrives, and they set out. They rent a car and driver for the day, just because thrifting can be heavy, and a car allows them to travel across town and have paparazzi pester them slightly less.

"So, we're looking for a little bit of everything, right?" Connie asks. "Anything off limits?"

Bess hums and mulls it over, thinking of all the rooms across the flat. They all need a little ... assistance, she thinks. "I think anything is fair game. Wolf hasn't updated his space in a while, and we're just looking to make things feel a little more ... homey."

"Oh, this is so exciting! Decorating is always so fun, but now you get to make the space up to suit you both as a couple!"

She gives Bess' shoulders a delighted squeeze as they pull up to the first store.

I imagine they girls start at some familiar places - thrift/vintage stores they've explored before. Some quaint places just filled with eclectic items. They look for smaller items first - maybe a cute spice shelf here, a beaded lamp/lampshade here. Maybe a lovely pair of velvet curtains to dress up the plain window blinds? They find some lovely, vintage paintings too, of course. Some feature lovely, dark-haired ladies, which Connie is quick to point out that Wolf will "surely adore."

They slowly work their way up, and at the next place, they find this amazing, Victorian-inspired full-length dressing mirror.

"Oh, just imagine this in the bedroom," Connie suggests dreamily. "You and Wolf taking turns helping each other into your outfits -- him zipping your dress, you fastening his cufflinks -- all while framed by this masterpiece? Oh, we should see if they have a chaise to pair with it! That way you and him have a place to sit while dressing.

Connie gets ... very much into helping out, haha. ^^;

She never pressures Bess into buying anything she clearly doesn't like. Connie, with her knowledge of what Bess and Wolf like, tries to find pieces that fit the bill, and paint a picture of how they might look styed.

As they fill the car with oil paintings, vases, hand-tufted pillows and more, one of the last places they go is one of those more expensive stores. There's a doorman, which woman waves to as she and Bess stroll in, arm-in-arm. It's definitely a high-class store, but the pieces are STUNNING, and they're not badly priced either for what they are. There are tons of heavy, gorgeous heritage furniture pieces.

There are GORGEOUS, pearlescent-finished wooden armoires, and an AMAZING Turkish rug that would look so gorgeous in front of the fireplace. "Perfect for cozying up - among other activities~"

Along the way, as Bess finds smaller items or things that she's a little hesitant to buy ("Ooooh, I love this, but don't want to overwhelm his flat with just my stuff! Maybe I'll think about this for now ... ") she sneaks in a few extra purchases of those items as future birthday/Christmas gifts.

I imagine there are some shoppers that ... give them looks. The ladies are well-known for their afflictions at this point with the Scrooge Twins, and while many people are kind, there are obviously many jealous people. I feel like many upper-society ladies feel like they somehow 'robbed' them of their chance.

I'm sure the ladies hear some gossip. ("Look at those two, flaunting their money. Have they no shame?")

And Connie is quick to roll her eyes with a smile and whisper to Bess, "As if they aren't shopping in the SAME store we are. Some people, I swear."

She's not letting anyone dull their day.

By the end, I imagine they have QUITE the haul. They might even need some movers, depending on how large the pieces are. That night, I can imagine them getting takeaway and tag-teaming arranging some pieces in the flat. They decorate things juuust enough to play around and see how things look.

Connie clears out by the time Wolf comes home, so she's not in the way of them officially enjoying their space together or making some adjustments.

The second Wolf keys in, his reaction is visible on his face. The bare walls are adorned, the cold lights are replaced with gentle, warmer ones... and it feels so much more welcoming immediately. It feels like a home with a woman's welcoming, sensual touch.

Bess definitely gets many adoring smooches, and Wolf absolutely requests a tour of everything, wanting to see every chance.

"Tell me about your day, love. I'd love for you to walk me through and show me everything you found."

To have the woman he loves not only take the time and effort to make their flat feel more personable and homey ... it tugs on his heartstrings. No person, and no woman, has shown that care and attention to him before. It inspires him to actually THINK about flat decor, and while he's not the biggest shopper, he enjoys the idea of joining her on a future trip as they continue to make the flat their own. (And yes, I imagine he is QUITE enamored by the paintings as well - though the real woman at his side remains unbeatable in remarkableness.) <3

[nervousladytraveler]

Are we ever gonna get updates for duty or should I just give up hoping? Asking for myself

Oh my dear Anonymous! I am so sorry for the long wait and am back at it, I promise. But here's a little something to tide you over. Thanks for the ask!

------

Though probably not entirely sufficient, Ross did have some funds he could allocate for repairs on the house.

Before he’d left London, he’d pawned all his finer gentlemanly accoutrements–tie pins, cufflinks, the jet stone ring he occasionally wore on his right hand. Some had been gifts from Elizabeth, some he’d picked for himself but only because she’d foisted her taste on him. He had no use for them now and doubted he'd ever return to a life where such things mattered.

He’d also sold the gold band he wore on his left hand but that he’d taken a little more care to dispose of. He wanted maximum returns and no chance of being traced. He eschewed the pawn shops of London–there supply far outstripped demand so he knew he’d get little for it even though it was a quality piece. But of course it had been expensive–Elizabeth had insisted and picked his and hers out herself.

Instead Ross had ventured further afield and while he was travelling through Devon, he found an establishment that purported to be purveyors of antiquities and estate jewellery. Ross had sported his best non descript accent and convinced the proprietor that the ring had once belonged to a deceased Viscount, one whose name Ross conveniently didn’t recall.

“Look, this inscription here? That's some Latin,” Ross had explained, trying to sound like someone who hadn’t had the difference between the nominative and ablative declensions hammered into his brain–and into his backside–while at school. “From a family crest, I b’lieve.”

“Yes, yes, I see,” the man put his glass to his eye and read. Fide et constantia.

In truth it was a family motto, but one belonging to the Chynoweths and none of them were of much status, certainly no one a viscount. According to Elizabeth the family had only adopted the motto after the second Boer War. 

And in the end, Fide et constantia proved to be a bit of a joke since neither Ross nor Elizabeth had ever shown much faith or constancy. She had wanted to inscribe the rings with something from the Poldarks–at the time she still had respect for that family’s heritage–but he’d refused. The connection wasn’t part of Ross's identity and therefore wasn’t welcome in his marriage. Of course it turned out Ross wasn't really welcome in his marriage either.

“But tell me, Mister…”

“Mister Jones,” Ross had said and gave a toothy grin, his attempt at looking earnest.

“Mr. Jones, how did you come across this heirloom?”

"Well," said Ross trying to buy some time. "That is a story."

[definitionsfading]

tartan

for your consideration; a domestic ficlet I did as a warm-up last night

content warnings: includes some adult humor between married celestial entities and Crowley is pregnant (by choice) ((the babies are Aziraphale’s)) (((ayy)))

+ + + + + +

It’d been something of a strange summer thus far, all things told. London volleyed between pouring rain and spiking heat waves every other week throughout the month of June, then trundled headlong into July with the tepid promise of milder weather. It was a sleight of hand trick meant to beguile and fool every weather forecaster in the country, because after the rains passed one morning the temperature dropped so low that Aziraphale had to pull his wool cardigan back out of the upstairs wardrobe.

But if mother nature was temperamental and unpredictable that summer, well—she had nothing on a pregnant demon. 

“I’m hardly a stone’s throw into the second bloody trimester and already nothing fits,” Crowley moaned from where he’d flopped back onto the bed with the button of his trousers still undone, the garment in question butterflied open at the zip. “Not even a vest top. Meanwhile, it’s sodding July and we’re wearing jumpers, as if my entire existence weren’t already enough of a sick joke.” 

Aziraphale poked his head out of the adjacent water closet, fingers still busy tidying up his cufflinks, and appraised the grim sight on the bed. Crowley was right; every time he tugged down his black cotton vest it would simply roll up over the rounded swell of his middle again. 

“Don’t get yourself in a tip, dear, I’m sure we’ll be able to pop out to the shops and find something suiting,” Aziraphale said, stepping further into the room to wander over to the bedside. “Even if it’s unseasonably cool, I think this weather is a far cry better than the heat for somebody in your condition.”

“My condition, he says,” Crowley snorted, golden eyes flashing just before he draped a dramatic forearm across his face and moaned again. “This is your fault, you know—we only really needed the one baby and here your angelic super sperm had to go and knock me up twice as hard. I’d still be fitting into my trousers if I weren’t busy stuffing my face for three.” 

Aziraphale laughed, warm palms landing on the knobby shapes of Crowley’s knee caps. “Now see here,” he countered, “I wouldn’t have been able to do that if it weren’t for your overindulgent ovaries releasing two eggs during the same cycle. You’re just as much to blame, if not more.” 

Crowley made another wretched sound but let his arm roll away from his face, gazing up at his husband with a pitiful hangdog expression around his eyes. “But m’cold, angel,” he said, pouting out his lower lip. “I can’t very well go out looking like this, and what’s the point in buying anything—? When I must be gaining a fresh inch around the middle overnight at this rate.” 

“Because you’re healthy, darling, and your body is doing a remarkable job of sustaining our growing children,” Aziraphale reminded him, letting his hands slide down to Crowley’s thighs as a telling flush bloomed on the demon’s chest and began crawling toward his throat. “If you weren’t growing accordingly I think we’d have more cause for concern. From my point of view, I don’t think you’ve ever been as gorgeous as you are right now.” 

“Yeah, but I can be butt-arse naked in front of you, you sentimental git,” Crowley groused, wriggling there with Aziraphale leaning between his spread knees. “All that greeting card swill doesn’t solve the problem of me busting all the seams in my clothes if I so much as sneeze.” 

Aziraphale thought about that for a moment, with genuine effort, and then smiled. “I think I may have a temporary solution, if you’re amenable to it.” 

“Which is?” Crowley asked, arching a gingery eyebrow, but Aziraphale was already pushing away from the bedside and whisking back over to the old wardrobe. 

Crowley laid there in resignation for a few beats, gazing up at the velvet canopy of the four-poster until Aziraphale started sliding hangers on the rail and curiosity got the better of him. By the time he could manage to hoist himself back up into a sitting position again, the angel was already standing at the bedside with an assortment of clothing folded over one arm. 

“Oh no, absssolutely not,” Crowley started, eyes widening at the sight of some camel coloured slacks. “I’d rather go out full starkers, angel, than be caught dead—”

“Do hush, you utter fiend, it’s not that bad,” Aziraphale tutted over him with a roll of his eyes, holding up a jumper with a flourish meant to inspire. “This is pure Ladakhi cashmere, I’ll have you know. It’ll feel like French butter against your skin.” 

Crowley pulled a doubtful face. “Dunno about you, but I’ve never been one to slather myself in butter on a real lark,” he muttered, but reached out and took the sweater anyway, a cream and camel-based tartan with a thin blue stripe. He swore as he pulled it on over his head, and then proceeded to sit very still on the edge of the bed as they both looked down at the offending garment. The cashmere accommodated his belly perfectly, neither too snug nor too loose where it draped around his figure as if it’d been made bespoke. 

“That was pure luck,” Crowley said, plucking at the sleeves. “There’s no way in utter creation those trousers will fit me.” 

Aziraphale only held them out with another glowing smile. “Give them a try, love, if only to indulge a doddering old angel.” 

It took some grumbling and a few more choice swears once Crowley was standing, but he stepped one foot at a time into the slacks and then—rather miraculously, all in all—hoisted them up so they fastened without a hitch just under his navel. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, once Aziraphale had pulled the tartan jumper down and straightened the hem for him. “Uhm.” 

“You look so handsome,” Aziraphale crowed as his hands clasped together, corners of his eyes crinkling up in joy. “Go over and have a peek in the looking glass for yourself.” 

Crowley sauntered over to the mirror and appraised his reflection from the front, and then the very new and ever-changing side profile. He cupped a hand under his growing bump and pulled a frown, but it began to wobble a bit just as soon as he caught Aziraphale’s adoring expression peering at him in the glass. 

“Do I look fat?” he asked in a tremulous sort of laugh, just before Aziraphale’s arms circled around his middle and pressed the tartan cashmere more flush against Crowley’s skin. Damn it all to hell, it was as sodding soft as French butter.

“No, you’re positively radiant,” Aziraphale said, dropping a kiss onto Crowley’s shoulder there in their shared reflection. “Even better, wearing my colours like you are.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley sniffled, feeling something unexpected and hot burning behind his eyes. “And what of it?”

“You look like you belong to me,” Aziraphale said in a velvety voice, bracing both hands underneath Crowley’s belly. “All mine to keep and adore for myself, I’m afraid.” 

Crowley scoffed and reached up to dab at something on one cheek before wrinkling his nose. It was starting to get oddly warm in the bedroom all of a sudden. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that part,” he said. “Just this once.”

Aziraphale nodded, and this time felt the upward quirk of his husband’s dopey smile against his lips when he gently turned his face for a kiss. “Just this once,” he agreed amiably. “Do you think you’ll be warm enough to pop out to the shops, now?”

“If I must,” Crowley diplomatically decided, admiring his transformed reflection for another beat before turning to straighten Aziraphale’s bow tie. He leaned in for another chaste kiss, and then reached around to pinch a small handful of angelic bum. “The sooner we get out, the sooner we can do luncheon and come back to shag for the rest of the afternoon.” 

“Impeccable logic, dear,” Aziraphale said with a breathy little laugh of his own. Crowley gave him a wink before stepping away to fetch his trainers and sunglasses, and only then did Aziraphale glance back to the looking glass and see that the tartan of his bow tie had somehow changed itself to match the colours on a certain demon’s cashmere jumper. 

It was rounding out to be an interesting summer, indeed.

[if you enjoy fics like this one, feel free to check out my ineffable parents ficlet collection or other Good Omens works on AO3]

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[iliveiloveiwrite]

Reminiscing // Elijah Mikaelson

Summary: In a rare moment of peace, you find yourself thinking back over the centuries shared with the one you love.

A/N: I AM A FOOL FOR ELIJAH MIKAELSON. My taglist is open for The Originals - if you would like to be added, let me know!!

Warnings: fluff, history, established relationship, vampires, mentions of blood and death, mourning and grief, female pronouns, use of ‘wife’, dialogue heavy.

Word count: 1.8k

The house was quiet.

A rare occurrence in the Mikaelson household, but for first time in the months, the house was quiet. There was so furious shouting from Klaus, there was no attempts at mediation from Elijah. It was all quiet, and it was all peaceful.

When such a thing happened, it was very much the time to take hold of the rarity with both hands, gripping onto it for dear life in the hopes that the peace and quiet does not end too soon.

You sit in the library; finally put back together after one of Klaus’ anger fits. The books line the shelves in the correct order; a painstaking task you had completed after Klaus had apologised to you, knowing how much you cared for the almanacs and folios hidden away in the priceless Mikaelson collection.

The chair you had chosen to sit in was one that had come with you from the continent when the family had first settled in New Orleans. You had found it at a markets, immediately buying it and having it brought home with you that very day. Elijah had said nothing, indulging you with a roll of his eyes and a kiss to your lips. He very rarely argued with you, knowing that more often than not, you would have been right to make such a purchase.

The photo album remains open on your lap as you stare down at the images stuck to the pages. Time had aged the album; the pages becoming worn at the corners and browning further with each passing year.

This was the first album you had picked up; knowing it had the most pictures of the family in it. In particular, this album was home to perhaps your favourite photograph of yourself and Elijah. It had been taken spontaneously; unaware that a photographer even stood close by. Your bodies are angled towards each other as if each other’s true north. Elijah’s expression is soft as he glances down at you; the beginnings of a smile poking at the corners of his mouth as he readies himself to laugh at whatever you might have been saying in that moment. His hand rests delicately on your waist as your face is turned upwards; your eyes shining brightly as your hands gesture wildly, punctuating your story.

Footsteps sounding bring you out of your reminiscing. Instead, you greet the subject of the photo, smiling widely at your husband as he enters the library, adjusting the cufflinks on his tailored shirt.

“I knew I would find you here,” Elijah comments, a hand brushing over your shoulder and the back of your neck as he walks past you.

“I’m making sure Klaus doesn’t take out his anger on anymore of the family collection.”

Elijah chuckles, “I don’t think that will happen again. He’s too scared of your reaction.”

“As he should be,” You declare, puffin out your chest proudly at the fact that the hybrid would be too scared to even touch the precious books and histories housed in this very room.

“The Great War?” Elijah asks, pointing to the album in your lap, not expecting an answer. He reaches for the photo album, beginning to flick through the pages as he wanders around the room. “My dear, whatever brought this on?”

“It’s been so peaceful recently. I wanted to take a moment to remember.”

“To remember?”

“Our past, my love. We have been together for over a thousand years, married for just short of that. I wanted to remember the peace.”

Elijah doesn’t answer. He simply watches you, watches the emotions flit over your face as you communicate your feelings. The last few months haven’t been easy on anyone in the Mikaelson family; the permanent target on your backs making it hard to live everyday life. Klaus continuing to make enemies left, right and centre didn’t help the matter either.

A thousand years. A thousand years he has loved you; has never loved anyone but you. His life prior to being a vampire flashes before him; a strong man, destined for great and noble things and completely in love with you – kind and caring. The relationship happened quickly, but the both of you knew that your eternities were intertwined. The curse put on him by his mother perhaps made him more selfish of all; turning you to ensure your eternities would always remain intertwined.

“Why the Great War?” He finally asks after a moment of silence.

“It was the first time we got our hands on a camera. We had seen them before, in France, but this was the first time we had owned one.”

“Rebekah loved it. She was forever posing in some ostentatious dress.”

You chuckle, your body warming at the obvious fondness in Elijah’s voice. He would berate her fashion sense, but he would never speak ill of his beloved little sister.

“Do you remember the summer we spent in England? It had to have been 1812 or 1813?”

“And you let Rebekah promenade for the season?” You start to giggle, “She had so many suitors! I have never seen Klaus so mad!”

“It wasn’t just Niklaus,” Elijah recalls, “I had so many angry missives from mothers who wanted to marry their daughters off that season but couldn’t because of Rebekah.”

You snort, remembering the empire waists of those months spent in London. The weather had been particularly wonderful that year; the sun continuing to shine for days on end. More time had been dedicated to walks in the park than they had been to being cooped up inside. Whilst the fashion of the time could be debatable, the company of your husband was very much desired.

“You were the diamond of that season, my love,” Elijah comments, bringing you back to the present.

You roll your eyes at the love of your eternal life, “You have to say that. I’m your wife.”

“What would you have me say?” Elijah asks, eyes bright with happiness, “As I recall Lady Earnshaw was particularly handsome that year too.”

“Lady Earnshaw!” You gasp.

“She loved me,” Elijah defends, holding a hand to his chest as if wounded by your words.

“Of course she did! You flirted with her every chance you got.”

“Jealous, my love?”

“Never,” You snort, remembering the aged face of the stubborn matriarch, “Lady Earnshaw was a day over eighty if I ever remember her.”

Silence descends over the both of you; memories of a past once thought long forgotten now washing over you. There was much to think of when one has lived for over a thousand years. The first few months after your transition were blurry; the pangs of hunger making your thirst practically insatiable – unable to think of anything but feeding. Yet, as you aged and found your place in society on Elijah’s arm and in his heart, your memories become refined – punctuated with moments of joy and pangs of heartbreak.

It had not been an easy existence. Family’s often fallout and Klaus had no qualms about punishing his siblings. However, in and amongst those dreaded recollections were rare moments of peace. Moments that were sought after and savoured; relished by every member of the Mikaelson family.

“Do you remember the sixteenth century?” You ask, mind faraway in the past.

Tudor England had been where you were happiest. You loved New Orleans, adored the culture and the people that came along with it, but Tudor England had its charms as well. For the millennia that you had been walking the earth, you had always found home in Elijah, knowing that he would be with you for an eternity and more. Yet, Tudor England had a hold on you. Having to leave the court of Henry and not return until Elizabeth had been crowned; it had been the longest decade of your immortal life.

“How could I forget?” Elijah laughs, “You have our miniatures in your bedside table.”

“Nicholas Hilliard was a dear friend,” You admonish thinking of the artist with great fondness.

“Queen Elizabeth I was never my biggest fan, was she?”

“You did take her sugared violets away from her,” You remind him, a smile in your voice as you remember the anger in the monarch’s voice once she realised who had in fact stolen her precious sweets.

“Her teeth had rotted away completely!” Elijah protests, throwing his arms wide as he defends his actions from centuries ago.

“So what would more sugar do? She had already lost her teeth, love. As I recall, her breath wasn’t all too pleasant.”

Elijah grins, remembering your pinched expression every time the monarch sought your attention, “You were her favourite.”

You shrug effortlessly, lifting a single shoulder. “I can’t help that she had good taste.”

“You wound me, love,” Elijah moans, smiling widely. His playful side came out rarely, but when it did, it was a treat for those nearby.

“You also refused to call her Elizabeth,” You continue, ignoring Elijah’s noise of protest, “You would call her ‘Betty’.”

“She didn’t mind the name when I was in her father’s court. I still argue to this day that I didn’t deserve her shoe being thrown in my face when I let her nickname slip out of fondness.” Elijah argues, crossing his arms as he thinks back to the small redheaded child he had first encountered almost five hundred years ago.

“She wasn’t the Queen then, darling. She was five years old and in need of a mother.”

“You were wonderful as her closest confidant. She thought of you as her mother.” Elijah comments quietly; his mind still on the small child of five – bright red hair combined with a wide smile. Elizabeth had become attached to both you and Elijah; finding adoptive parents in both of you when you showed her the smallest of attentions. It was hard to say no to such a child.

“It broke my heart to leave her,” You reply, your non-beating heart lurching at the memory of not only the tearful teenager, beginning to question why you hadn’t aged, but also of the weary monarch. Elizabeth had been very ill at the end, and you had refused to leave her. Ignoring the wishes of your husband and your family, staying with her until the end.

“I know it did,” Elijah murmurs, his hand seeking yours as he sits down next to you. “You were solemn for months, nothing I did could bring you round.”

“I had to mourn, Elijah.”

Elijah brings your hand to his lips where he kisses the back of it before kissing your knuckles. He keeps your hand close to his mouth as he whispers, “I know.”

You sigh, “It has been a life of mourning, hasn’t it? Time passes and yet I remember every death.”

“You’re not alone, my love.”

You turn to him, a soft smile gracing your lips. “I know. I have you for it all, don’t I?”

“Always and forever,” Elijah quotes, pressing your hand to his chest, holding it above the heart that would never again beat but continues to love you just as fiercely as it had when it beat its familiar rhythm.

[newtonsheffield]

Hellooooo hope you’re doing good! Basically I went to London today and I really wanted to go to the Natural History Museum so I could find myself a Goose- alas I didn’t end up going to the museum, thus not finding a Goose on my travels. Sigh. So I was wondering if instead I could request some Eddie & Goose content? Thank youuuu ✨

Ohhhhh Man! I tell you what, I need to start walking quickly round corners in Museums and see what shakes out! If anyone tries this method of securing a husband, please let me know. Enquiring minds and all that! Aaaaand I hope you had fun in London even without getting to meet a handsome Gander. Man, I miss going to big cities. I live in a small town (Pop.5000) which is probably an hour and a half from a regional city (Cairns, QLD if anyone is curious, Right off the Great Barrier Reef) but the next like... Capital (Big) city is a two day drive from me or a 3 hour plane ride so... Australia is a behemoth country and there's nothing there!

ANYWAY! Eddie and Goose, Beautiful little beans. Do you wanna see Goose's birthday?

Play the theme song 🎶 Eddie and Goose, Eddie and Goose, two little sunshine kiiiids 🎶

As embarrassing as it was to say, none of Edwina's ex boyfriends had ever celebrated her birthday, she honestly hadn't even wanted them too which certainly should have been a sign that they'd had so many red flags they were practically wearing a red poncho, which meant, in turn, she'd actually never celebrated a boyfriend's birthday. So maybe it was stupid but when her fiancé had smiled happily and said "I don't usually do anything for birthdays, I just buy a cupcake and call it a day if I can't get out to my mum's." She'd been a little disappointed. She knew he didn't mean it as a rejection, but even so it stung a little.

But even so she'd spent weeks trying to decide on the perfect gift for Matthew. She'd asked Kate's advice, nervously hovering in her kitchen as Anthony flitted around his pregnant wife, in full mother hen mode once more. "I got Anthony engraved cufflinks the first Valentines we were together." Kate said, humming happily, kissing her husband's cheek when he placed a muffin in front of her. Edwina scoffed. "Cufflinks?! Jesus Kate, you two are so boring!" She said a little irritatedly "Hey!" Kate said indignantly, "He needed them, his broke!" Anthony nodded, a little indignantly at her. Edwina rolled her eyes, "Sorry, you didn't tell me they were a practical gift. How romantic." "I wear them every day, and I like looking at them knowing Kate picked them for me." Anthony said pointedly, rolling his own eyes in response before scooping a wriggling Edmund up. "Here's an idea Eddie, why don't you give Goose back your engagement ring for his birthday?" Anthony chuckled to himself as Kate rolled her eyes, and Edwina swept from the room with a "You two are useless!" and a rude hand gesture.

Even so, something about what Anthony had said had stuck in her mind, and now she was left hovering nervously in the doorway of her bedroom, The sandwich cake she'd made from Anthony's recipe balanced on a plate, the wrapped box burning against her hand. He was just stirring when she entered the room, his eyelids flickering open slowly, scanning the room for her, the soft crooked smile that had first made her heart skip slowly dawning on his face as his hand groped around for his glasses.

"Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday dear Matty, Happy birthday to you." Edwina sung lightly as she made her way through the bedroom, crouching slightly as she held the cake out to him, his sleepy smile causing the butterflies in her stomach to beat more furiously. "Make a wish." she whispered softly as he blew out the candles leaving a soft kiss on her cheek. "You really didn't have to go to all the trouble." he said, leaving the cake on the bedside table in favour of tugging her down to sit across his legs. "That's a bake off winning cake thank you very much Matthew Bagwell. Paul Hollywood gave me a handshake for that cake. Many a man would think themself very lucky to have me back that cake for them." she said teasingly, unable to stop the smile on her face. "I don't doubt that at all." Silence echoing softly through the room as their eyes caught softly.

And then, "I got you this as well." Edwina said awkwardly, forcing the box into his hand before she could lose her nerve. He stared curiously down at it "Eddie I said you didn't have to get me anything." He said softly, something like disbelief in his voice. Edwina scoffed, "Can you just open it and tell me if you want me to return it before I lose my nerve entirely?" Matthew stared curiously at her for a second before he tugged lightly on the bow unwrapping it painfully slowly, his hand smoothing over the box before he finally opened it. He stared down at the watch silently, his finger tracing the engraving on the bezel From Edwina to Matthew Forever and Always. Edwina could feel her her teeth cutting into her bottom lip as the silence stretched on.

"It's okay if you don't like it." She said softly, nerves clawing at her chest, "I can take it back and get another one, or maybe something else? I just... I know you don't wear a watch and I thought maybe it's because you didn't have one, but if it's because you don't like them them-" Matthew cut off her rambling with a soft kiss, and she felt herself relax instantly against him. His voice shook slightly when he pulled back. "How could I not love this?" His eyes were shining behind his glasses, "I was just a little taken aback because honestly... I think this watch probably cost more than I make in six months." Edwina started to protest but he shook his head softly. "I'm not rejecting it, Honey I love it. And I'm going to wear this so much you'll be sick of the sight of it."

But honestly every time she saw it clasped firmly on his wrist she got a little thrill. Even more so when Anthony begrudgingly said the next week. "That's a nice watch, Goose." and Matthew grinned brightly, his arm around her waist. "Thanks! Eddie got it for my birthday!" Kate's head shot up. "Oh? A practical gift, Edwina. How romantic!" She said laughing at Matthew's perplexed expression, as Edwina shot her sister a rude hand gesture.

[nomanwalksalone]

BOOK REVIEW: RICHARD JAMES SAVILE ROW

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

As Troy McClure said about playing the human in a musical adaptation of Planet of the Apes, reviewing this book is “the role I was born to play!”

Simply entitled Richard James: Savile Row, this book commemorates the 25th anniversary in Savile Row of the fashion house and tailors of the same name.  A read is somewhat disappointing, full of short essays by what amounts to a rather incestuous school of longtime Richard James fans in British media and entertainment, among them British GQ’s Dylan Jones and Richard’s most notorious client, Elton John.

Elton’s known as a voracious devotee – to not say addict – of his favorite outfitters over the decades, buying out entire shopfloors at times.  His twenty-year devotion to Richard James is a key to understanding Richard James’ enormous if unrecognized positive influence on contemporary men’s clothing and British tailoring. Forty years ago Elton dressed head-to-toe in psychedelic Tommy Nutter, switching in the 1980s to over-the-top Gianni Versace glitz.  Since the end of the 1990s, he’s evangelized Richard James.

Tommy Nutter, the last tailor-designer in Savile Row, dominated British men’s tailoring in the 1970s.  Custom tailoring took a back seat to the cult of the ready-to-wear designer, mostly the Continentals: Pierre Cardin, then Armani and Versace.  Nutter had a few isolated 1980s hits, like dressing the Joker in 1989’s Batman, before dying in 1992.

What had become of the British? 1980s attitudes towards luxury and clothing meant regression, selling an image of Britain as Raj, pith helmets, and gin among palm trees, not progress. Ralph Lauren did a much better job selling that ethos in his more expensive lines than any of the British could.  Some tried; those of us of a certain age (me) remember seeing cashmere sweaters made in China sold in Bloomingdales under the label of Savile Row tailor Gieves & Hawkes, or blocky ready-to-wear suits at Barneys sold with the name of Savile Row tailor Kilgour, French & Stanbury, although made in Canada by Samuelson.  An ersatz Britishness for export markets, an ersatz image and look created by ready-to-wear licensees with little input from the British tailors desperately trying to sell their names abroad.

Into this breach came Richard James. Like Nutter, James is categorically not a trained tailor.  What he is, though, is an inspired designer who, since opening on Savile Row, has offered true custom tailoring as well as ready-to-wear in visionary designs.  I remember the first Richard James items I noticed, beautiful belts and wallets of gorgeous quality hand stitched in England with contrasting linings in deeply saturated color.  I still have one of those belts, in all its magnificence.  What did they have to do with British custom tailoring?  Nothing – and everything. For the first time a Savile Row name appeared to be doing something relevant, interesting and elegant – and doing it to the fullest extent and the last detail. Savile Row survives by its export markets and by the reputation its tailors have forged for beautiful items of a certain Britishness.  No more uninspired licensed items that has as much to do with British elegance as a Sterling car (derided by Consumer Reports for “Industrial Revolution-era” English technology, remember those?). What Richard James has done is modernize British elegance from the creepy colonial-obsessed ethos that today only blinkered Brexiteer bluestockings and Internet edgelords cling to.  Even the past James references uses other, more inspired touchstones of British greatness, including his bespoke offer (initially serviced by the Savile Row tailors Anthony J. Hewitt and James Levett before being brought in-house), but also ready-to-wear shirts in stripes that recalled the best of Swinging London; handmade ties whose lush, delicate patterns rivalled the best of midcentury Sulka or today’s Charvet; magnificently, decadently warm alpaca pile ‘teddy bear” coats originally created for 1920s motorists; astonishingly soft leather or suede jackets in the café racer style 1960s London Mods would have died for; and even the made-to-order cashmere socks with custom monograms Corgi used to make for defunct shops of yesteryear like the custom shirtmaker Beale & Inman.  It was a vision of Britishness far, far from Lauren’s fantasies, a Britishness that admitted the turmoil of Ted Heath’s premiership, that added much-needed glamor after John Major’s greyness.  And James reminded us what was wonderful about the British suit by invoking all that was dashing in its cut.  Ready-to-wear suits were made in beautiful cloths from British mills like the impeccable Taylor & Lodge, in unexpectedly evocative colors and patterns: sharp mohair sharkskin, gorgeously patterned real Scottish or Irish tweeds or a French navy that was lighter than the normal shade; even rainbow chalkstripes on a sober dark ground.  The cut was always tapered at the waist, double-vented, slant pocketed in the “hacking” style, a look espoused by Patrick Macnee’s subversively too-British John Steed in the 1960s.  Richard’s linings were often boldly colorful, to remind us what could be playful about the suit, everything that 1980s pretention (clinging to all the trimmings of colonial oppression) had repressed.

Richard James the book shines in cataloguing those designs in beautiful detail.  James really has been the best colorist in the business, as Jones termed him.  Even more importantly, this book also shows how James has aced the tricky game of tennis without a net of innovating within the classic: in addition to recreating ruffle-fronted tuxedo shirts like those of George Lazenby’s louche Bond in 1969’s On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, James also invented tuxedo shirts whose fronts (instead of pleats or stiff waffle-weave Marcella) were hand-beaded by Hand & Lock, beaders and embroiderers to Her Majesty the Queen; Corgi (knitters and hosiers to the Prince of Wales) knitted thick, thick cashmere sweaters with hand-inlaid abstract intarsia designs; elegant cufflinks (always double-sided) recalled childhood marbles in the forms of hand-blown translucent glass or semiprecious banded agate (a real “Aggie”) or amber set in sterling silver; and even a travel bag that recalled the bags given away by Pan Am or Concorde in the early days of jet travel was rendered in ballistic nylon with reflective silver piping and brilliantly contrasting linings.

I’ve never owned a Richard James bespoke suit.  I know that his ready-to-wear suits were disappointingly half-canvassed or fused, despite their wonderful materials.  But they helped remind me that Savile Row could still be relevant, and that those tailors, despite past reputation, could be approachable and contemporary – and that has been my experience with the other tailors of Savile Row, including the impeccable, evocatively named Steed, whom I loved for their name before ever using them.

Every item with the Richard James name carried and carries the same visionary, whimsical design philosophy, a Britishness less fanciful and more romantic than Paul Smith’s, and far less caricatural and cynical than those of Ralph Lauren or Hackett.  Socks, always made to a high-standard by Pantherella, are accented in amusing contrast colors or mad patterns. I have a number that are doing fine almost 20 years later.  My Richard James Concorde bag has been a beloved, perfect gym bag for years, while his larger, tougher Japanese denim bag (trimmed in the best British bridle hide) is my go-to travel holdall no matter where on Earth I go. My beaded Richard James tux shirt is a prized piece of design genius, as is a magnificently waterproof raincoat made for him by Mackintosh in a beige twill that cunningly iridesces turquoise or orange from certain angles. For years I’ve searched for the same shade of gorgeous Thomas Mason turquoise twill cotton that an old Richard James shirt is in, but most of his materials are specially made for his designs; even the fine-gauge cotton knits that John Smedley or Peter Geeson created for him seemed to be in special colors and to his own patterns.

That wealth, that treasury of a vision and genius, tumbles out of Richard James’ new book, pictures that really are worth thousands of words and that speak for themselves about the importance of this designer’s contribution, reminding us that Savile Row, indeed British menswear itself, still had things of wonder to offer us.

[neverendingstories00]

a winnix! found family au with easy company as kids part one out of a million!!

hi, hello! i’m back on my bullshit again. the creativity train had once stopped at my brain. I may have a thousand wip’s but tonight I’ve decided to focus solely on this one. also a ton of credit to @apairofwingsforme for rambling with me about this idea, thanks buddy! anyways, my mind is literally a terrifying place 😁 please send help. i’m literally at my breaking point

Also this is part one out of..a lot! I wanna write a fic of this, but school is a bitch. This is just winnix at the moment, but I promise I’ll start talking about easy company as kids and how chaotic it is. Literally. Child! Luz is going to be a little monster. But hey, only seven more weeks!!

It's a modern au. Both dick and Lew have been married for seven years and are happier than ever.

Okay! But before the found family part, time for the backstory!

dick and lew both met in college when there were in the same intro to marketing class. dick was struggling in the class and absolutely despised Lew, who he stereotyped as a “typical New Yorker '' as Dick donned his bean boots and flannel shirts. However, Dick learned not to make assumptions about people. Their study sessions would turn into long conversations about the newest episode of Mad Men, their families in Lancaster and Manhattan, etc. Dick and Lew grew to be best friends.

Dick felt strange around Lew. He wanted to hate him, but he couldn't. He would catch himself staring at Lew for too long and a strange feeling in his stomach. Lew caught onto this, but said nothing. He was overthinking it. Dick was the poster catholic boy with his outfits head to toe from LL Bean, carried a tiny bible in his backpack, etc. Lew knew Dick was too good for him. Besides, there was no way he would be gay.

One thing led to another and the complicated relationship between Dick and Lew changed. Dick had sworn off alcohol, but had no idea that the orange juice was a screwdriver. Dick got intoxicated and Lew dragged him back to his dorm. Next thing he knew, Lew woke up, cuddled with Dick in his neat dorm room.

After that little incident, things became awkward. They were in their senior year; friends for four years and the awkward tension was high between them. After they graduated, there was an afterparty held at their old farneity. Dick, of course, had won vladicictroain and Lew won salutadorian (shockingly). Dick knew that if it wasn’t for Lew three years ago, he wouldn’t be where he is.

So in a little corner, Dick walked up to Nixon and gifted him an apple pie, fresh from The Winter’s farm in Lancaster, thanking him for all he’s done for him. Nixon smirked and knew that Dick would give him some pie, but he was still nice about it. He took Dick to his room and gave him cufflinks that he bought especially for Dick from Nordstrom because during their freshman year, Dick was in charge of planning events in their fraternity. It was movie night and in 2007, Casino Royale was all the hype. Nobody came to the movie night since there was a huge football game and party after. Dick sat there, popcorn all made and even pushed the coaches together, and nobody showed up. He considered just packing up and calling it a night until he heard the door slam open. As he was cleaning up, Dick ran right into Lew.

“Hi, hello. Sorry I’m late, I was busy doing...stuff.”

“Oh,” Dick would reply, “I was just packing up.”

“What movie?”

“Casino Royale. Nobody’s coming though.”

“Well, is the popcorn still hot?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, consider me your customer.”

Dick and Lew watched the movie. Lew never shuts up during the film. Dick talks ethier to tell Lew to be quiet or that he loves Daniel Craig’s cufflinks. Lew made a mental note of that.

The night of graduation, stuffed in Dick’s little dorm room, was the last time Dick and Lew ever saw each other. For a while, atleast. They had a heated makeuout session that followed with awkward but passionate sex. The next morning, it was a screaming match between Lew and Dick. Dick didn’t even remember what it was about-he was too upset. He simply finished packing, threw the stuff into the back of his subaru outback, and drove back to Lancaster.

Seven years flew by, and Dick and Lew hadn’t spoken a word. Both of them were no longer twenty two year old’s who had no idea what they were doing with their life-they were now twenty nine, both trying to figure out their lives.

Dick worked as an accountant in Philadelphia, Boston, Hartford, and jumped around the east coast. He didn’t really enjoy his job so he went back to Franklin and Marshall to become a History Teacher. He had been looking for work for some time and eventually found a teaching job at a boy’s school in Bronxville. It was a job, after all.

So Dick arrives in Bronoxville and gets an email. He recognizes the last time-it’s Lew. He heard about Dick moving and wanted to catch up. Dick was new to Bronoxville and as reluctant as he was, he agreed to meet with Lew.

Lew and Dick meet at Rosie’s, a nice little Italian restaurant in the middle of Bronoxville. Lew surprises Dick, and greets him with a “going my way?”. Lew looks different; he’s gotten more handsome with age, his hair is shorter but still unruly with a tint of gray, and there’s a good amount of stubble. He hasn’t changed one bit.

Their first meeting went well. Just like Dick, Lew had a rocky start after college. Lew had foolishly gotten married to some girl he had gone to boarding school with. They barely lasted a year, and Lew left the marriage with a child he had no custody with and a large penthouse in Tribeca. Life had been lonely. He worked as an economist for a while, but hated the job and quit. With no job and a failing marriage, Lew turned to one resort; alcohol. He had nobody and nothing left in life.

Dick could see the fire that was once in Lew slowly dying out. The once sarcastic and dry Lew became a self--deprecating and lonely man with too much money and time on his hands. Naturally, Dick pitied him. He could see that Lew still loved him-if he didn’t, then how did he find out about Dick moving to Bronxville? How did he find out about Dick’s new job? Why did Lew take Dick to the nicest restaurant in Bronxville. And still, even though seven years had gone by, Dick was still in love with Lew. He’d come up in his thoughts once and while, but now, when faced with him-it was hard to resist those old feelings.

Dick was worried about Lew. So being the Architect he is (mbti type wise, he’s an INTJ), he creates a plan. Lew comes down from the city to Bronxivlle on Fridays and they meet at Rosies. They catch up on their week. From court cases to annoying students, the little things that they share each make their day a little better.

Dick was well aware of Lew’s alcoholism. It was noticeable in college, but it seemed to have worsened as Lew got older. Dick encouraged Lewis to go to therapy. When things had gotten to the worst, Lew enrolled in rehab (all thanks to Dick). He saw the stubbornness in Dick and the clear frustration. Dick wasn’t one for emotions, but when he saw Lewis with a bloody forehead because he fell down the stairs, barely able to speak, Dick sobbed in the waiting room at the hospital. Lewis had never seen Dick ever be that emotional. He was hurt.

That’s when Lewis realized two things. One, he needed to fix himself. If he kept living this deductive lifestyle, he could end up dead. He didn’t want that. And Two, as much as he repressed it-he was still in love with Dick.

Lew finally deals with his issues, ranging from alcohol to his childhood trauma and abuse. It was all with the help of Dick. Dick was there for him every step on the way, playing the role as that supportive friend. Here they were, two thirty year olds. Lew would’ve never imagined being friends with a Quaker that was too good for him, but there he was.

One night, after they had dinner at Rosies, Dick and Lew go back to Dick’s tiny little colonial house. It’s not his house, but a shared apartment. It’s small, but it’s something. Lew is shocked by the living conditions, and Dick simply finds the place charming. They laugh, lock eyes, and next thing they know their lips are clashing together, rushing to take off their clothes as they fit onto Dick’s small bed.

Seven years later, they finally realize they're in love with each other and officially start dating. Dick moves to Lew’s apartment and they live there together for a while. Both getting sick of their lives in the city, Lew decides they need a break from the city and the states.

A year later, Lew proposes to Dick at Rosies, all thanks to the help of Anne Winters, Blanche, Kitty Gorgan, and Harry Welsh. Dick happily accepts, and yes; he sheds a tear. And so does Lew. Everybody sheds a solid tear; it’s a beautiful moment.

Three days before their wedding, Dick and Lew elope on the rooftop of their apartment complex. They invite the same people who helped Lewis propose to Dick. It’s a small and intimate ceremony. Their dance song is “Flightless Bird, American Mouth”. They wanted to get married without the big crowd and Lewis’s “rich jerk friends'' and “daddy’s money”.

For the next seven years, Dick and Lew travel the world. They live all over Europe. From London, To Austria, to Tokyo-they do it all. Dick always ends up sunburnt and Lew is always wearing his classic aviators, wanting to take a photo of Dick. Whenever they go to a new location, Lew always forces Dick to pose next to something, whether that be the La Fontana Dei Quattro Fiumi or the Tokyo tower, and then he sets the photo as his lock screen. Now THAT is romance right there.

Seven years of travel is a lot. Dick and Lew traveled back to the states once in a while for Holidays, but spent most of their time overseas. They are both now in their late thirties and a little exhausted from travel.

Whenever they go to a forgien country, Lew has a tendency to buy shot glasses from each country even though he’s sworn off drinking. I just want to imagine Lew, dragging Dick into a little chaka shop and being like “Oh look darling! Aren’t these adorable” and Dick would just sigh.

So after their final destination, Greece, Dick and Lew decide to retreat back to the states. They don’t wanna live in the city, so they choose to move to the quaint Lancaster. Dick mentioned that he and his friends used to go explore this abandoned farmhouse that wasn’t too far from where he used to live (about 20 mins). Lew wants to be a romantic so he decides to pay a whole lotta money to revinate the barn into a modern mansion. Here’s a picture for reference. Lew goes the extra mile and Dick is like “ *insert eye roll emoji* lew, were two people. Lew would give him a little kiss on the cheek, “and? I’m making room for the dogs.

Oh I should add that Lew officially retires (he has loads of money, it’s called inheritance baby!) while Dick considers it, but chooses not too. He chooses to live the peaceful life of a farmer.

OKAY, but here is the very juicy part

Reminder that there house is like...fucking huge. Like ridiculously big. Like there are so many rooms, and they are furnished. Like what is the point of having furnished rooms if you only have two people living in the house??

Also Lew and Dick adopt a whole armanda of dogs. If you want specifics, they have a collie named Lassie, two westie named Lovey and Duffer, A carin named Toto, Beethoven the St.Bernard, and Copper the hound dog. Oh-and that’s the start. So. Many. BUNNIES.

Dick knows Lew. He already has a child that he’s unfortunately not been able to raise since he barely has custody over his child. He seems to like his own dogs over his children. Dick doesn’t mind. Sure, he’s worked with kids, but he’s okay not having them. He does like his dogs, after all.

Harry, Dick and Lew’s best friend from college, doesn’t live far from them. He’s been married to his college sweetheart, Kitty, for five years. Together, they have a little son named Louie. Harry comes over a lot with Louie, and Louie plays with the dogs in the backyard. Dick’s a very observant person; he sees the relationship between Louie, the dogs, Lewis, and Harry. Lewis doesn’t mind Louie. Actually, he likes the kid. He’ll run around the backyard with Louie and their dog.

So Dick starts thinking about children. Maybe he’s changed his mind; maybe he wants a kid. One or two would be fine. It could be through adoption, help a family out or a kid who’s stuck in the system. Dick is like a mother when he wants to help others around him.

One night, Dick and Lew are sitting in bed. Did I mention all the dogs sleep in their bed. When shopping for furniture, Lew wanted to pick out a bed to fit all of the animals they were gonna have. Dick didn’t like the idea and made the dogs all sleep in their crates. But one night, Lew walked in on Dick snoring, lovey and dovey tucked right next to his stomach and feet. Lew once again, takes a photo, and shows it to Dick, who’s as red as a tomato.

Dick does a little sigh and Lew looks up from his book, his reading glasses slipping down his nose. He’d be like “oh, what is it now sweetheart?”

“We have such a big house, Lew. Twenty rooms and only two people live in the house-”

“Actually Six dogs and three rabbits. The dogs sleep with us and the rabbits...wherever they sleep.”

“Lew, I know you don’t like children but-”

Lew holds up Toto, who tilts her head. “But look at her! Yeah, you’re a good girl aren’t you? Daddy's little girl!”

“You love Louie-”

“Yeah, cause he’s not mine. He’s a nice kid. But children, especially teenagers, are the devils of this earth. You need to fear them, pay for them, do all kinds of stuff. With dog’s it’s easier.”

“I love our animals, but just one or two. We have so much space in the house. Help out a child who needs it. I know you don’t wanna admit it, but your great with kids-”

“Not my own. I don’t even know my own daughter. Kathy got married to some damn twink. How the hell do you think I’d be a good father?”

Dick gives him that *insert pouty emoji* look. “Just think about, Lew.”

So Lew actually thinks about. He walks around the house, feeling and seeing the quietness. They do have thousands of empty rooms and a little too much freetime on their hands. Plus, Lew hates the puppy eye stare Dick gives him.

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Sunshine City: Four

A/N: We are nearing the end of this little story, my loves. Thank you to everyone who read, liked, and/or reblogged the last chapter. I adore you.

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (No Y/N)

Word Count: 2.8k

Rating For This Chapter: T for blood, injuries, a K*ss or two, my undying love of tropes and cliches

Catch up on previous chapters here!

London was a beautiful mix of sparkling skyscrapers and bygone brick and mortar. It reminded her of New York on one street and some sort of historical romance novel on the next.  The Tube was much more proficient than the subway and Bela was fond of the fact that Harry let her take him along to the office whenever she wasn’t on assignment.

But it still felt…like she was just visiting. 

“Mordred!”

She pivoted in her chair to see Roxy—Agent Lancelot—walk into her office. The young agent had been thought dead for a handful of weeks after Kingsman’s old headquarters had exploded, but she had survived. A little injured, more than a little confused, but quickly back to normal after Eggsy discovered her in the nearest hospital. She couldn’t remember her name but she did remember how to throw men over her shoulder like it was nothing. (The nurses were not a fan.) 

But Roxy was now back on her very-capable feet and usually out in the field. 

“Lancelot,” she replied with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Your cowboy has arrived in that atrocious car.” But a teasing smile was pulling at Roxy’s lips as she said it, letting Sunny know this would not be the end of their conversation. Roxy had almost instantly become aware of the strange relationship between Whiskey and the former Statesman agent and found it endlessly entertaining. While Eggsy was tending to his new duties as a prince of Sweden, Roxy had readily stepped into his role of friend to Sunny when Ginger was busy.

“He is not my cowboy.” She rose to her feet and Bela poked his little head out from under the desk where he’d been napping on an embroidered pillow, a Boxing Day gift from Merlin last year.

Roxy laughed, a full-belly laugh that had the other woman frowning. “You might want to tell him that. When he saw Tristan at the door he said, and I quote: ‘tell Sunny her cowboy is here.’ So, I do not believe he knows he isn’t your cowboy.”

She was able to keep her face neutral as Roxy’s smirk continued to grow but that did not mean her stomach did not flip and fill with butterflies. “I’ll let him know, Lancelot.”

Roxy laughed and nodded before excusing herself.

“At least he didn’t honk this time,” she muttered to herself. The pair had been assigned a mission and she expected him later that day.

The stately manor house just an hour outside London was the newest headquarters for the agency and usually agents and their American counterparts would use the underground bullet train under the (also recently rebuilt) tailor shop. It would take only a handful of minutes.

But apparently Whiskey had to be…different.

She straightened her shoulders and walked toward the door and Bela followed, matching his short stride to her longer one as she made her way out of her office, through the ornate and marble halls, and out toward the manicured lawn and front courtyard.

And there was Whiskey in his Bronco. His head was tilted back so it could catch the warmth of the infrequent sun and his stupid cowboy hat was still on his head. Her stomach tightened at the sight of the stretch of his neck. God. She still had it bad, didn’t she? Would the sight of someone’s neck make anyone (aside from her pathetically-in-love self) short of breath?

Their relationship hadn’t really changed since Tilde and Eggsy’s wedding. Well, that is what she told herself anyway. Their emails had progressed to whispered telephone calls about their days and missions and she had lost count how many times she had fallen asleep to the sound of Whiskey all-but crooning in her ear.

But…friends did that. Right?

They were friends.

The scratching of Bela’s little paws against the stone of the front steps grabbed his attention and his head lazily turned to the side as a familiar smile pushed up his lips, displaying the one dimple on his right cheek. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, Sunshine?”

She tried halfheartedly to hide her smile as she slowed to a stop and leaned against the passenger-side door. “I’m Agent Mordred here, Whiskey.”

“Nope. You’ll always be my Sunshine.” He opened his door and Bela leapt up into his lap just long enough for the older agent to scratch behind his ear and then into the back seat where the corgi promptly made himself at home. Whiskey leaned over and opened the door for her and patted the leather of seat, smile never fading. “C’mon. We can talk on our way back to London.” 

She rolled her eyes but slid in. As she pulled the door closed, she said, “we could have taken the train.” 

“It don’t like it. The darn thing moves too fast.”

She scoffed with another smile. “I don’t believe anything moves too fast for you.”

As Whiskey started the engine he looked at her, head dipping so he could pin her with his stare over the edge of his gold-rimmed aviators. “On the contrary, Sunny. I like going slow.” He enunciated each word with that southern drawl and let his fingers slide around the worn leather of the steering wheel, nice and slow as they trailed over the stitching. “Take my time. Make it worth it when I finally reach a destination.”

Her head snapped toward the windshield as heat curled in her stomach and then strangled the next breath from her lungs. “Inappropriate.”

But he laughed and reached over to pat at her thigh and squeezed just above her knee before gravel spit beneath his tires when he pressed down on the gas.

The pair did actually speak about the mission as the unusually clear autumn day provided a perfect backdrop for their drive. “Why do we always get put on the nuclear waste missions? It is like Champ and Harry don’t like us.” She said with a huff.

“Maybe it’s our specialty, Sunshine.”

She reached out and smacked at his arm. The mission was a little more involved than Vegas. It involved a pair of couples from blue blood families who had turned to buying and selling anything and everything a would-be terrorist or dictator would need in order to keep their luxurious lifestyles. Merlin had managed to uncover the plans of an American couple about to meet with the dealers at a gala at one of the privately-owned castles in Scotland. While Tequila managed to neutralize the American couple, she and Whiskey would be taking their place, hopefully to stop them and uncover where they were getting their supply.

She gave him directions toward the tailor shop (where they could pick up a few gadgets and supplies) once they reached the right borough and laughed when he had trouble parallel parking. But after finally managing to squeeze the Bronco into a space definitely designed for something smaller, he darted around to open her door as she pulled Bela from his napping spot in the back.

She murmured a thank you as she let Bela lick at her cheek. Whiskey hummed and scratched behind Bela’s ear before placing a hand at the small of her back as she led them up toward the gleaming glass door of the tailor shop.

It was all very…domestic, in a stereotypical “southern gentleman” sort of way and she hated how much she liked it. But she had given up on actually hating anything he did. Especially when he smiled at her like that.

                                                    **

Edinburgh was magnificent. And Kingsman had made sure their agent and visiting Statesman were comfortable in a luxury hotel room and an extra agent to act as their chauffeur for the evening, solidifying their image as a well-to-do couple with nefarious intentions.

The past handful of hours were spent going over the plan before separating to get ready. Her dress was from some Italian designer Roxy insisted would look good on her and fit her like a black, silk glove. The thigh-high slit just barely covered the holster she’d strapped around her thigh but hopefully the dangerously low neckline would distract anyone away from her legs. The false eyelashes gave her pause for a moment—and a few tears as she stabbed herself right in the eye a few times—but she managed to put on a face full of makeup and finished with a berry-tinted lip and a heavy hand of jasmine and leather perfume.

Missions like this always made her a bit nervous. No matter how many times she’d completed them easily, they always made her feel like a kid playing dress up and waiting for a scolding. She took a few breaths and then stepped out of the bathroom and into the suite. Whiskey was there, fixing the silver cufflinks in his classic and sharply cut, dark blue suit. The dying light of the sun was framing him and the next exhale stuttered in her lungs. It was going to be a long night.

Whiskey turned at the sound of her red-soled shoes on the floor and smiled. And, of course, his eyes dragged from her toes, up her legs, her stomach, her chest…and then stopped.

“My eyes are up here, boss,” she said with a snort.

His dark eyes finally lifted up to hers as his smile slipped to a smirk. “I ain’t your boss, Sunshine.”

And her stomach actually clenched at that and she had to take a moment to clear her throat and remember that they were on a mission. “That’s good. We’re supposed to be lovesick newlyweds, right?”

Whiskey’s mouth—god, how many times was she going to stare at his mouth tonight?—twisted to the side with a frown as he took a few steps toward her and gently grasped her left hand and brought it up to his lips, kissing the diamond-encrusted band on her finger before pressing her palm against his cheek with a sigh.

She let her thumb slide against his cheekbone for a moment, smelling his expensive cologne tickle her nose and the warmth of his hand over hers settled the nerves she felt.

“You look beautiful tonight. Truly.” He leaned forward to press his lips to her forehead before he squeezed the hand he had in his grasp and intertwined their fingers as he brought them down to his side. “An easy cover.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as his watch beeped, letting them know it was time to go. “Let’s get these guys.”

And she let him tug her along with her heart in her throat.

                                                  **

The gala was luxurious in every sense of the word and the targets were so ostentatious that it was easy to spot them even if she hadn’t memorized their faces. Whiskey made easy work for introducing them as Mr. & Mrs. Jameson and making the targets laugh and trust them. She played the part of doting newlywed with no trouble and let herself enjoy it—as Whiskey seemed to be doing with how many times he deemed it necessary to hold her hand or press a kiss to her cheek or forehead, avoiding her lips with a joke, “she always hates it when I mess up her lipstick.” She would let her hand slip under his suit jacket as she leaned against his arm at the dinner table, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath her palm or push a smile to her lips whenever she had to lean in to whisper something in his ear about the security stationed around the room or how her Geiger counter, disguised as an opulent diamond tennis bracelet detected traces of radiation on the targets’ hands and feet. Especially on the woman’s—Alice—hands.

“Shall we talk shop in the gallery? I have heard they have a wonderful display of Mucha,” the man—Allan—said with a smile.

“I do adore Mucha,” she answered in return, tapping twice against Whiskey’s hand as it rested on her leg. Show time.

The pair of couples rose from their table and walked through the ball room and down a dimly lit hall toward the castle’s art gallery without much fanfare. In fact, she noticed that this whole ordeal didn’t have much fanfare at all. It was a wonder this couple had lasted this long without being taken down with how blatantly they spoke about their intentions. It was easy.

Too easy.

As soon as they stepped into the gallery, she noticed the ‘closed for maintenance’ signage. She was nearly leveled with a crack of a gun against the back of her head. The room swam for a moment and she stumbled but kept her footing and turned just in time to duck, dodging Allan as he tried to hit her again. She took a step back just enough to gain momentum before kicking out and slamming her stiletto heel into his chest.

It barely registered that Whiskey was busy handling Alice who had somehow produced a knife from god-knows-where and had managed to at least get him once with the amount of blood spilling across his white shirt.

But her attention was quickly brought back to Allan who was coughing, blood slipping from his lips as the he struggled to get to his feet. Her heel had punctured his chest. Oops. But the struggle was getting too loud. They couldn’t afford to be caught like this. It would ruin everything.

She stomped forward and grasped the sides of Allan’s head as he tried to stand and yanked. His body thudded to the ground just as Whiskey managed to sink a needle full of some yellow-tinted liquid into the side of Alice’s neck and she collapsed in his arms almost instantaneously.

The sound of approaching footsteps had them both scrambling. To hide the bodies (both of them were stuffed behind a statue in the corner). To clean up the blood (she grabbed Whiskey’s pocket square and made quick work of it all). There wasn’t time to make an escape. The thin beam of light from a flashlight was making its way down the hall, she could see it and tugged Whiskey toward her with steady hands.

“Don’t hate me.”

And then she pressed her lips to his and threw her arms around his neck, dragging him ever closer to hide the blood on his shirt.

Whiskey…could kiss. That was made abundantly clear with how easily he coaxed her lips apart to lick into her mouth, tasting of thousand-dollar-bottle champagne and mint. His warm hands grasped at her silk-covered hips and his face angled just the slightest bit so he could truly kiss her. Her hand shot into his hair on its own accord and mussed the carefully coifed locks. He groaned against her lips.

She could kiss him forever-

“Hey!”

They broke apart to see a disgruntled security officer standing in the gallery’s doorway.

“This area’s closed to the public.”

“Sorry man,” Whiskey drawled, keeping her close with a hand on her hip and her angled to keep his wound concealed, “just had to kiss my wife-”

“Do it somewhere else,” the man all but snarled before walking away.

She listened to his footsteps disappear before pushing out a soft laugh. Her heart was still racing. Her lips seemed to pulse in time with her heart and she licked them before she could stop herself, still tasting him. She quickly shot a message to the agent waiting outside that they had one body and one unconscious target to take care of before she stepped around the room, scrambling the security camera feeds with ease with the help of a small device Merlin had been particularly proud of.

She heard Whiskey walk up behind her but still jumped when his hands settled over her shoulders, a finger dragging under the strap of her dress and down her back. She shivered when she heard him chuckle against her throat, nose pressing against her pulse. Turning in his grip, she offered a small smile but didn’t pull away. She wasn’t sure when she would have him so close again. “Alice’ll be taken back to headquarters. Alan will be disposed of. Whoever set us up doesn’t have much time left.”

But Whiskey didn’t reply. His hands travelled up to carefully grasp at her face and he pressed a kiss to her lips—slow and sweet and perfect.

She pushed out a shaky breath as he pulled back and patted at his chest, mindful of the blood. “We are about to be in trouble if the guard comes back, Mr. Jameson,” she said, trying to save face.

“M’name’s Jack, Sunshine.”

“Jack,” she whispered back and she’d never liked a name more.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @spookyold-saintjm​ @honestlystop​ @paryl​  @fioccodineveautunnale @lackofhonor

[merrymagicalmenagerie]

Gifts

For @sybill-the-seer:

💝: who spends more time (possibly overthinking) what presents to get the other?

They’re both balls at it. Ginny wants it to be “useful” and Harry wants to indulge her and they both just fret about it which almost always results in a frantic last minute purchase during gift giving seasons. 

Can’t you just see Harry standing in a muggle jewelry store, in deep thought, trying to figure out if Ginny would actually like this tennis bracelet? I sure can. Cue Harry’s mental crisis: “Ginny likes jewelry but she never gets a chance to wear it. She’s always afraid she’d break something playing Quidditch. I wouldn’t want to get something too fancy for functions without her because I’m sure she’d want it to match what she’s going to wear? AARRGH what should I get her?” He keeps eyeballing the rose gold tennis bracelet and finally decides to buy it before the shopkeeper becomes too suspicious of him. He stares at it in his office for a good week thinking of what to do. As it usually does, sudden realization hits him that he could just charm it to be unbreakable or nearly so. 

Ginny is trying hard to figure out what would be useful to him in the field that isn’t already supplied by the office. Nicer wand/vial holsters? “Oh but that’s just not practical! The standard issue ones are just fine. He already has a sneakoscope. Books? They give him all the quills he could ask for…” One day, she was out on a girls’ lunch date in London when they passed by a high-end clothing shoppe with a display of cufflinks in the window. “We do have that bullshit function to be in next month…” She goes inside and sees the perfect set, a silver stag bust with golden antlers. And that is when Ginny found a way to buy useful things for Harry but not overly stress about it.

BUT to consider: When it’s something that’s spontaneous outside of a traditional gift giving occasion? They don’t even think about it. “Oh, he/she’d like this. I’ll get it.” or “I saw them looking at this the other day but not getting it? I’ll buy it instead.” (see my “blanket” ask from a previous game).

~

Ask me more questions on the newest OTP Game! More questions can be found on the link here. I need some Hinny fluff on this dreary day.

[classycufflinks]

History of Cufflinks: An illustrated timeline

Introduction

The cuff link has a long and interesting history intertwined with the development of ‘fitted’ clothing – which necessitated the use of buttons. Subsequent development of the ‘worked’ buttonhole, the Industrial Revolution and the evolution of mens’ fashion – culminating in the ‘French cuff’

Clothing in pre-historic times tended to be functional and related to the hunter-gatherer and later farming lifetyles. Leather, furs and fabrics tended to be wrapped around the body and tied. As these ancient societies evolved, the idea of ‘status’ along with status symbols developed. In terms of clothing fasteners in Ancient Ireland, the elaborate dress fasteners of the Bronze Age comes to mind.

1200’s

Strings pins or belts were used rather than buttons to fasten clothing. It was not until fitted garments became popular in the 13th century that buttons where used as fasteners.

1600’s In the 17th century the decorative lacy cuff of the Renaissance began to give way to more practical styles. At first noblemen began using ribbons to tie their cuffs and the elegance of them was considered a status symbol. By the late 17th century ribbons were replaced by jeweled buttons which were called Sleeve Buttons.

Sleeve Buttons were much more simple than lace They were also much more visually interesting than ribbons Sleeve Buttons became very popular very quickly in the 1600’s

1700’s

By the time of King George (1738-1820) these buttons had become much more ornate. one favourite style was to create miniature paintings on the underside of a piece of glass or quartz. It was still a bauble of the elite classes however, and they were quite expensive to produce due to the material costs involved. This like so many facets of European society changed rapidly with the coming Industrial Revolution.

1800’s

Cufflinks have often been accompanied by matching studs for the front of the shirt, particularly for formal wear from the 19th and 20th centuries.

At the beginning of the reign of Queen Victoria (1837-1901) and towards the end of Britain’s Industrial Revolution the middle class adopted cuff links.

Unable to afford gems they turned to replicas of the real thing. Rhinestones and pastes were used as fake diamonds Pinchbeck a copper and zinc alloy substituted for gold Cut steel marcasite were used for silver A ‘rose’ or flat cut was favoured by late Georgian and Victorian jewelers

1840

The French cuff or double cuff shirt sleeve become a popular fashion accessory. The historical stimulus for the elegant touch in mens’ fashion was the publication of Alexander Dumas “The Three Musketeers”

Dumas detailed description of the turned-back sleeves of the men guarding King Louis Xlll inspired European designers to modify the single cuff link-holed shirt which had been a fashion main stay in England.

1882 In 1882 George Krementz invented a machine that was based on a Civil War cartridge shell. It would mass produce one-piece buttons and cuff links very cheaply, which further enabled everyone to enjoy what was once the exclusive domain of the wealthy and privileged.

1900’s

Although the growing middle class liked enameled cuff links during the early Victorian period, it was during the Art Deco period that enamels reached their popularity. Skilled craftmen such as Faberge had perfected the art of using enamels by the end of the 19th century which he then mass produced during the early period of the 20th century.

The Faberage enamel cufflinks are said to have a gem-like brilliance and are highly sought after in auction houses throughout the world.

Other leading cuff link designers like Cartier and Tiffanys also began produce cuff links at the turn of the 20th century and were heavily influenced by the Art Nouveau – Art Deco, Cubism period.

The Roaring 20s were probably the height of cuff-link invention. Manufacturers created a variety of devices and designs to do one simple thing: permit a fellow to insert and remove his cufflinks with a minimum of difficulty and a maximum of security.

1924

In 1924, a Mr Boyer, of the Boyer company, created a fastener system made up of a tilting stick between a double stem fixed to the base. Nowadays, this system still remains the most common fastener used.

1950’s

The “stirrup” link enjoyed some popularity in the 1950’s – a curved bar encompassing the cuff from one side to the other.

1970’s In the Seventies, shirts with built-in buttons replace cuff links. Fortunately, the haute couture of famous names kept the style of wearing cuff links which continued to influence many people and kept the tradition alive.

1987 In London salerooms, no provenance is more sought-after than a royal connection. Britain’s royal family rarely parts with jewellery but Edward VIII was one who flew the coop, abdicating in December 1936, to marry the American divorcee Wallis Simpson. She became the Duchess of Windsor and her jewellery was sold at a landmark auction in Geneva in 1987 which raised $50 million. However pieces from the couple’s collection still turn up.

One pair of cuff links sold at auction for $440,000.

They were engraved with the initials ‘E’ and ‘W’

1990’s

The French cuff shirt make a dramatic come back and cuff links become a main stream fashion accessory spanning across all ages. Young people rediscover this accessory.

Paul Smith & Gucci brands start to expand and increase their new cuff link ranges.

A new generation of cuff links was born.

Cuff links, once viewed as a formal jewel becomes an essential accessory for both men and women wanting to express their individuality with style.

2000’s

Today cuff links are worn all over the world by men and women of discriminating taste and style. Whether it’s a classic or a modern design – or even one of the latest in novelty designs – cuff links are something that can be worn and appreciated by anyone who wants to look their best.

2010’s

In 2014, Sotheby’s in London sold a selection of the couple’s jewels and precious objects including a pair of gold and painted enamel cufflinks, featuring portraits of the Duke’s grandparents King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra

It is often said that a man should never buy his own cufflinks, but that they should always be gifts meant to mark an occasion.

This is a custom that resonates back to the cufflink’s medieval history, to the time when they were made almost exclusively as items meant to commemorate royal affairs.

Thus, these days men have come to recognize the importance of the set passed-down from a grandfather, or given by a best friend at his wedding and might solely rely on such pieces for formal affairs, but are uninhibited about buying their own cufflinks for everyday wear.

View Source: https://numiscufflinks.wordpress.com/2016/03/31/history-of-cufflinks-an-illustrated-timeline/

[nigelnormanfinejewells-blog]

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[ofwizardsandmen]

CHRISTMAS SERIES 

Keyword being ‘supposed’

This is definitely not how Enzo Saint-Pierre was supposed to spend Christmas Eve.

Characters: Enzo Saint-Pierre, Minah Delacroix, Tara Lee, Mark Yang. Mentions of other minor characters.

Word count: 3,6k

“I can’t believe them” Enzo Saint-Pierre huffed as he flopped on the pink velvet sofa, arms falling limp at his sides and his phone slipping from his hand before falling over a cushion.

Across the room, Enzo’s business partner and close friend, Minah Delacroix, stopped wrapping her brother’s Christmas gift for a short moment and took notice of his sour expression and the way his eyes glared at the device with resentment.

It was the day before Christmas and the friends had been chatting about pointless topics for nearly two hours now. Although the company’s premises had been closed for a few days now,  Enzo had forgotten some important documents in his security box and just happened to come across his business partner hiding in her office wrapping gifts and writing cards. For the past weeks, It had been difficult to even see Minah because apparently she was juggling all her duties as a Delacroix, attending parties, planning her own Christmas festivities and buying gifts for her endless list of family members, friends, and business network. Of course, Sienna, her ever-efficient assistant, had been really helpful —Enzo had already received a beautiful set of gold cufflinks with his family crest coat of arms carved by goblins, earlier that day, for example—, but Minah still had some last-minute tasks to fulfill, which explained why they had been chitchatting as she went on with the ever boring task of dictating Christmas messages to her Quick Quotes Quill and wrapping Christmas gifts in an old fashioned way.

Only a few minutes ago laughter filled the room. The friends had been talking about their holiday plans until a call interrupted Enzo from pocking fun at Minah’s choice of words to describe what she would be wearing that night for her one on one Christmas celebrations.

“What happened?” MInah asked. She knew Enzo was never the type to react negatively, choosing to remain blissfully —and even annoyingly— positive even at critical times (a behavior that had almost caused her to attempt murder several times the past year), so his expression made her raise one of her perfect brows. Minah carefully placed Suho’s state of the art quidditch glasses on the table (one of her husband’s most recent tech inventions) and leaned back on the chair.

“Nothing” Enzo deadpanned, but the scowl on his forehead told otherwise.

“Oh, come on, Enzo. The only time I saw you frown like this was when we were invited to the Olivier’s fashion show” Minah walked across the office and took the empty spot beside her friend, sitting cross-legged.  “And even then you looked slightly entertained”

“Would you blame me? Maude poured champagne on her hideous white dress. It was hilarious” Enzo smirked playfully at the memory. It never failed to amuse him.

“Then, what’s wrong? Minah insisted, her voice too sweet for Enzo not to detect concern filtering through her tone.

“Just my ever enchanting family,” The man said with a sigh “Cancelling dinner plans at the very last minute because their businesses are more important… businesses being a euphemism for affairs.”

It had never been a secret for Minah that Enzo’s parents’ only kept their marriage to protect their individual interests. Minah and Enzo had bumped with his dad lounging on yachts in the Mediterranean, with entourages of women younger than herself, during their business trips to the south of France and Italy. His mother, on the other hand, had been having an affair with a magizoology researcher for some years now and she never missed the opportunity to run away with him to some exotic place. Of course, Enzo never told her that, Minah had found out everything about it through her uncle, Jerome, who granted was not one to spread gossip but had accidentally spilled the beans when they crossed paths with Madame Huang at a gala from the International Dragon Foundation.  

“What?” Minah gaped at that. Enzo had been talking about his plans with his parents for nearly a month and he seemed quite excited about it given the fact he didn’t get to spend time with them very often. It had made Minah question how lonely and in need of love Enzo seemed to be, but she hadn’t said anything about it. Instead, she had witnessed him planing every detail for their Christmas dinner with minute attention. He had bought handmade Italian glasses and hired the executive chef of the trendiest restaurant in London for the occasion. Hell, he had even got her aunt Adelaine to design him a suit although she was as busy as a bee. “I’m so sorry about it. I know you were looking forward to spending time with your parents”

“Nah. It’s ok. It was too good to be true” He attempted to laugh it off, but Minah knew that for some odd reason, Enzo still held some type of respect and affection for his parents. She was still unable to understand his fixation on spending time with them, but she figured out that the situation was far from being “ok”.

“No, it is not. They should’ve canceled before so you could make some arrangements and plan something else” She said scowling and slightly raising her voice.

“I will be fine, Minah. I am going to crash any of the parties I was invited to or drop by to visit some friends” He said, putting emphasis on the last word and winking at Minah afterward.

“No, that doesn’t sound right” Minah protested “Why don’t you come and stay with me and Sungjae. We didn’t really plan anything special” Only once she had already made the offer, Minah realized the mistake she had committed by inviting someone to spend Christmas Eve with her and her husband, without even asking Sungjae first.

“I had no idea you were into threesomes, Min” Enzo joked, eyes flickering in pretended surprise.

Minah slapped his arm playfully. “Don’t be ridiculous! Haven’t you told me  he third party is always supposed to be a stranger?”

They both laughed at that, but Enzo became serious once again, moving on the sofa to look at Minah in the eyes.

“I really appreciate your offer, but I am pretty sure Sungjae won’t be exactly thrilled to have me there,” He said seriously.

“Oh no, Sungjae is in his Christmas mood, I’m sure he really wouldn’t mind” That last part was a blatant lie, Minah could only imagine Sungjae’s reaction and it was far from what she had described, but Enzo didn’t need to know that.

“Ha. As if” Enzo rolled eyes. “Minah, you’re newlyweds. I seriously appreciate your concern, but I’m not going to feel any better if I have to spend Christmas Eve at your place, knowing that you would very much rather be fucking with your husband than hosting unwanted guests.”

“Wow, what a charmer” Minah replied with a trace of sarcasm. She couldn’t deny that Enzo was completely right, but she was still convinced that she needed to insist. “But Enzo… Christmas has always been about unannounced guests. From day one, that is the whole purpose of the holiday. I mean, take the Wise Men, they just called in unannounced.”

“They brought gold, Minah, of course, Mary and Joseph didn’t mind” Enzo switched his position on the sofa scoffing.

“But still-“ Minah started, but her speech was interrupted before she could say another word.

“All I’m saying is you don’t have to give up Christmas sex only because of me” Enzo stated with a grin, causing Minah to huff “No, but seriously. I’m going to be perfectly fine, Min. I always have a plan B.” The male moved to pat Minah’s hand brotherly “Thanks for caring so much though.”

“Just wanted to give you a Christmas gift” Minah said, a pout forming slightly.

“You already got me these” Enzo said pointing at his wrists, showing off the cufflinks Sienna had delivered to his apartment that morning “Plus, you know I’m not expecting any Christmas miracle or present, Minnie. I’ve been a bad boy all year long” Enzo shrugged, winking for an added effect. “We all know I’d never make it to Santa’s nice list.

________

When Enzo showed up at Tara’s porch, she could barely hide the disappointed look on her face. Although she knew very well that Mark couldn’t make it home for Christmas this year, for some stupid reason she had been expecting it to be him. But then again, why would Mark even ring the bell of their own home? Tara thought to herself that the unreasonable hope she had been harboring inside was clouding her judgment and she felt like facepalming herself.

“You could at least pretend to be happy to see me” Cladded in the most Christmas cliched outfit Tara had ever seen him wear, Enzo smiled widely at her. He didn’t seem the least bit offended by Tara’s reaction, which made her feel even worse and instinctively step to the side for him to walk in.  

“I’m sorry, dear.” Tara tiptoed to kiss Enzo’s cheek and give him a quick hug “You just caught me off guard. I thought you were supposed to be home with your parents.”

“Keyword being ‘supposed’” Enzo said, handing Tara what seemed to be a present, wrapped in a silly paper with red-nosed female reindeers wearing hot-pink bows. “As per usual they canceled on me, so I supposed my best friend could use some company” He made a pause to take a brief look around “…Not to mention I could bestow some much needed Christmas spirit in this house.” He added once he realized the house was almost empty, which of course was to be expected given the fact Tara had just moved in there a few weeks ago. Yet, there was something truly depressing about it all. There was no tree, no decorations. Not the least sign of the joyful season.

“Oh, yeah. I wasn’t planning anything special, I was expecting tonight to be just me and the Ghost of Christmas Past” Tara joked, noticing the pitiful look on Enzo’s face.

“I thought Mark would be here, that’s why I dressed down” he attempted to mask the question with a ridiculous joke, but Tara’s expression fell anyhow.

“He’s just busy. Apparently, a group is not enough work, so his company planned this whole “supergroup” project and if I haven’t lost track of the date, he must be stuck somewhere between Dallas and Miami right now” Tara forced a smile  “But it’s ok.”  She took a deep breath that suggested she wasn’t particularly ok. She then went on “I know how important his career is and how hard he’s worked for it, so I’m fine”

“I can’t believe you didn’t think of telling me about it, T. I seriously thought Mark was coming home tonight. If I had known-“

“If you had known, you would’ve tried o drag me to some crazy orgy in Las Vegas or Rome and I don’t know about you, but that’s not exactly what my Christmas spirit dictates me to do,” Tara said with an insincere laugh that made her best friend frown. “Ok, no, it’s just that you seemed so excited to spend time with your parents, I didn’t want to ruin it with my whining.”

“I’m almost offended you think that way, T.” Enzo clicked his tongue reprovingly before sneaking an arm around Tara’s shoulders. “You should’ve told me and we could’ve figured out an escapade to wherever Mark is and surprise him.” Enzo’s eyes lit up as though an idea had suddenly crossed his mind. “In fact, I think we’re still on time for that. Let’s go see Mark, we can Apparate and scare him off. Or we could scare the CEO of his company-“

“We are not going to Apparate in another continent just for Mark to spend his night performing for thousand of crazy women who fantasize about him-“ Tara stopped mid-sentence when she realized the bitterness in her words. “I-“ she let out a sigh, letting realization kick in.

“Wow” Enzo let out a deep breath before going on. “I had no idea you felt that way.”

“Neither did I” Tara admitted, looking down at her shoes as though she were looking at them for the very first time. “I just-“

“You’re just a human, T. You would like to have Mark all for yourself sometimes, wouldn’t you?”  Enzo placed both of his hands on each side of Tara’s arms, making her look up.  She hesitated for a second, but then she nodded “And it’s understandable.”

“I would never change the fact Mark is who he is, but sometimes…” Tara trailed off.

“Sometimes you should just let him know the way you feel” Enzo replied simply.

________

Four hours later and after bending several wizarding laws and abusing of their personal connections at the Ministry of Magic, Enzo and Tara dodge a group of overly excited teenagers in Perry Street. As per usual, the street is busy and decorated in a close simulation of a cheerful winter wonderland. There are several muggle tourists taking pictures outside the iconic Carrie Bradshaw’s Apartment, but there’s also a growing crowd of young females in the intersection with the 10th. Tara feels her heart pound violently against his chest and Enzo seems to hear it as well judging by the supportive way he laces his fingers with hers.

“Everybody is gonna be ecstatic to see you” Enzo says vehemently, pulling Tara to give her a one-armed hug

But it seems that Enzo is mistaken when Taeyong, Johnny, and Doyoung open the door of the 79th 10th street, looking nothing less than confused.

“What are you even doing here?” Doyoung scowls in puzzlement and asks, looking at Tara as though her presence as equally unexpected as it was unwelcomed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in London?” Yuta joins the other three, panic evident in his voice.

“Keyword being ‘supposed’,” Tara swallows as she stares at the group with a frown.

“Oh God, what’s wrong with everybody today?” Enzo’s upper lip curls up in disgust “Can’t you at least pretend you’re somewhat happy to see us?”

“Is this about to take an unexpected plot twist that shifts this happy Christmas reunion from romance to horror, because I would appreciate it if you just told me if Mark is cheating on me with someone behind that door instead of giving me all these grievous looks”

“Gosh, no, this is definitely not about that” Johnny steps forward, his tall frame towering over Tara. “We’re very happy to see you, but-” He claims vehemently as he offers her a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite accomplish its purpose.

“It’s just that…” Taeyong manages to interrupt “Mark is not here”

“What?”

“He left at dawn” Yuta explains “He wanted to surprise you, but apparently missed the obvious fact you’d want to do exactly the same.”

Before the news can actually down on them, Enzo turns to Tara with rounded eyes and an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry… this was a terrible-”

“It’s ok. We can still make it back to London on time” Tara says, biting the inside of her cheek.

The suggestion makes Taeyong raise a brow skeptically, but Doyoung doesn’t even bother hiding his exasperation.

“Sorry to break it up to you but the flight to London will take you at least 11 hours” he points out, eyes rolling almost involuntarily.

“Not to mention you won’t possibly be able to book a ticket on Christmas Eve” Someone else objects, peeking through the open door.

“Oh, no, Don’t worry, we have connections” Enzo laughs, brushing the comments off with his signature overconfidence “it’ll take us 3 hours tops”

___________

The 14 hours it took Mark Yang to land in London are probably the most anxiety-inducing hours in his life. Considering he gets to spend most of his time on planes with the bunch of dorks his group mates are, that’s saying a lot. But the flight delay, the terrible weather conditions and the overly sensitive travelers trying to make it home for Christmas are the perfect recipe for disaster.

To complete the already disastrous scenario, Mark’s phone decided Christmas Eve was the perfect time of the year to act up and die on him, so by the time he made it out of the airport, he had to gather all his self-control not to snap at an elderly couple who stole the cab he had hailed. And when he finally managed to get in a taxi and everything seemed like it could finally work, the traffic jam and questionable driving style of the driver —who seemed to be lacking in festive spirit and cussed at everybody who tried to get past them— delayed his arrival two additional hours.

When Mark steps into his 19th-century residence in Kensington, where Tara and he had moved in after their engagement, he’s surprised to recognize he still finds the place oddly unfamiliar. It probably is the little time he has spent in it or the heavy Christmas decorations adorning pretty much every inch of surface, but he can’t help but feel an immense amount of guilt. This was supposed to be his and Tara’s first Christmas together after getting engaged and he truly wanted it to be special, but in between his group and solo promotions, multiple interviews and upcoming projects, he had been less than a stellar fiancé.

It’s snowing outside and it’s so cold his teeth start chattering as he makes his way in, the nostalgic scent of pine and sandalwood mingled with that of gingerbread filling his nostrils.  Tara has never been particularly into Christmas so the fact everything looks so pristine and festive makes Mark wonder how lonely she had been feeling. Feeling guilt shot through his body once again, Mark’s first instinct is to rush to their room upstairs, but when he slams the door open hoping to wake up Tara, he finds out an empty bed. Sure, Tara had made sure new bed linens graced their bed and to place a bottle of champagne on the side table, but there are no traces of Tara.

Mark tours the house simultaneously looking for his fiancée and discovering how big it is, he finds freshly baked gingerbread cookies in the kitchen and watermelon cut in the perfect shape of stars and his heart clenches painfully. He wishes he could’ve prepared something for Tara other than a lame necklace from Tiffany’s.

The man finally walks into their living room and stops in his tracks as he notices two figures curled up on the burgundy couch. It takes Mark a few seconds to recognize the chiseled features of Enzo Saint Pierre, but what he notices right away is the way his arms are firmly wrapped around Tara and her head resting on his shoulder. Mark stands there not knowing what to do next. He could wake them up, but Tara looks like an angel when she’s sleeping, her chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. And even if Enzo can be annoying sometimes, he is pretty sure there’s some reasonable explanation as to why he is sleeping in his home on Christmas Eve.

Mark is about to turn around to find a cover for them when Tara faintly calls his name.

“You’re home” she says groggily, eyes half-open

“T…” Mark mutters, not sure of what to say.

“Am I dreaming?” Tara asks and Mark laughs at that.

“No, I’m home,” he says walking up to her.

“We were waiting for you” Tara whispers. She doesn’t move and her voice is barely audible over the sound of logs blazing the fireplace.

“Doesn’t look like it” Mark jokes, taking the empty spot beside Tara and resting his head against the back of the sofa.

“Don’t be silly Mark Yang,” Enzo speaks, eyes still closed. “We’re just tired after a six-hour round up to New York City, so if you appreciate your life, you better let us sleep.” Enzo moves bit tightening his hold on Tara and resting his chin on her shoulder.

“You did what…?” Mark asks in disbelief. But what sounded like a truly obnoxious lie from Enzo ends up being confirmed by a nod of Tara’s head.

“Enzo thought it’d be a good idea to surprise you, but when we got there the guys told us you were on your way here” Tara chuckles a bit although the actual experience was not as nearly as amusing as the memory is “Poor Taeyong, I’ve never seen him panic so badly, he was pale when he saw us.”

The three of them burst into laughter, but silence follows afterward. Enzo falls back to sleep, Tara drowsily reaches for her fiancé’s hand and Mark looks completely lost in his own wold. And it can’t be otherwise. Even in the simplest of the situations, it appears to Mark that Tara’s existence is the manifestation of every beautiful thing he’s ever witnessed in life and no words would ever be enough for him to describe the wholesome feeling he gets just by staring at her.

“I’m sorry,” He finally breaks the silence, after minutes of looking at her wordlessly. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long” he adds as he pulls her hand to his lips and plants a kiss on her knuckles.

Tara hums something incompressible and then untangles herself from Enzo, moving to straddle Mark and giving him a passionate kiss that takes him completely off guard, but he responds to with the same fervor. He holds her waist, pulling her closer to him and preventing her from moving. It seems like a lifetime since he last kissed her, so he doesn’t let go off her easily.

When they pull away minutes later, gasping for air, they look at each other amused.

Tara holds her boyfriend’s face with both hands and giggles happily. “Merry Christmas, Mark”

“Merry Christmas, my love” Mark is about to dive in for another kiss when Enzo lets out a groan.

“This is not how I was supposed to spend Christmas Eve, you two” he complains throwing a cushion at them.

“Keyword being supposed” Tara repeats once again, before pulling Mark in for yet another kiss.

It is definitely not how Enzo Saint Pierre was supposed to spend Christmas Eve.

***

[lovelyirony]

Bodyguards Aren’t That Bad

Dr. Bruce Banner never thought that he’d actually have a bodyguard. But ever since his last…episode, SHIELD hadn’t given him a wide berth. Oh no, they’d sent in one of their most “capable” agents, Black Widow. Or, as she preferred to be called, Agent Romanoff. When they were in public, Natasha. Bruce Banner, like always, just sort of has to roll with it. Everyone who knows him is on the hunt for him, so Bruce moves from place to place quickly. The longest he ever stayed anywhere was in Oregon for six months, and that was only because the only town that could report sightings of him was six miles away. Then, of course, Ross just happened to find him. Now, however, SHIELD has offered protection from Ross, which basically means they call the shots and claimed dibs. Bruce would rather be controlled by an organization with a history of dealing with masterminds and criminals than Ross, who was very rude and mean, as well as one of the worst men Bruce had ever known in the history of living.

He can tell that Agent Romanoff is scared of him. “You know, I don’t bite,” he says one day. She remains silent and cleans her guns. She makes a show of how much damage she can do. Bruce knows he can do so much worse, and she knows that too. It doesn’t stop her from putting on a show. He does things without meaning to. Kills people, and he has no memory of it. It is sufficient to say that he finds it irritating. He and Agent Romanoff start off in Bangladesh. He speaks some, and so does Agent Romanoff. Bruce mainly focuses on helping little children learn their own alphabet, dress wounds, and he takes care of the sick and dying. 

“You’re fucking Mother Teresa,” she curses in Hindi. 

He replies back fluently, “I don’t fuck older women, Natasha.” He earns his first sort-of smile from the assassin. Which is something big, he likes to think. She hadn’t smiled at him until now.

Natasha likes to watch shitty TV shows, plus X-Files. Bruce kind of has a thing for Scully and a thing for Mulder’s weird as hell theories, so he watches it with her. Natasha makes comments under her breath about Mulder or Scully, and they eventually work up to making sassy commentary out loud. It’s easy, and Bruce finds that he actually enjoys Natasha’s company. But he thinks that she realizes it too, so she goes back to being cold and stony. Bruce is fine with it, because he knows that he isn’t the kind of person people should get along with. Not when he can destroy lives in a millisecond, not when there’s a monstrous personality behind a seemingly calm exterior. Betty has already made her peace with him, and she’s moved on. He can’t say that it doesn’t hurt; he was a pinch away from going into sad-Hulk stage, but barely managed to keep him contained.

Bruce nearly Hulks out in a crowded London. All because of Ross being on his ass and shooting down stores. A kid gets shot in the leg, bright crimson gushing out like paint onto a sidewalk canvas. Bruce can’t stand it, can’t stand the screaming and the mother rushing to help only to get injured again. His skin is tinging green, he’s growing. Nat—Agent Romanoff—grips him by the shoulders, fear bleeding through the cracks in her eyes. “Bruce,” she whispers softly, as if she cares. He can’t help but believe, for a moment, that the spy does. “You can’t hurt all these people around you. Let SHIELD take care of it.” He doesn’t want to let SHIELD take care of it. I can take care of stupid Ross, I can smash him to bits! But he manages to calm down. Manages to force back tears and leave with her.

General Ross gets a standing ovation for trying to contain a threat. After all, civilian casualties happen, don’t they? Natasha silently flips back on an episode where Scully kicks ass (which means Bruce doesn’t know which episode, because she kicks ass in every episode) and makes a wry comment about the really bad special effects. He cracks a broken joke about Mulder and computers. Bruce thinks Natasha understands him a little more.

SHIELD wants him on a mission with Agent Romanoff to get information on something dealing with old KGB lines being in action. Bruce doesn’t really understand. He only understands that he needs a suit and Natasha needs a dress, so they go to a store. A special store that technically isn’t a store but an old SHIELD storage space. Bruce finds a suit that fits him well, a charcoal gray suit with a nice shirt and tie. Natasha goes for a Gatsby feel, and Bruce can’t deny she looks gorgeous. Of course, she has to know this, but Bruce compliments her anyway. 

“You look ready to stab someone,” he blurts out, seeing her put a knife up her dress. (He can’t deny seeing a woman as dangerous as her does something to him.) She smirks, slipping earrings that probably have poison in the jewels or something similar into her ears.

“That’s the point, Bruce.” It’s the first time she’s actually called him by his first name. “Your name is Lukas, my name is Ella. Just stick with that. Also, we’re looking to buy area around here.” Bruce nods, settling on some vintage cufflinks that he feels add to the Gatsby theme they have going on here. Well, that Natasha has going on. Bruce just feels like an awkward date that is only here because she needs a date. He hasn’t gone to any dance since his first homecoming, and that had been a complete disaster. (Two words: Brace. Face.)

The party is extravagant. Bruce can practically feel himself stuffing a twenty dollar bill down his throat as he sips on golden champagne. He knows he shouldn’t, but Natasha says only one glass. It helps sell the part. Lukas and Ella are a couple. She always stays close, smiling at other men. He nods at other women who give him coy glances, disappointed when they see Nat—Ella on his arm. She’s the most beautiful woman out there, and everyone knows it.

Bruce finds Natasha to be most beautiful when her scarlet lips give way to a deadly smirk as she throws her knife with excellent precision. Bruce doesn’t really know what to do, so he sits at the bar and sips on some water. A few frozen, horrified people stand her, watching this woman fight. “And it’s all in five inch heels,” Bruce says casually. “Can you believe my fiancée?” It’s casual enough to make people just stare at him. Bruce shrugs, and Natasha flashes him a wink and says “aw, thanks honey!” Bruce nearly laughs, but instead smiles while drinking his water. Natasha Romanoff is one cool lady.

Bruce finds they play the part of suburban-deadly-couple quite nicely. Once Natasha is done, they drive home to the apartment that SHIELD has them at. Natasha changes out of the gown into an oversized shirt that advertises an eating competition that Barton probably participated in, and some old shorts. Bruce gets out of his tux and into lounge pants and a t-shirt that he’d stolen picked up from an archaeology museum somewhere in South Dakota. Natasha just stares at him for a moment, then grabs the car keys. 

“We’re gonna get food in our pajamas.” Bruce just rolls with it; despite the embarrassment that will be received, he decides to go along with it; it’s not like Natasha is going to be complacent with his decision. Besides, he thinks he deserves a little fast food, and she knows that he doesn’t eat meat anyway.

They go to a gas station and Natasha gets two hotdogs, both for her. One is loaded with mustard, relish, ketchup, and onions. The other has nothing on it. She eats the plain one first. Bruce is content with his slushie, which consists of strawberry and white cherry. They sit in the car, windows up and low music playing. “What do you watch for fun?” Natasha asks first, chomping down the last bit of her plain dog. “Like, on TV.”

“I don’t really watch anything besides X-Files,” Bruce says. “Don’t really have time on the run.”

“Aw bullshit,” Natasha cracks, face still solemn as a mausoleum. “When Barton and I were in Budapest, he managed to fit season two of Dog Cops into his schedule. There has to be something you like.” Bruce shrugs, thinking.

“If it’s on, Creature from the Black Lagoon. An old classic.” Natasha snorts, rolling her eyes.

“That is the shittiest movie on the planet except for—”

“Plan 9 from Outer Space.” They both say it at the same time, and then Bruce looks at her calmly. “Well, this settles it. We have to see it now.” Which means they have to find a DVD of it. This also means that Natasha calls in about six favors to get it delivered in less than two hours.

They’re practically dying within the first ten minutes because holy hell, the movie is just terrible. After that, Bruce and Natasha become better friends. He learns that she likes preparing food when she has time, and he likes going to museums. She teases him about it, and he teases her about it. Says with all her knife-throwing skills, she could either work in the circus or go on TV and be the next Julia Child. Natasha says she could be way better than some chef who enjoys French cooking. “The French aren’t even that good at cooking,” Natasha says with a sniff. “They just have deceptively small portions.”

It can’t last forever, they both know that. The Avengers Initiative comes up, and they have to pretend like they don’t know each other. She’s cold, distant again. Natasha has realized that being friends is dangerous. So does Bruce. Besides, why would someone like her want to be friends with someone like him? Bruce was antisocial, watched old movies, and decided ultimately that cardigans were way better than suit jackets. There was also the fact that he turns into a giant monster who can kill a person in less than five minutes.

The only good thing that comes out of it is the fact that Tony Stark actually treats him like a human being outright, and not like a porcelain gun. Aka, dangerously fragile. He pretends like he and Natasha have never talked about shitty movies. He even calls her Agent Romanoff and she calls him Dr. Banner. Not Dr. B, not Bruce, and definitely not Bannerino. (There was Tequila Night. They’d always have Tequila Night.) Tony distracts him with Science and a pep talk about the Other Guy. Because apparently, Hulk is The Shit. Hulk likes hearing that, and then pronounces Tony “New Best Friend for Life.”

Of course then Loki attacks and Bruce shifts. He looks at Natasha with so much hurt, because dear God, he promised he wouldn’t. Not to her. But here Hulk is anyway, ready to fuck up his entire life. As usual. Hulk goes on a rampage somewhere random. Bruce doesn’t have the energy to try and see where Hulk wants to go. He just sort of lets him. It confuses Hulk, the way Bruce just completely lets go of control. So he crashes through a building and waits. Waits for Dr. Banner to come to and realize what to do, because Hulk sure as hell didn’t know what was going on. He wanted to find Red Hair, who wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Bruce gets on an old jumpsuit and jumps on a motorcycle to go fight crime. It all sounds like it’s from a cheesy B-flick. Bruce sort of gives a laugh at that. He stares at Natasha, who manages to look beautiful even in the heat of a battle. (It is at this precise moment that Bruce realizes he may or may not like Natasha and it’s not just because her hair always smells like cinnamon and she laughs at honestly, seriously shitty science puns, or when the sunlight hits her hair and she could make an eating competition shirt look good.) They exchange words, and Bruce accepts the fact that Hulk is going to do some serious damage. So he lets him come. “Do your worst,” he mutters, watching emerald green shift. He doesn’t look back at Natasha. Too sentimental for a girl like her.

After the initial first battle, Natasha acts like she’s never known anything about him. Acts like she hasn’t seen the scars that mar his back and stomach, and she definitely acts like he never told her anything personal. He supposes that that’s just going to be how it is with her. 

So he tries to forget that he may or may not be in love with her and focus on Science, because Science makes literally anything better. He collects tea samples and goes exploring all over the city with Steve and introduces new cultures to Thor. He and Clint have some of the same humor, and he can always surprise Tony as much as Tony surprises him. Bruce is nice, civil to Natasha. She avoids him.

When Hydra rose up in SHIELD’s ranks, (what the fuck? Seriously?) Bruce knows well enough to lay low. Can’t have the Hulk get bullets bouncing off his skin, even if they tell him Agent Romanoff and Captain Rogers went rogue. Bruce, for one, knows that is a bald-faced lie. But he lays low, but he still texts Natasha. Hope you are safe. Don’t die. He doesn’t expect her to see it, doesn’t expect her to do anything with it. They aren’t exactly friends anymore, he thinks. But then again, it’s Natasha. One of the greatest things about the spy is that you never know what she’ll do. What she’ll act like. It’s also one of the worst things about her. She can stay one night, smile up at you, and call you a cheesy dork who has hair like curly fries, and the next morning she’s gone for a week and acts as if you shouldn’t be worried.

She calls him, and it’s silent. No gunfire. “What do you want to talk about?” Bruce asks calmly, and he hates himself a little more, that he can just forgive her like that. Love, stupid. He hushes that side up. There’s not a need for that thought to come out when no one could love such a colossal fuck-up.

“Don’t go anywhere. Don’t do anything. Just stay safe in Stark Tower, alright Bruce?” Her voice is blank, emotionless. She hangs up before Bruce can answer. He sighs at her stupidity, knowing that she knows more than he does. So he stays in the lab, arming himself with the knowledge that there’s not much Hydra can do to him. Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey eventually come down to the lab and say that they need to get to a safe house, because there’s a storm coming that could result in death. Bruce nearly laughs, because they’ve been over it. The Other Guy spit it out. He’s itching to help Natasha, even if it is just to talk. He knows she probably has it handled, what with Steve and a new guy taking Hydra down. So he waits. Because maybe she’ll come back. She has shown that she cares.

Three helicarriers fall to the ocean or on buildings. It brought Hydra down, and the people probably don’t even know that. Bruce walks right out, not even caring if Ross is there for political reasons. He needs to make sure Natasha is alright. He saw the footage of the Winter Soldier. His arm is…breathtaking. Even if he doesn’t work in engineering like Tony does, he knows that hasn’t been a possibility for a prosthetic. It acts almost like a real arm, except for the part where it can rip car doors off like they’re pieces of paper. Tony has already gotten footage and is trying to figure out how it works.

Natasha is in a medical wing, getting medical care. Most agents don’t even bat an eye as he walks in. He’s still wearing a lab coat and glasses, and they just assume he’s medical help. Bruce thinks Natasha still looks beautiful. Her eyes are wide with disbelief at the situation, and she’s trying to process the information. “Natasha,” he whispers, and her head snaps up. She looks at him with…relief. “You’re safe,” he says, swallowing what appears to be a sob.

“So are you,” Natasha says, not a hint of relief in her voice. But Bruce knows it’s there. “I get to receive new covers. What do you think of Dana Anderson? Or Gillian Scully?”

“Both, both is good,” Bruce says dryly. Natasha gives him a small smile. “Finally got around to watching Road to El Dorado. It didn’t disappoint, Natasha.” For now, Bruce won’t mention the attacks, the accusations, or the fact that she dumped every piece of information out on the internet for everyone to see. Tony’s cleaning up as much as he can, but there’s a load of information that will always be in the public spot. Mainly, Tony is focusing on personal details of his friends, Agent Hill, and Agent Coulson. Interestingly enough, there are little details on Fury besides something you could find with a basic hack. It feels bitter.

They talk for a while, and both deliberately avoid talking about the recent events. Until Natasha gets to staring at something that looks like it’s a thousand yards away. So Bruce carefully starts talking about a scientific advancement, waiting for Natasha to get out of her stare. She slowly stares back at him, more emotion in her eyes than he thought possible. “Bruce?” She sounds so…broken. She sounds like him. He looks at her, smiling sadly. “I…I knew him. Winter Soldier.” She sobs as he takes her, holding her. Bruce doesn’t say anything as she tells him about her first love. How she might still love him, even though he tried to kill her. Bruce doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even think about how he loves her more than anyone else in the world. He just holds her.

Of course, Natasha builds back up her emotional wall, tears being dried up and her face becoming solemn. “Thank you, Bruce.” He smiles, and he doesn’t know what she’s thinking of right now, but he has the feeling that she needs to be alone. No one to coddle her, tell her what emotions are right and wrong to feel.

“Call me if you need anything like food or shelter, alright Tasha?” He doesn’t mean to call her that stupid nickname that he thinks about. He thinks Tasha fits her, but maybe she doesn’t like nicknames.

Her eyes spark like electricity at the nickname. “Alright Bruce. Thanks.” At least he knows the nickname is accepted. So he doesn’t have to worry about being killed by Black Widow tonight. Or being killed by Natasha.

They text often. Natasha sends him funny pictures of cats and dogs, and he sends back truly terrible puns. They talk about his work, some of her work. She calls him with emotions catching her throat and just talks. About how Steve keeps searching for Winter Soldier, who is Bucky Barnes, un-fucking-believable, and the new guy, Sam Wilson. Bruce gets the feeling he’s not supposed to hear this, but he still listens. He doesn’t ask her to justify her thoughts, he doesn’t ask her if it’s classified. He lets her talk. Bruce and Natasha go out sometimes, on walks. He drives to a secluded forest, and they hike. She brings granola bars that have dark chocolate and raspberries in them, and Bruce brings tea and water. Sometimes, they sit at the bank of a little river on the rocks, just talking about life. Bruce tells her all about Betty, how he thought that he loved her because she accepted the Hulk as an aspect of Bruce, not the whole story. How Ross is a piece of shit. Natasha sometimes reveals times in her life when things weren’t fucked up all the way. How she used to buy little penny flowers as a child, how her mother used to sing to her and Natasha would dance like a ballerina.

Eventually, they sort of have a thing. Natasha and Bruce always act like they’re in those shitty B-flick cop movies. “My friend left me,” Natasha says, using a chopstick as a long cigarette, puffing out imaginary smoke. “Not sure where his head is at, he’s so down about himself.” Bruce is in a shitty mood about himself.

“Well that sounds terrible,” he says dryly, using a beaker of hydrochloric acid as a flute of champagne that he doesn’t drink. “What would you do to cheer him up?” She grins victoriously, holding up her phone.

“Lots of mozzarella sticks.”

They eat at an Applebee’s. There are sports games going on, and Bruce doesn’t really understand a lot of sports, but he likes looking at men and women yell at the TV. Natasha does too. She sips on her wine, and Bruce gets some sort of fruity tea. It tastes alright. They flirt the night away, Natasha going for more daring lines. Bruce just looks at her. And realizes that he’s fallen hard, and he’s still falling. There will always be cold concrete at the bottom, but for now, Bruce will continue to fall.

When Tony has his party and they’re all laughing, and Natasha and Bruce still flirt. Steve tells Bruce not to waste his time, go after the girl. Bruce wants to laugh in his face and say that he’s already done that. It’s not the worst thing you can do in life. But God, it can be.

Ultron probably caused all of this. Seriously, it sucks. Ultron was Tony’s original brainchild for scientific development and protection of the whole world. Tony won’t tell Bruce what he saw, only Bruce thinks it was something that had to do with space. Because he comes out at the party, all strings and power. Bruce can safely say he has almost never seen anything more bone chilling. And, of course, Bruce helped create some of it.

This means Bruce’s self-esteem (what self-esteem?) goes down by a lot of points, which Bruce didn’t even know it could do because by now it’s all negative, and Natasha won’t look at him either, suffering a dream of her own. (It could be a memory.) Their team is broken. Bruce is huddled with a blanket and they need to go somewhere. Barton is flying the jet, the only one unaffected by whatever shitstorm the weird girl decided to pull. He’s the only one. Thor keeps muttering phrases, obviously coming to terms with his dream. Tony just stares at his hands, then looks brokenly at Steve. Natasha is tight-lipped about her situation, but she’s battle-ready.

It’s a house. Out in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest. It’s a well-maintained house, yet worn. It’s all alone, a pile of chopped firewood set neatly to the side. Clint’s shoulders drop, and so do Natasha’s. So, they know what this is.

Clint has children and a wife. Bruce is somewhat bitter over this fact, that a former mercenary and assassin has children and a wife, plus a dog. Named Lucky. Natasha colors with the kids, teasing them as they call her “Auntie Nat.” Cooper Barton is all smarts, Clint joking that he got none of it from his old man. Bruce smiles as Cooper asks upfront about Hulk’s pants. Bruce says that Tony invented a polymer, and then carefully directs Cooper more towards Tony. Bruce should not be the one handling children. He’s bad with social interaction and kids; most are afraid of him. Cooper, Lila, and Clint’s wife all look at Bruce as if he’s just a person. Only Tony does that, and sometimes Natasha if she’s just hanging out with Bruce as they go to Target and make fun of children’s toys and off-brand food.

He and Natasha have a talk. She looks so domestic in the bathrobe. She wanted to join him in the shower. He can’t give her children. She can’t bear them. Both don’t mind. He falls asleep to the scent of lilac shampoo and the sound of soft breathing. It’s nothing he’s ever had. Not even in the beginning of his life. It’s nice, too nice for Bruce to have. Monsters don’t get nice things or nice people. They get to go through hell and beaten up by the bad guys. But maybe…just maybe.

She says that she adores him. Then pushes him into a pit. Which basically sums up his love life. But he hears her whisper. “I need the Other Guy.” So Bruce will be there, and so will Hulk. Ready to do whatever it takes to help save the day again. Bruce just lets Hulk take the reins for once. Right now, he’s miffed at Natasha for dismissing him so quickly. Kissing the living daylights out of him, making him feel like he could rule the world, and then triggering the Hulk to appear. But it’s Natasha. So he will do her will. Because she’s his teammate. And he’s hopelessly in love with her, but still.

He ends up somewhere with Thor. Bruce wants to sob, because he knew it. He fucking knew it. Monsters don’t get love. They get anguish and rage and pain.