#christmas is echoes of a time you can never return to and yearning for something long dead

[mecharose]

to me halloween is the fun and sparkly holiday and christmas is haunted. do you get it

[extremelyblackandwhite]

innocence - 25

PAIRING: bodyguard!bucky barnes x innocent actress!reader

WARNINGS: smut (18+)

A/N: me to me “you shall not write smut. BEHAVE” also me “mILE HIGH CLUB”. 2021 barely started and i already need jesus. also rip me attempting to post this before christmas but hey i refuse to let christmas end bc christmas is my only hope and love and it’s over.

NEXT CHAPTER

Bucky was the first one up as the clock struck 5AM. He was anxious for the flight, for everything really. Y/N had assured him she had bought first class tickets so he’d be comfortable with the long trip but he was still reticent about flying. As an Avenger he used to do national missions, preferring not to fly as it brought him some memories he didn’t like to relieve. Sam had suggested he took some sleeping pills while the flight was going but Bucky refused not to be there to support Y/N who’d been getting called by her team 24/7 about her “mishap” as her manager like to refer to. As if a 20-something dating was something weird. Bucky knew Steve did way worse things than that but of course, she had stepped off the line, off the good girl, virgin ‘til marriage, girl next door yet just gorgeously unattainable and if Y/N hadn’t told him to stay out of it, he would’ve threatened everyone.

Anyway, other than flying he kept wondering about her family. Y/N had a big family, at least more family than he had and he wasn’t entirely sure how they would react to him. Bucky knew he wasn’t the type of man you’d like your daughter to bring in. Who’d want to say that their daughter was dating an assassin? No one. He had wanted to say no, he wanted her to have a nice holiday but looking at her there was no denying her. 

Y/N woke up half an hour later, extending her arm towards Bucky’s side only to feel the cold of the sheets on her side. She rose her torso, rubbing the sleep off her eyes before the blurry room became clear. He was sat on the big armchair, staring at the flight tickets.

     - Someone’s an early bird. - she leaned on the bed, hands under her chin as he gave her his charming smile. - Excited?

     - Nervous. - he rose from his chair to kiss her forehead. - Do you need anything, princess?

     - Just need to get dressed. - she lazily got up from her bed. - You’re gonna love it, Buck. There’s snow on the ground, we can get spiced mulled tea and go see the decorations at the West End. 

     - I’m sure I will. Now get dressed unless you plan on going to the airport in your underwear.

     - I don’t see you complaining. - she flirted, hips moving side to side as she opened his wardrobe to grab her burgundy long sleeve dress and pair of black flats. Bucky tried his best not to ogle at her and her figure in a matching black set of star motif bra and panties with garters to see through black stockings. Sometimes he had to slap himself to convince himself the woman standing in front of him actually liked him. - You’re okay with going, right?

      - Of course, princess. Whatever makes you happy.

      - Okay but what makes you happy? We don’t need to go if you don’t feel comfortable. 

      - Just regular meeting the parents nerves. - he pulled her hair away from her face to kiss her forehead. 

      - Based on the photos Rebecca has, I would say you’ve met enough parents not to be nervous anymore. 

      - Come here, you little minx. - he wrapped his arms around her waist pulling her in close to him. - I will have you know that I never met any of the girls’ parents. It was not a good thing for a lady to be seen alone with a man in my time, so we had to keep it a secret.

      - Mhm, were you destroying ladies’ reputations in your day, Mr. Barnes? Is that it?

      - Not my fault they couldn’t resist me. - he leaned down to kiss her but she turned her face away, naughty smile on her lips. - Don’t do that to me, princess. It’ll break my tiny heart.

      - Stop playing Romeo and grab your bags before we’re late. - she swung her hips side to side to grab her own cary on, a small matte black suitcase with her initials on the bottom left in a small size. 

Bucky followed her into the airport. He couldn’t seriously remember the last time he had been in an airport, maybe during his youth but right now everything seemed so different yet he didn’t feel scared. He looked to his right and there she was, holding his hand as the other pulled her trolley, dark sunglasses on to hide who she was but still sporting that smile that was truly hers, something he could pick out of a crowd. He never really liked the word or feeling of possession, neither did she, but they didn’t really mind the feeling that a ship’s rope held both their hands together in a nautical strong knot. It was that sort of feeling that disconnected them both from what surrounded them, the sound of echoed and at the same time murmured silence. Y/N didn’t mind, Bucky didn’t mind. The flashlights went by dim and the announcements went mute for both of them.

Y/N however did not like airports. For her, airports signified goodbyes, harmful and painful goodbyes those were you wave goodbye to your loved ones and walk into security checks with tears lodged in her throat, telling herself to put herself together as she approached the beginning of that line. It represented waving goodbye to her comforts to travel somewhere she was not happy, not that her life in the US after she left the UK didn’t made her happy, it did but it was a faux happiness. It was locked inside a bought apartment with people who didn’t or refused to understand her, with friends she loved and cared for but didn’t really check on her them too lost on their own lives, it was yearning for a love that took years to come and everyone told her it would come but never did. It was an odd feeling being at the airport but being with Bucky twisted that. It was no longer leaving loved ones, it was departing with them, it was leaving all the mess that haunted her behind yet she couldn’t help feeling like something lingered in the wind, some cut throating emotions and actions which would return to her. 

She decided not to dwell on it, smiling at Bucky as he picked some snacks to bring inside the plane besides her telling him they probably would have the peanut M&Ms rather than his beloved chocolate only ones. She watched him as someone watched something that reminded them of a childhood memory or something that touched them, with a tinge of sadness, almost knowing it would never happen again. She felt tied to him but she felt at any time this knot could worn out and she feared he would leave. Things fade, nothing lasts forever and she wondered when he would realise that he was dating a ticking time bomb controlled by others. She had control over her own heart but her face, her reputation, that would never be hers to control. 

     - Y/N? - he laid his hand on top of her shoulder. - Are you okay, princess?

     - Yeah, just thinking. - she handed the lady the tickets, holding Bucky’s hand as he led her inside the airplane.

Y/N was lucky to be used to first class, she spent in life in it but for Bucky it was a jarring new experience. His parents used to be well off, better than most however they were never well enough to afford flying anywhere. The closest he’d been to flying was in military helicopters but all his experience to commercial flying had been watching on magazines but even this looked so different. It looked like a perfect first class bedroom in a five star hotel with individual little places for each passenger and some for couples which he guessed was one for the two of them. As they approached their cabin, a polished dressed lady signalled them inside their own seats. She looked at Bucky who had star filled eyes as he noticed all the comfort of his seat.

    - Is this how you travel? - he sat down by the window, looking at the small bottles of water, juices and fun sized treats. - Now I know why you travel so much. It’s like a damn hotel room here. 

    - Peanut M&M’s. - she grabbed one of the snacks from his side. - I believe you’ll be donating those to me. 

    - That’s a travesty, princess. I cannot believe you prefer those with peanuts

    - Peanuts are great. 

    - Unless you’re allergic to them.

    - You’re not allergic to peanuts. Steve would’ve told me if you were and I saw you eat a peanut energy bar yesterday. - she crossed her arms. 

    - First, I hate peanuts so it’s almost as if I were allergic to them. Second, KIND bars don’t count, you know how good they are, they add that little caramel drizzle.

    - I guess we’re gonna have more than my nephews and nieces for a picky eater this Christmas. - she laughed, picking the remote to shuffle through whatever the company offered. Bucky leaned on her shoulder, leaving a kiss on it right before he did. - Thank you for coming with me. 

   - That’s not a problem, princess. Besides, who would guard you if I were not to come?

   - Is this overtime then, Mr. Barnes? - she looked down at him, his childish yet charming smile whenever he meant to tease her which he so easily could do both meanings of the word. - We should prepare for take off. 

It couldn’t be too different from take off in the quinjet. Bucky had done it once after the train incident but it always brought him back to it. He wasn’t like this and it pained him that the slightest of turbulences in any travels now made him feel like a kid. He didn’t use to be like this, he was fearless, going on the Cyclone time and time again and now ... now he was a shell of a man afraid of take off. He shouldn’t be afraid, it was not his role, right? He knew things were different then and were different now but he always wanted to be strong, strong for her as if any insecurity would throw her away. He knew it didn’t, Bucky knew Y/N was there to stick around and didn’t care about what the war and HYDRA had done to him but he cared. Bucky wanted to be her hero, her safe harbour and with this ... 

His mind shattered into snowflakes as she held his hand, the captain’s voice muffled as the plane gathered speech. Y/N never hand cold hands or a cold touch, she was just warm, a little ray of sunshine burning his icy exterior and forcing him to see the beauty of winter. Bucky clearly mostly got distracted by her own beauty but her holding his hand, the rings on her fingers which she had gathered from little shops along the street against his hand, made him want to remove the dagger he had stuck on himself so he could feel pain forevermore. 

The plane move upwards, both of them being pulled against their seats by the laws of physics on an endless climb and he still had his eyes closed, finding comfort in the darkness. 

    - Buck. - her finger caressed his jaw. - Look out the window. 

Bucky peaked open one of his eyes, looking out the window near him to see a full blue sky, completely different from the dark skies of the winter filled New York they had just left.

   - We fly above the clouds. Isn’t it beautiful? - she leaned against his shoulder. 

   - You see this everytime?

   - Unless I’m flying at night, yeah. Sunsets and risings are particularly stunning. 

   - Now what?

   - Now we wait for round 6 to 7 hours. We can put a movie on, maybe. Whatever you’d like.

Bucky took to shuffling through the movie catalogue himself. Some of the movies he’d never heard about and some he’d heard from Sam or from Steve’s list of movies he had to watch yet he never did. Capitan America himself stuck to the old classics, the movies they used to sneak through the backdoor of the theatre. He himself liked the classics too and Y/N, as a film/acting major herself, also had a soft spot for them. Bucky’s favourite was the Wizard of Oz, despite later knowing how controversial filming had been, yet he couldn’t help but always remember the wonder on his sister’s face and his own wonder as he watched the vivid colours. He could still feel it now, however the movie ended and soon the food came in and he found himself bored. There wasn’t much he could do on a plane and he found himself jealous of the 5 year old running up and down the cabin, despite most of Y/N’s laughter. 

He covered himself in the company’s blanket and snuggled against the pillow and still he couldn’t sleep. Y/N on the other hand had fallen asleep the moment she pulled the leg rest, wrapped around in her blanket, face facing his which gave Bucky the excuse to look at her while she slept. Bucky always found it wildly amusing how she slept, lips slightly puckered, eyes fluttering until she fell in deep and hands fisting the blanket up to her chin. Eventually, Bucky got frustrated, moving around in his seat to find a comfortable position. How come he couldn’t find a comfortable position on a first class seat?

    - Buck ... - she groaned, opening her eyes. - Stop moving around. 

    - I’m sorry, princess. I’m just ... so bored. How do you do this?

    - I sleep. - she placed the blanket on her lap. - Why don’t you get something else to eat?

    - How many hours left?

    - You don’t wanna know. - she rubbed the sleep of her eyes, Bucky still laid against his seat, blanket on his lap, head against the head rest. Y/N started thinking about how to entertain him until her gaze fell onto his lap. Looking around the cabin was quiet, no cabin crew or passengers on their feet, just a calm cabin. 

She moved closer to him, head against her shoulder, facade of a glistening angel on a renaissance painting. Her fingers traced the soft finish of his blanket, the embodied company name until her fingers were under the soft fabric. She slide her hand under his shirt, feeling his warm skin as her hand travelled downwards towards the Hugo Boss boxers he wore, fingers hooking on the waistband. Bucky swallowed dry, wondering if he had finally gone to sleep and this was finally a good dream or if his sweet, innocent girlfriend was actually about to do what his mind was rushing to as her fingers wrapped around his softened member. He grunted, looking at her like she was a fever dream, hips mindlessly thrusting into her soft warm hand. He would say there was no better feeling, had it not been for the fact he had been inside of her. 

Y/N bite her lip, insecurely swiping her thumb over the tip, his pre cum dripping onto it. She didn’t know what she was doing, mostly going by the erotica she had read and seen before, guiding herself by his low sounds, mumbled by his own hand which laid against his own mouth. She looked up at him, cerulean eyes looking at the ceiling as if all his strength would break loose were he to look at her and she thought that was the most gorgeous he’d look. She straight herself up, pushing his hand away from his mouth to start kissing him, something which would look rather innocent to anyone who passed by. Her kiss was warm, hot and sinful, much more different than the shy ones she would lay on him each morning yet he guessed it matched with her movements, fast and tighter against his cock. He tried to remain still, allow her to do what she wanted to do but his body had a different idea, hips thrusting and gyrating against her hand like some idiot teenager as her mouth lowered to kiss his pulse point. His breathe quickened, coming into staccatto as her movement quickened. The environment was blurry and all he could think about and hear were her movements and his body shuddering until he was spurting thick ropes of white liquid onto her hand and his breathe came out knocked as if he had finished a race. 

She cleaned her palm with a tissue, bringing her fingers up to her cherry tinted lips from her chapstick, disappearing within the plumpness of them. He swore he could cum again just from that sight. As he tried to regain his breathe from the latter event, she gave him a shy smile, pushing her blanket up to her chin. Whatever she did to him, whatever release she had given him had made him comfortable enough on that cloud nine that sent him into sleeping, only awaking once the plane wheels hit British soil. 

It was dark, around 9PM the captain had said and Bucky himself thought the trip was over until both of them disembarked onto the airport which was a completely different world. Had it not been by Y/N’s unwillingness to spend more time in an airport, he would’ve possibly stood behind taking pictures yet once she spotted a man with a sheet with her name written in, she had his hand on hers and dragged him up to it.

Bucky had been in London, he remembered it from the war and some buildings were the same yet everything was brighter. His eyes shone against the decorations, wondering how bigger they could get and Y/N took great pleasure in seeing him so happy. All she wanted was to make him happy, all she wanted was to see him happy. The taxi driver stopped in front of her childhood home which gladly always seemed to look the same with christmas lights and garlands. Both of them step out the car and the nerves finally hit Bucky. How do you meet someone’s parents? How do you meet the person who just gave you a handjob’s parents and make a good impression? How could he make a good impression? He was a hundred year old never aging man with a metal arm dating the little rose that everyone put on an altar. He didn’t belong. Maybe he could stop her, maybe he could convince her not to ring the bell except she was already ringing the bell and the door was opening up.

A short woman in a white jumper and jeans opened the door. She had Y/N’s eyes, the same eyes Bucky would recognise anywhere and based by the tight hug she gave Y/N, he would guess she was his mother.

   - Mum, this is Bucky. - she held Bucky’s hand. What should he do? Should he wave?

   - Oh my, you’re tall. I thought that with a nickname like that you’d be small. Oh, here I am again rambling. We are so happy here, you know, you’re the first man Y/N brings home.

   - Mum!

   - What? It’s true. You’re my oldest child and only now have you brought a man. Aunt Petunia is really proud of you.

   - Mum!

   - Come in, Bucky. Can I call you Bucky? Come meet the family.

taglist: @disasterbii​ @lookiamtrying​ @buckysteveloki-me​ @americasass81​ @jamesbarnesappreciationclub​ @lostinthebeans​ @mariahthelioness29​ @buckyandsebastian​ @peaches-roses-sins​ @theadorasabditory​ @sipsteacasually​ @saiyanprincessswanie​ @booktease21​ @noiralei​ @learisa​ @everythingisoverratedbutgreat​ @uglipotata72829​ @naturalthrone22​ @husherstan​ @mandiiblanche​ @vicmc624​ @newyorkgoddess​ @itsallyscorner​ @chipilerendi​ @emzd34​ @writerwrites​ @bluevxnus​ @that-girl-named-alex​ @captnrogers​ @nsfwsebbie​ @sarge-barnes-sir​

[natrogersfics]

After All - Chapter 4/5

Cover art by @faith2nyc​ Read on AO3

The clock on her nightstand is a minute short from ringing, but Natasha is already leaning over to kill the alarm. With a sigh, she rolls onto her back. The first vestiges of morning light stream through the liminal space between the curtains, filling the room, but unlike most days, the brightness does not bother her – she’d woken up long before these signs of the new day. It’s the height of irony that on one of the few occasions where Isabel had slept through the night, she’s the one who had restlessly stared into the dark. But as she’s reminded of the thoughts that kept her up all night, she’s not sure if sleeping was ever really in the cards.

Back when she was pregnant with Isabel and things between her and Steve seemed like it was heading in the right direction, she had let herself envision what their days as a family might be like. They’d do the most mundane of things, but they’d end up becoming extraordinary memories anyway because they’d laugh and have a wonderful time doing them. Yesterday had felt exactly like that. From decorating Christmas cookies to watching Isabel giggle and run around the park, it’s as if the day had been pulled directly from her dreams, and it was one she never wanted to wake up from. For there, in the tiny seat in front of the workstation in Hela’s Cookie Boutique, with Steve next to her and their daughter on cloud nine as she dipped their cookies in sprinkles of every color imaginable, she’d never felt so whole.

But it’s not the perfection of yesterday or even the fact that it hadn’t lasted that kept her up all night. It’s that at some point, she thought that perhaps she wasn’t the only one wishing that it wouldn’t end. She can’t pinpoint the exact moment she began to think it, it might have been as she and Steve worked to rid Isabel’s face of all the icing without having to say a word, or maybe as they realized on that park bench that they were both head over heels for the wonderful human being they had brought to life together. It might have even been on the cab ride back home to her flat where their hands had met and neither of them had bothered to let go, their fingers intertwining like two pieces built for the other. Either way, as the three of them walked up the steps to her front door, there was a part of her that was starting to believe that maybe she had read everything that had happened between her and Steve in the last couple of years all wrong.

Of course, the possibility that she was the only one caught up in yesterday’s glimpse of what could be is completely plausible – it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. But if she’s certain of one thing, it’s that something definitely changed. Sometime after their cab ride, the smile on Steve’s face had fallen, and it’s as if the progress they’d made since he arrived had all been erased as he reneged on her dinner invitation. What had catalyzed it, she couldn’t tell, and it’s that question that had prevented her from falling asleep. He had mentioned something about ironing out an issue with the gallery, but for the life of her, there wasn’t a fiber in her being that bought it. And though she knew she could have easily gotten confirmation with a single text to Pepper, she just couldn’t bring herself to pick up her phone. 

Before she can begin to ponder the reason, though, the real signal to the start of her day comes through the baby monitor as she hears Isabel whimper, and with a sigh, she throws the comforter off of her as she rises to her feet.

By the time she’s had coffee and she and Isabel are seated on the living room floor putting the finishing touches on some stockings, she makes a resolution not to jump to any conclusions. When Steve had texted her weeks ago asking if they could talk, she had panicked, and it turned out to be for nothing. Maybe this time, she’d ought not to fret before there’s a reason to. If Steve said that he had a work problem, then perhaps that’s really all there is to it.

“Izzie,” she says, reaching for a blank stocking and the bag filled with felt letters just as Isabel turns to her. “Come help me decorate this one.”

The doorbell rings later that afternoon just as she fastens the brooch on her hair, and with a final glance at the mirror, she makes her way towards the front door. She pulls it open, finding Steve standing on the other side, his eyes on the phone in his hand. “Hey.”

Steve looks up at her greeting, his brow ticking up when he sees her. “Hey,” he echoes back, putting his phone away. “You, um… you look nice.”

“Oh,” she says, tucking a loose tendril of hair behind her ear as she gives the creme colored cocktail dress she had selected for the day a once-over. “Thanks.” She opens the door wider to let him in, calling out to Isabel over her shoulder before turning back to him. “Everything sorted out with the gallery?” 

“Yes,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets as he makes it a few steps into her foyer.

“Good, that’s good,” she says a beat later when he does not elaborate further, letting her lips quirk as she adds, “they’re lucky you used to be a tactician, huh?”

He only shrugs at her quip, and she tries not to grimace as she watches him look everywhere but at her, the feeling of unease that had fallen over them last night returning. But before she can say anything more, they hear the pitter pattering of feet against the hardwood, and she catches the way Steve’s entire demeanor shifts as he bends down, his face breaking out into a smile.

“Dada!” Isabel squeals.

Steve feigns a groan as Isabel all but launches herself into his arms, giggling as he lifts her up. “Hi fig,” he says, kissing Isabel’s cheek and eyeing the item between her hands. “What do we have here?”

Isabel pushes the stocking towards him. “Yours!”

From where she stands leaning against the doorknob, she watches as Steve takes the stocking with his free hand, his eyes scanning over the letters spelling out his name that she had stitched onto the front. She grins. “We thought since you’re spending Christmas here, you should have a stocking on the mantel, too.”

“Look, Dada!” Isabel says, pointing to the bright yellow sequins that she had insisted on adding. “Spaw-kles!”

“Obviously, the sparkles were her idea,” she explains, catching the way Steve’s lips pull up in a smile.

“I love it,” he tells Isabel, who proceeds to wrap her arms around his neck. “Thank you for the sparkles.” He dusts a kiss to Isabel’s temple before looking her way. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she says softly, mustering a smile.

Silence falls over them for a moment before he clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes falling to her ensemble. “I don’t think I ever got around to asking where you were going.”

“Oh,” she says, shifting on her feet. “Actually, I’m-”

“Look at you!”

Upon hearing the expression, she looks behind her to see Loki, dressed sharply in a navy suit and a baby blue button-up, walking up the steps to her front door. “Oh, hey.”

“You look beautiful, darling,” Loki says, smiling as he leans down to kiss her cheek.

She blinks up at him. “You’re early.”

“I realize that, but I thought maybe you- oh.” As Loki’s gaze falls behind her, his expression fills with genuine surprise. “Oh, pardon me,” Loki says, stepping inside to offer Steve his hand and Isabel a wave. “Pleasure to see you again, Steve. All is well with work, I hope?”

“It is,” Steve says, shaking Loki’s hand.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Loki says. “I thought maybe Natasha might need help getting Isabel’s shoes on. It’s been quite a struggle recently.”

“I was able to bribe her with a cookie,” she finds herself saying, and though she’s not sure why, her voice comes out barely above a whisper.

“You weren’t,” Steve says as if she hadn’t uttered a word, his eyes on Loki. “We were actually just about to leave.” He sets Isabel down on her feet. “Why don’t you say bye to momma?”

As Isabel walks over to her, she bends down to wrap her arms around her. “Have fun, baby girl,” she says, squeezing Isabel tightly. “I love you.” 

Steve already has the baby bag slung over his shoulder and the folded stroller in hand by the time she lets Isabel go. “Let me know if you need me to keep her out a few extra hours,” he says, gesturing for Isabel to take his other hand.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” she says, her eyebrows furrowing.

“Well, if that changes, just let me know,” he says, his gaze going from her and then to Loki before she can get another word in. “Have a nice time.” 

“Thank you,” Loki says, nodding politely.

She follows Steve and Isabel out the door, stopping at the top of the stairs as she watches them carefully make it down one step at a time. “Take care,” she murmurs as they begin to walk down the block, smiling as Isabel looks back to wave at her. 

Loki’s lips tug up as she walks back inside. “Shall we?”

“Sure,” she says, “let me just get my purse.” She makes her way over to the credenza on her right, reaching out to retrieve her clutch, only for her hand to freeze midway at the sight of Steve’s stocking lying face down next to it.

“Natasha?” she hears a beat later, and she looks back to see Loki’s head cocked to the side, his eyes filled with concern as he stares at her. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she says, blinking once before more convincingly adding, “yes.” She quickly reaches for her clutch before smiling. “Let’s go.”

The streets blur by her window as she sits in the passenger seat of Loki’s car, her thoughts a million miles away. This morning, she had told herself that she was overthinking last night’s events. But after seeing how clipped Steve had been in her foyer only moments ago, she knows now that her worries are not unfounded. She knows Steve, knows that his mood just doesn’t swing that quickly, and she wishes desperately that she could know what’s causing it. But, more importantly, it hurts her to know that she’s lost the ability to read him. How she yearns for the days where he was an open book to her, and now she can’t even tell which way the wind blows with him.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” Loki says, breaking her out of her reverie as he reaches over to put a hand on her knee.

“Of course,” she says, watching the way a smile forms on his lips as he keeps his eyes on the road. “I promised you I would, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he confirms. “But I know these charity events can get quite perfunctory, which is why I promise you can get anything you’d like at the bar.”

She chuckles, placing a hand on top of his. “It’s for a good cause,” she says, to which he nods in agreement. “Though I won’t say no to free drinks.”  

The cocktails she had at the gala are still buzzing faintly in her veins when she walks into her flat later that night with her heels in hand. While Loki was right in predicting that such events could get dull and repetitive, it’s still far from the worst afternoon she’s had. In fact, she has to admit that she enjoyed the last few hours. She didn’t care much for the people flashing their checkbooks, waiting for applause as they flaunted their allegedly innate philanthropy, but knowing that the money raised is being put towards research that could save lives is plenty comforting.

So, too, was seeing Loki in his element. While she’s dropped by the hospital once or twice to grab lunch with him, she’s never actually seen him in action. But with some of his patients in attendance today, she was able to see firsthand how caring he is towards them. She didn’t keep count, but she’s certain that not only did he know each and every one of their names off the top of his head, but also those of their parents. Further sweetening the deal was the fact that his colleagues are a kind and lively group, reminding her so much of the dynamic she had back when she worked with her friends at The Daily. But while Loki and his team could definitely throw down on the dance floor, she doubts they could dethrone a certain bunch somewhere in Midtown Manhattan. She smiles at the thought, and in spite of the nostalgia this day invoked in her, she’s grateful that she had decided to come along.

A door clicks closed just as she pads into her living room, and she looks to the side in time to see Steve emerge from the hallway. “Hey,” he says when he sees her, walking over to the lounger to pick up his coat. “You just missed her.”

“I’ll kiss her goodnight in a bit,” she says. “Did you two have a nice day?”

He nods, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “You?”

“I did,” she says. “It was nice to get a glimpse of what Loki does.” She smiles softly. “He and his coworkers… they reminded me of when we used to work at The Daily.”

“When you used to work at The Daily, you mean,” he says, his tone wry. “Because I still do.”

Her expression falls. “Okay, what is your problem?” she says, the words coming out more hotly than she’d intended, but what remorse she felt is immediately erased when he responds with a scoff. “You know what? Ever since yesterday you’ve been acting mercurial. If I did something, just tell me, because I haven’t a clue-”

“Oh, you haven’t a clue?” he spits out, chuckling humorlessly and prompting her to glare at him. “Sure, okay.”

“I haven’t!” she says, louder this time, and she pauses to collect herself as they both glance towards the hallway to make sure her outburst hadn’t roused Isabel. When they don’t hear anything, she turns back to him, her voice an octave lower. “But obviously you do, so why don’t you enlighten me?”

If the incredulous stare he gives her is supposed to be a clue, it goes right over her head, only bringing her frustration to a rolling boil. As she lets out an exasperated sigh, he shakes his head. “You know what? Forget it. I never should have come.”

“Are you kidding me?” she says as she follows him down the foyer. “You’re the one who asked to come here in the first place!”

“And now I’m saying it was a mistake,” he says, turning back to her. She takes a step back at that, her eyes narrowing. He sighs. “I’ll drop off Izzie’s gifts tomorrow so she can open it on Christmas morning… But the next time I’ll be back is to take her home to New York with me like we agreed in our contract.”

Her shoulders coil at his words, but as she looks at him to see his jaw set and his eyes anywhere else but on her, she can only give him a curt nod. “I think that’s for the best,” she says, her voice dangerously low.

Wordlessly, he turns away, making it out the door without another glance back at her. She watches as the door swings shut behind him, exhaling at the resounding click that follows as she stands frozen in place. It’s only when her vision blurs that she realizes her eyes have filled with tears, leaving a warm stream down her cheeks as they fall. 

The scotch burns a hot stripe down Steve’s throat as he takes a generous sip and settles back against the couch, tipping his head back with a sigh. The mini bar had been the first place he had gone to when he arrived back at his hotel suite, hoping that what liquor he could find would distract him from his racing thoughts. And yet, in spite of the warmth he feels rushing to his cheeks, the reprieve he craves feels far from his grasp.

He messed up, that much he knows for certain. The words that had left his mouth as he stood in Natasha’s foyer were hurtful and unwarranted, and he’s felt ashamed of them from the moment the door slammed shut behind him. The pain that had flashed in her eyes when he had brought up their custody agreement – implying that their relationship was nothing more than a means to satisfy a legal document – haunts him, the image playing in his head on loop. He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to treat her that way. But when she had brought up missing The Daily, as if she wasn’t the one who packed up and left, what little restraint he’d been holding onto since the previous night had dissipated faster than a candle burning in the wind.

Frustration overcomes him at the thought, and he brings a hand up to pinch to pinch the bridge of his nose as he mutters a curse. When he had arrived in London, he had been steadfast in his belief that what feelings he had for Natasha were long buried. That, the friendship they had built over the years was enough to get them through one Christmas together as co-parents. And for the most part, he thought he had been right. The days they spent together roaming the aquarium and decorating cookies were eerily reminiscent of the times they’d go from one gallery to another, exploring the boroughs as they went. But so, too, was the ease with which they just seemed to work effortlessly together, he realizes. When Isabel needed consoling, they didn’t need to utter a word to each other to know that whoever was not picking her up would be the one to run a comforting hand through her hair. Nor did they have to gesture for the other to grab the stroller when Isabel ran off or even ask the other what they wanted before they ordered drinks at a café. They just did it, without much thought, because on some innate level, they already knew.

He lets out a deep sigh as the problem dawns on him. Somewhere between them taking in the scenery and shaking their heads in amusement at their daughter’s antics, Natasha’s laugh had become music to his ears once again. The way her green eyes lit up with happiness as they recounted memories made his heart flip in ways it hadn’t in some time, and the content he felt when he had his arms around her at the bakery was something he hadn’t experienced since she and Isabel had moved away. Everything was all too familiar, and in just a few short days, all the work he had put into convincing himself that he was over her had been erased. But if he knows one thing about history, it’s that it can be a vicious cycle doomed to repeat itself, and as they made it back to Natasha’s flat yesterday, the man standing in her kitchen – buying her groceries and dotting on his daughter – was a reminder that once again, how he felt didn’t matter. 

His heart clenches in his chest, and he nearly misses the coffee table as he sits up and all but slams his tumbler down on the glass. He reaches for his phone in his pocket, checking the time. It’s a little after eight in the evening in New York, and he pauses to cycle through the options in his contacts. He could call Sarah or Wanda, but he’s not certain he can handle hearing their disappointment right now. Tony would do, but knowing him, he’s probably holed up in his lab at this time, so he settles on the only other person he knows would never miss out on an opportunity to set him straight.

“Bucky’s Crisis Hotline,” Bucky says, picking up after the first two rings. “How may I divert your life catastrophe this evening?”

Despite his foul mood, Bucky’s greeting manages to elicit a dry chuckle from him. “Can’t someone just call his friend without needing help these days?”

“Cut the crap, punk,” Bucky says with a scoff. “You text me, sure. But when you call it’s usually because I need to bail you out of some dumbass decision you made. So, cut to the chase already because I’m making Chili.”

“At eight in the evening?” he challenges, letting out another chuckle when Bucky only reiterates the need to get on with it. Bucky could be brash, but he knows his best friend will never sugarcoat his words, which is why he’s seeking his counsel in this moment in the first place. As he sits up straighter, he begins to catch Bucky up on everything that has happened since he arrived and the facts that had dawned on him only moments ago. When he finishes retelling his fight with Natasha earlier this evening, he lets out a long and winded sigh. “I don’t know what to do, Buck.”

“Well, for starters, you can grow a pair and apologize to her,” Bucky says, plain and simple. “I mean, where do you get off saying things like that? You’re the one who asked to visit, remember? And from what I gather, you’re also the one that asked her to spend time with you and Izzie.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he snaps, running a hand through his hair. “I messed up, Buck. I know that. But everything just happened so fast.”

“I get that,” Bucky says. “And I recognize how much that sucks. But Steve, the answer to your predicament isn’t acting like you’re a five-year-old who can’t use his words and then snapping at her all of a sudden because she can’t read your mind.”

His eyes fall shut. “I know,” he whispers. “Fuck, I know.” 

“Natasha, the mother of your child and the woman you love, deserves better.”

“I never said love,” he says, swallowing the tightness in his throat.

“You didn’t have to, Captain Obvious,” Bucky says indignantly. “You know what? Hold up.” The line cuts off, but just as he pulls the phone away from his ear to see what had caused it, Bucky’s face flashes on his screen with an incoming FaceTime call. He taps the green button, and without missing a beat, Bucky goes on. “Can we just cut the bull here and now? All this time, I’ve held my tongue because I didn’t want to get all up on your business, but this is getting ridiculous.” Bucky lifts a brow at him. “You still love her. Hell, there was no amount of work you could have thrown yourself into these last couple of years that was going to change that.” Bucky narrows his eyes at him. “Tell me I’m wrong.” When he doesn’t respond, Bucky scoffs. “That’s what I thought. Steve, stop this pity party already and call her. Now. Apologize, and while you’re at it, fucking tell her the truth already so she knows you didn’t just lose your goddamn mind!”

“Why?” he presses. “What’s that going to do but make things worse? She’s moved on, and as much as I hate to say it, he seems like a really good guy.” He reaches for his tumbler to take another sip, his tone as bitter as the liquid he’s just swallowed down as he adds, “God knows my daughter just adores him.” As he looks back at the screen, he shakes his head. “It’s too late, Buck.” 

“You know, for someone so smart, sometimes…” Bucky sighs, looking off to the side. “Look, if there’s anything you should have learned by now it’s that withholding the truth doesn’t make things better. If anything, it just festers until all you’re left with is resentment over what could have been.” He turns back to him, his expression serious. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is too late. But at the very least, you can give her all the facts and let her decide.”

Bucky’s words cause him to look down at his feet, his stomach twisting with dread as he’s reminded of another poignant time Natasha had made a decision. He remembers the morning so vividly, and as he thinks back to it, it really was the moment things began to go wrong. They’d been living together for weeks at that point, and it was the day after Natasha’s pregnancy was deemed no longer in peril. He recalls the smell of her shampoo as he woke up with his arms around her, and how bright her eyes were as she sneakily goaded him into making her waffles. As he made breakfast, it was as if his lips were permanently etched into a smile. Then and there, he had decided that this would be the day he would tell Natasha all he’d been waiting to say – how it stopped being about some contract they signed long ago, how much he wanted them to be a family, and most importantly, how much he loved her.

But then Sharon had showed up at his front door, and before he knew it, the sight of his ex-fiancée was all the motivation Natasha needed to decide that she no longer wanted him. It was that morning that cemented the idea that his feelings were a one-way street, further perpetuated by the custody agreement she’d served him shortly afterwards.

His voice is low as he looks back at Bucky. “What if I can’t?”

Bucky sighs just as a timer goes off behind him. “I have to go,” he says, his tone the softest it’s been since they began talking. “But Steve… the pain you’re feeling now? The pain you’ve been living with these past few years? It exists because you lost something that matters. But believe me when I say that nothing worth having ever comes easy. You want something, you’ll have to fight for it.” He shrugs. “But if you’re too afraid to do that, then… maybe it’s time to let her go.”

The words knock the breath right out of his lungs, but he manages a single nod. “Thanks, Buck.”

Another sigh escapes him as the video cuts off and he clutches his phone in one hand. Let her go. Those three little words echo in his mind as he bows his head. He thought he had. But here they are – him helplessly in love with her and her already moving on – and if this were a movie, he feels as if he’s already seen the ending. Back then, he had been too haunted by the emotional destruction of his past experiences that when things began to go South with him and Natasha, he couldn’t muster the courage to fight for her in fear of getting his heart decimated again. And now, with the possibility of that happening before him once more, he’s still uncertain if he can risk opening himself up to that pain.

Mindlessly, he begins to swipe through his camera feed and smiles when he passes a picture of Isabel beaming from ear to ear at the aquarium. As he thumbs over to the next one, he pauses. It’s the one their guide had taken of the three of them, and as his eyes scan over their matching smiles, he cannot help but note how happy they all look. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he himself looked this happy. It’s with that thought that he lets his mind wander back to the last few days. If he had to think of a recurring theme – from sharing a beer with Natasha to riding in the back of the cab back to her flat – it’s that it just simply felt right. In spite of all the time that had passed and all the circumstances that had led them there, nothing has ever felt more fitting than the three of them together, as a family.

Family.

The word hits him like a freight train, bringing with it a sobering clarity. Perhaps this is what Bucky meant about the things that matter having the highest stakes. The thought is downright terrifying, putting all the defense and coping mechanisms he’s built to avoid this exact hurt on edge. But regardless, it occurs to him that if there’s anything worth sticking his neck out for, if there’s one thing he should risk yet another broken heart for, it’s for Natasha and Isabel – his family.

Before he can give it another thought, his fingers are already scrolling through his contacts again, searching for Natasha’s name. He taps down on it, bringing his phone to his ear and holding his breath as it rings once, twice.

“Hello?” he hears Natasha say, her voice raspy.

“Hi,” he says, and as he catches sight of the clock on the bedside table, he silently chastises himself when the numbers read two a.m. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“You didn’t,” she says, but in spite of that information, he finds that it doesn’t bring him any absolution. Moments pass – seconds, maybe more – but eventually, she lets out a sigh. “I don’t want to fight, Steve.”

“Neither do I,” he assures her. “I called because I couldn’t wait ‘til morning to apologize. I’m so sorry, Nat. I was a jerk. I didn’t mean a single word I said. Not one.”

“Then what did you mean?” she asks, not a trace of malice in her tone.

“I… there’s so much I want to say,” he admits. “So much I have to say. And I know I owe you an explanation right now, but this isn’t something I want to say over the phone.” He sighs. “Is there… is there any way I can come by tomorrow morning? Can we talk then?”

“I have to prepare for Christmas Eve,” she says, but just as his shoulders begin to sag with disappointment, she adds, “but maybe you can come by the party and we can talk after?”

He blinks, confused. “Nat, I- I was so terrible to you.”

“You were,” she says, and he notes that those two words hurt more than anything he’s heard tonight. “But I’m choosing to believe that underneath everything that’s going on… the man I know is still in there somewhere.”

His eyes close at that, and he takes in a breath. “He is, Nat,” he says. “He is. I promise.”

“Good,” she says, her tone more buoyant this time. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Okay,” he says, his chest feeling the lightest it’s been in days. “Thank you, Nat.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”    

“Isabel.”

At the pointed mention of her name, Isabel looks back, an innocent smile tugging at her lips. “Kenny cane!”

“You’re right,” Steve says, rising from his seat and walking to where she’s standing on the couch with a hand still extended towards the ornaments hanging higher up on the Christmas tree. “That is a candy cane.” In spite of the little whine Isabel lets out as he lifts her up, he collects her into his arms, setting her on his hip. “But you can’t be climbing up the couch, sweetheart. You could hurt yourself.”

Isabel only stares up at him from underneath the fan of her lashes, jutting her bottom lip out in a pout. “Pwease?”

He lets out a chuckle. Trying to feign adamancy when she’s dressed like The Elf on the Shelf is truly a losing battle – but even so, he stands his ground. “Nice try,” he says, kissing her temple, “but safety first.”

“Now that’s an ironclad will if I ever saw one,” he hears someone say, and he turns to see T’Challa smiling at them from his seat at the dining table.

“To be honest, we weren’t sure you were going to survive the puppy dog eyes,” Nakia adds from where she sits next to T’Challa. “But the pout, too? Bravo, Dad.”

“I’m not going to lie,” he says as he makes his way back to them, “I thought I was a goner, too.” He returns to his vacated seat, situating Isabel, who goes back to the crayons she abandoned in lieu of sneaking off to the tree, in his lap. “But unless you never want to have furniture over a foot high ever again, sometimes you’re going to have to make the sacrifice play no matter how cute the distraction techniques get.” He nods towards Nakia’s protruding belly, smiling when T’Challa reaches over to put a hand over her bump. “You’ll find out soon enough.” 

“Don’t give him too much credit though,” Natasha chimes in from across the table, a smirk on her face as she shoots him a knowing look. “Sometimes all she needs to do is bat her eyelashes to get her way with him.”

“Oh, cut the man some slack,” Loki says, his fingers around the stem of his Martini glass. “Those baby blues of hers are plenty compelling and you know it. If none of us stand a chance against her charms, what more her own father?”

“Thank you,” he says, grinning smugly at Natasha when Loki tips his glass towards him in response.

To say that he was thrilled when he arrived at Natasha’s flat this evening to see Loki already there helping her in the kitchen would be a flat out lie. In fact, there was a part of him that felt a touch blindsided in spite of Natasha telling him that she was having a few people over. But as a symbol of his contrition for his actions the previous day, he’d decided to put his feelings aside as he accepted Loki’s offer for a beer. And while conversing with Loki was low on the list of things he wanted to do, he has to admit that the more he’s learned about him, the harder he is to dislike. The man is well-spoken, insightful, and even shares his love for art history. He saves children for a living but isn’t boastful about it, and, though it pains him to accept it, he really does seem to care about Natasha and Isabel.

The same goes for T’Challa and Nakia, both of whom he’s found to be extremely kind, and their dedication to shedding light on global injustices through their work with Natasha at The Pioneer truly inspirational. He’s enjoyed getting to know them this evening, and it’s easy to see why Natasha is drawn to them. For all his worries about spending Christmas Eve here, he notes that he’s glad he’s met the people who have become Natasha’s support system since moving to London.

The sound of Natasha’s laughter prompts him to look her way, and he nuzzles the top of Isabel’s head to hide his smile when he catches her with a hand over her chest as she and Nakia poke fun at T’Challa. Her hair’s the longest he’s ever seen it, cascading down her shoulders in soft, scarlet waves, and he realizes that in the last few days, he’s been so caught up in finding things about her that have remained the same over the last six months that he’s overlooked everything new. More than her hair, there’s her festively decorated flat, and as he looks around the room to see the garlands and the ribbons and the holly scattered around – providing pops of green, gold, and red everywhere – he’s stunned at how far a cry it is from the spartan apartment she had when they first met. But such is the case, he supposes, when you have a daughter to indoctrinate into the holiday festivities and when your home becomes more than just a place to crash between travel assignments as a young journalist.

There’s also the fact that she’s cooking. She had hated the task so much in the past that he was certain it was her mission to order from every restaurant in Manhattan just to avoid it. And now, not only is she cooking up a storm, but such is her confidence that she’s sitting back enjoying a glass of wine while the feast she’s prepared finishes up in the oven. He’s not sure what had led to these changes, but if the sparkle in her eyes is anything to go by, he has to say he’s rather thankful for it. There are many things they are yet to discuss, and though he does not know how their talk might end later, one thing he knows is that he wants nothing more than for her to remain as happy as she looks in this moment.

A timer buzzes, and he blinks to see Natasha pushing her chair back. “That’ll be the roast.”

“Do you need help?” he asks, looking hopefully up at her.

“No, we’ve got it,” she says, smiling at him just as Loki rises next to her. “Just sit back and relax.” 

“Oh, okay,” he says, watching the both of them walk away and finding himself thankful when Isabel tugs on the sleeve of his sweater, seeking attention and successfully making him look away from the hand Loki has on the small of Natasha’s back.

When he had learned that Natasha had taken up cooking the other day at the park, he was surprised, but that’s nothing compared to the awe he feels now as he stares at the elaborate spread on the table before him. Between the perfectly cooked Prime Rib and the plethora of scrumptious sides, it’s clear that not only has she learned her way around the kitchen, but that she’s also become some sort of master chef in her own right. And, judging by the delighted faces around the table, he knows he’s not the only one who thinks so.

“Natasha, this meal is out of this world,” Nakia says, to which everyone hums in agreement.

“It’s absolutely delightful,” Loki concurs.

Natasha beams shyly, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Well, thank you,” she says. “Admittedly, you guys are my guinea pigs tonight since this is the first full meal I’ve prepared for a group.” Everyone sings her their praises, and it’s not until she’s playfully pointing her knife at him that he realizes he’s grinning. “Not a peep, Rogers.”

“I haven’t said a thing!” he says, chuckling.

“But you were thinking it,” she challenges with a smile before addressing the confused looks around them. “Before I moved here, my cooking repertoire consisted of toast and scrambled eggs. But even then, there were some mishaps.”

“And what say you of her culinary prowess now, Steve?” T’Challa asks, arching a teasing brow at him.

“It’s great,” he says, his eyes never leaving Natasha’s as he shrugs a shoulder. “But so is everything she puts her mind to, so I shouldn’t really be surprised.” 

Slowly, Natasha’s lips quirk up. “Does that mean my gravy is better than yours?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far…” he says, causing her to narrow her eyes at him and he just laughs as he goes back to trying to feed Isabel a forkful of mashed potatoes.

“Let’s not start a gravy war on Christmas Eve, yes?” Nakia says, eliciting laughter from around the table. “Steve, Natasha mentioned that you were working on a gallery extension in California. How’s that coming along?”  

“It’s progressing, finally,” he says, sighing when Isabel turns her head, muttering a no for the third time in a row. He turns apologetically to Nakia, who only shoots him an understanding smile. “Sorry-”

“Let me try,” Natasha interjects softly from across the table, gesturing to Isabel to come over.

With a nod, he puts Isabel down, keeping an eye on her as she walks to the other side of the table. “As I was saying, it’s finally progressing in that we’ve gotten around the red tape and the building is ours for Tony to reconstruct as he pleases. Pepper’s really worked her magic at greasing the wheels of bureaucracy.”

“Is there a thing Pepper Potts can’t pull off?” he hears T’Challa ask, a hint of pride in his voice.

“There really isn’t,” Natasha chimes in with a chuckle, but he’s only partly listening as he watches Isabel walk over to Loki instead. Natasha turns to Isabel, sighing. “Izzie, no. Don’t disturb Loki while he’s eating.”

“That’s alright,” Loki tells Natasha as he picks Isabel up and places her on his lap. “Come here, angel.”

“Steve?”

“Hmm?” he says, turning to see Nakia looking expectantly at him. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

Nakia smiles. “I was just asking if you think the new gallery will be open in the next few months.”

“Oh, uh…” he says, his gaze falling to Loki and Isabel once more just as Loki successfully gets Isabel to take a bite from his fork. He looks back at Nakia. “We um… we already finished signing all the artists we discovered to contracts granting us exclusive rights to showcase their work, so I believe we will be open soon. March at the latest if the construction goes as planned.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Nakia says.

T’Challa turns to her. “Perhaps we’ll be able to visit before you’re no longer able to fly, my love.”

“Maybe we can all plan a trip,” Loki adds, causing his eyes to dart to him in time to see Isabel move off his lap. Loki turns to Natasha, smiling. “We do enjoy roaming around galleries, don’t we, Nat?”

If Natasha had said anything in response, he doesn’t hear it as the words tumble out of his mouth before he can give them much thought. “Galleries were our thing.”

Natasha’s eyes are wide as she looks his way, her lips parting, but before she can utter a word, she’s interrupted by a crash. Her head whips in the direction of the living room. “Izzie!”

Isabel’s subsequent wail has him pushing his chair back in an instant, and as he follows Natasha, they rush into the living room and towards the Christmas tree. Natasha is the first to get to Isabel, who’s still crying on the ground with the candy cane ornament clutched in her hand, and his heart drops when he sees the blood gushing from her brow.

“Izzie, baby,” he says, kneeling next to Natasha, who reaches for the box of tissues on the coffee table. “It’s gonna be okay, fig. Momma and Daddy are here.”

“Use this instead,” Loki says, suddenly appearing between him and Natasha and handing Natasha a gauze pad. “Just keep applying pressure.” Loki shifts, turning to him as he tries to get more space to get closer to Isabel. “Move aside, please.”

“I’ve got this,” he says through gritted teeth, refusing to budge.

Loki’s brows furrow. “Steve-”

“I said I’ve got this!” he repeats more forcefully this time. Vaguely, he hears Natasha call out his name in admonishment, but he ignores her as he glares at Loki. “I’m her father, not you.”

“And between the both of us, I’m the one with the M.D.,” Loki retorts heatedly. “So, we can either sit here and argue or you can move aside and let me treat your daughter.” He juts his chin out. “Your call, dad.”

Perhaps it’s the way Loki’s eyes flash with urgency, or the way Isabel’s cries only seem to intensify with every passing second. But before he knows it, he’s moving aside, defeated.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

It’s Not a Secret I Try to Hide

For my 750 Follower Celebration, @darealbellabelleoftheball asked me to write something for Loki with the prompt: “You make me nauseated.” “It’s called love.” I was stumped for a bit on how to get this to work, but I’m pretty content with what I ended up coming up with! I hope y’all enjoy!

Somehow, over the year-long period that you had spent living and working with the Avengers, Loki had cemented himself firmly into your heart.

It had started slowly. The first time you had noticed him was when he kept the door from swinging into your unobservant face when you were leaving a mission briefing, not even looking at you as he gripped onto the glass before stalking away. The second was when you had grumbled to Cap loudly about how your favorite blanket for couch snuggling was ruined by blood from a distracted Bucky, and two more replaced it the very next day. When you’d asked the others about it, they claimed to have assumed FRIDAY ordered it for you.

But you knew better.

Because along with the small gestures here and there, you had noticed the slight shift in his behavior around you. The looks that he gave your male coworkers when they drew too close to you for his liking, or how close he would stick to you during jobs that got a bit dicey and dangerous. He had blocked several bullets for you on more than one occasion.

So you had made the first move, deciding that he wasn’t going to, one evening when you were watching television while he was reading beside you.

“You like me,” you stated boldly, poking him in the arm.

He quirked an elegant brow, not even looking up from his book. “I tolerate you more than the others.”

You shifted and pulled your knees beneath you, sitting on them and facing him fully. Your finger never stopped poking his impressively firm bicep. “No, you like me.”

With a heavy, exasperated sigh, he closed his book and placed it on the coffee table that supported his crossed feet before leaning back again. “What are you implying?”

His pupils expanded to cover most of the dazzling green of his eyes when your hand reached out to settle over his collar-bones, fingertips grazing over the smooth column of his throat. You leaned forward, supporting yourself with your other hand on his thigh, drawing close until there was only a breath separating you. “You’re attracted to me, you enjoy my company. You want to kiss me.”

His eyes flicked between yours before dropping to your slightly pouted lips, indecision warring plainly in his gaze. But you could wait all evening, poised above him, offering yourself up to him for the taking. Thankfully, he didn’t make you wait long, tilting his chin to brush your lips together in an impossibly tender kiss that chipped away at the outermost layer of emotional protection around your fragile heart.

And with each lingering touch on your arm in passing, each heated look dragging down your body from across a room, and each stolen kiss when you were alone, he worked his way into your heart and soul until there was no use denying it.

Now if only he would admit that he held the same feelings in return.

“You love me,” you teased in a sing-song, pecking him on the cheek before stepping around him to grab your water bottle from where he had placed it down after wordlessly refilling it for you.

He glanced around to confirm your solitude before hooking his arm around your waist, tugging you toward him so that you were pressed up against the length of his lean body. With the barest of smiles cracking the perpetually apathetic expression that masked his handsome face, he countered with his typical reply of, “I tolerate you.”

Your hand stretched across his back, delighting in the flex of his muscles beneath the warm, soft cotton of his black t-shirt. The other rubbed the cold metal bottle against the dip of his spine, earning you a quiet relieved groan. When your head tucked beneath his chin to nuzzle your cheek into his chest, his fingers tightened around you, drawing you impossibly closer. “Well, I love you.”

“As you should,” he hummed, clearly pleased. His lips pressed against the top of your head in a soft kiss that you honestly didn’t expect, considering you were quite sweaty from a recent sparring session with the god holding you captive in his loving embrace.

You slapped his chest, pulling yourself from his embrace to take a long pull of icy cold water courtesy or your Frost Giant. “You’ll admit it one day!”

Perhaps the Christmas season would draw the warm-fuzzies out of your chilled sweetheart?

You rolled over in his arms on the couch, carefully arranging your legs between his and drawing your arms up to prop yourself up onto his chest. He dutifully repositioned the blanket over your bodies, letting his hands settle on your hips once his task was complete.

“May I help you?” His head tilted to the side against the arm of the couch to better take in the thoughtful expression that had you biting on your bottom lip gently.

Your hands tugged lightly at his raven hair that tumbled over his shoulders. “This is nice. You, me, a cheesy Christmas movie, cozy blanket, snow falling outside over the twinkling New York City skyline. I love it. I love you.”

His practiced indifference didn’t crack beyond the warmth shining in his eyes. “It is quite enjoyable.”

You deflated, hands going limp over his shoulders. “Enjoyable?”

“Is that not what you desired to hear?” The lazy circles he had been drawing on your hips stopped and he tensed beneath you.

You climbed off of him, throwing the blanket away with a huff, stalking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to stare out at the bustling city beneath you. You had been trying and trying for over to a year to peel away the complicated layers of his armor to get at the real man underneath, and he just wouldn’t give. You didn’t need sweeping declarations of love from the man, grand gestures or lavish gifts. Just something to show he cared. You were only human.

“Have I upset you?” he asked, his footsteps echoing over the smooth floors to bridge the distance between you. The heat of his body radiated against your back, scented with pine and male musk that made your knees weaken at the delicious familiarity of it.

“Cut the shit, Loki,” you snapped, your withheld emotions boiling over suddenly and without warning, turning to pin him down with the full force of your glare. “You’re playing at this scared, hesitant game with me and I’m tired of it. I love you, and you know it. I’m never happier than when I’m with you, even if we’re in the middle of a warzone kicking ass and getting ours handed to us. So until you decide that you’re allowed to have emotion, and show emotion when we’re alone, you can spend your evenings by yourself.”

He stopped your dramatic exit with a hand wrapped gently around your wrist. You didn’t turn around to face him, forcing him to step around so that his torso encompassed your field of vision. He was going to have to work for it. “I enjoy your company.”

You shifted your weight to your back foot, popping your hip and shaking your head as you stared up at him with narrowed eyes. “More.”

It was like you had asked him to relinquish all of his daggers, he looked so frustrated. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand before dropping it to hang loosely at his side. “I am quite fond of you.”

Your finger dug into the knit sweater over his sternum. “Try harder.”

An unbelievable vulnerability slowly came over his face, starting in the downward tilt of his brows to the tightness of his clenched jaw. He brushed his hands down your arms to lace your fingers together in the chilled chasm between you. His deep exhaled breath washed across your face in a cloud of peppermint and chocolate. “You have made my days spent in this infernal tower tolerable. I find myself longing for you as soon as I wake, and yearning for you when we are apart. There is nothing akin to the balm that your touch provides on my skin, and I long to spend eternity at your side.”

It took every ounce of willpower that you had within you to not tear up at his words. The corners of your eyes pricked with heat and you tapped your foot on the floor, willing the stone-cold badass inside of you to take control. Your accusatory finger curled along with the rest of your hand over where his heart beat the strongest, fast and heavy as he waited for your reaction with bated breath.

Once you had regained some semblance of control, you smiled, standing on your tiptoes to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and lean your forehead against his. “You love me.”

He rolled his eyes, but his hands still held onto your hips to steady you against him nonetheless. “You make me nauseated.”

You pecked a quick kiss on the corner of his upturned lips. “It’s called love.”

~

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[heli0s-writes]

winter dreams

Summary: Six months after a perfect summertime kiss, you see him again in time for the new year. Music: Death Cab for Cutie - I Dreamt We Spoke Again

Pairing: Reader/Bucky

A/N: 2.1k words. Pining & Soft Bucky. Holiday fluff.  TW: references to cancer

A follow up to summer skin but it’s not necessary to read it first. This was written for @sourpatchkidsandacokecan​​‘s Merry Kismet Writing Challenge. Thank you so much for hosting! The prompt is “You owe me a kiss.”

It’s cold.

December reaches your childhood home in disappointing periods of drizzling rain hitting windowpanes, fogging the insides gray with the house’s heat. Brief winter winds ice the city, never quite enough to flurry like how it did in New York.

Yet somehow, it feels colder here.

You bundle up all over when it sinks into your bones. Blankets and two pairs of wool socks, knitted hats and gloves indoors, still rattling, falling lovesick and not participating in festivities.

Your sisters chide the melancholy, ask you to cheer up, tell you it’s the most wonderful time of the year incoming. Tinsel and allspice, brown sugar candles and the crisp snap of pine. A real tree propped up by the fireplace, topped by a burning red star.

You miss him.

The ornament glows his sigil and, you miss him.

Miss his eyes. His hands. Miss his damn shadow.

Thanksgiving had tasted like wet sand. The turkey and cranberries a mush of pulp. Basting and seasoning, rosemary and garlic, rubbing all manners of things down with butter… and in the end, no matter how you tried, the last six months crumbled like ash in your mouth.

Your father’s illness and subsequent recovery bloomed relief but it was still too soon. There was one more round of radiation and then, it would be over. The cloak of death could finally be ripped down, hung up elsewhere to shrivel and flee; he’d finally be free of cancer.

Six months after sweltering summer kisses on a dock and you were still sick with longing for Bucky. He calls rarely because your civilian life can’t bleed into your hero life; you’re the only one with family—the only one with a possible hostage situation.

Two conversations, maybe. With his low timbre saying hello. Don’t know when I’ll see you, but I’ll dream of you until I do. And the sadness in your gut volleys into hope—careens itself into balmy spring and the taste of his tongue on yours. The only reprieve you receive is in darkness, when you might be lucky enough to find him under a clear June sky, the two of you meeting in the middle of a midnight yearning.

The days between Christmas and New Years smear together. A foggy mess of unknown hours and habits, waking and sleeping all blurring into some kind of purgatory overcrowded with glazed ham leftovers and candles with names like Twisted Peppermint and Merry Berry.

A steaming mug is slid over the frosted windowsill on the 30th. Your youngest sister plops down on the sofa seat with a hum, pulling striped red and green sock encased knees up to her chest. Mind-reading. That connection between siblings.

“You go.” She states casually, and it takes you by surprise. “Dad’s doing well. You go. World needs you and all.”

Under a heavy quilt, you’re already quivering with preemptive heartbreak. A sip of your drink and the beginning of a protest before she puts up her hand, “We’ll be fine.” Then, a smirk and a roll of her eyes, “Figures. You finally fall for a guy and he’s probably Captain America.”

You bite your smile down and stay silent.

-

Voicemail. Even the automated tone repeating his phone number before the shrill beep gives you butterflies. War drums echoing from your chest. The practiced message you ran through your head sounds stupid no matter how many times you rehearse it. No matter how many times you’ve dreamt of him and this moment.

“H-hey... I, uh, I’m heading to the compound. Uh. Well, I think I’ll be there in time for tomorrow night’s party. Can’t wait to see you, Buck.”

A string of the dumbest syllables ever known to man.

-

The commons room is aglow when you arrive. Soft and brilliant in orange and yellow, warming up the darkness of dimmed lights. There are at least three trees on your way in, lit up with gold, then blue, then silver for the third, overflowing with ribbon and sparkling garland. Hand-blown glass ornaments refract a rainbow array of hues. There is fake snow in a trail flanking the velvet red carpet running inside, shaped meticulously so that it imitates a snowbank to perfection. Soft music hums from deeper in, harps and violins, and the smell of the fireplace crackling spiced woody notes soothes your bones.

Pepper’s outdone herself heralding in the New Year. You’ll have to apologize for dripping water all the way in, pelted by snow and shuddering head to toe.

It’s flurrying in New York, alright. Your chattering teeth are a testament to the temperature.

Natasha’s the first to see you by the entrance. A raise of her champagne class and you grin shyly, stepping in, wet boots tracking to the bar. Steve beams and rushes across the room, nicking off his conversation with a fan in the middle, throwing his arms around you for a hug.

“He’s in D.C.—does he know you’re— Christ, where’s your coat?"

You shake your head and quiet your trembling as you take in Steve’s pressed denim shirt and his slacks and hair neatly combed to one side. Clean shaven and handsome, twinkling eyes as he holds tight. Your shoes are dripping onto his and you chuckle, “I forgot it—too eager, I suppose.”

The gown you pulled on at the airport is an old one—silvery lavender with thin trails of sparkling tinsel. Worn once during an undercover mission near New Mexico and then hung up to sway limply in your sister’s closet because it was too beautiful to discard even though it smelled like gunpowder. The excitement of your arrival was too pressing that you’d forgotten the right shoes. Boots it is—black and clunky, the kind you’d prefer to have on in a fight.

“He’ll be mad you’re not dressed for the weather.” A silly grin as if Steve’s hiding a secret. Then, a single raise of his sandy brow as he looks down. The gossamer hem a darker purple as it sways over your shoes. “But maybe you can go barefoot for tonight.”

-

Sam is elated when he arrives, pulling you into a spin before his hand clasps onto yours and he sways all the way to the middle of the dance floor. It’s like you never left as he chatters on, making you laugh and cry, his steps goading the band to play faster accompaniments.

Three songs in and you’re reminded of how tired you are from the trip. Your feet are freezing on the tile and so you lead Sam to the couches, accepting a drink from Natasha’s hand before leaning into her, tingling toes tucked beneath your thighs. She plays with your hair, rubs your shoulder, and whispers that it hasn’t been the same without you.

“I remember this dress. We got into some trouble that mission.” And you know that look even without seeing it. Half-smirk, eyebrow up, the Natasha trademark.

You laugh at the memory. Gunpowder from her Beretta and the skirt hiked up to reveal your own pistol strapped tightly to your thigh. Beneath it had been a knife. Overkill, you’d thought, but it came in handy anyway.

“James will appreciate your sentimentality.”

The two of you had played lovers, and it was easy slipping into the role. Your heart flutters at the memory and how nervous you had been when his hand caressed yours at the auditorium entrance. He had bent over and whispered that you looked beautiful, and you snorted in return—a broken noise of disbelief.

“We missed you.” Natasha blows into your ear playfully, “You won’t believe how annoyingly long he sulked. If he’s not here at midnight, you’re getting a kiss from me.”

“Woah. I’m gonna kiss her.” Sam protests, leaning forward dramatically.

You turn to Steve with a grin, waiting for his bid but he only puts his hands up, palms faced outward. “Not me. I’m not trying to get into any fights with Buck. Had enough of that for a while, if none of you remember.”

A few more minutes of chatting and you dismiss your friends, shooing them back to their company and unwilling to take up any more of their time.

New Year’s Eve and you certainly can’t be the most interesting person here, you say. Check out the band, gosh, there’s a celebrity—and Tony, sweeping in with gusto to shoot a comment about how he didn’t even notice you were back but that your room is still in pristine condition, if you were wondering.

And you weren’t, but you thank him anyway with a wink.

11:50 and the back wall is glaring a projected image of the NYC ball drop. You stifle a yawn behind your hand, leaning over the couch lazily. Guests come and go, welcome you back, and you’re always a little startled when another stranger flits by to say hello and thank you. Everyone blurs together in a rush of sparkling cream gowns and silk suits.

11:55 and your eyes are shuttering close, cheekbone resting upon your palm.

11:58 and a hand is skimming up your arm, softly prodding, but you’re too tired to move.

Cheers and whoops. It’s so loud. Music crescendoes, Natasha placing a peck on your cheek along with a blanket over your shoulders and you reply with a wilted little smile. Then, you return to a familiar sweetened coffee black dream of someone tall and soft-spoken.

-

You jolt from the stupor with a gasp. The room has emptied and darkened, only lit by the soft glow of the projector spinning starry images. The blanket from your shoulders has slipped off some time ago, gathering to pool at your feet. Blinking sluggishly, you realize you’re no longer leaned against your palm on the edge of the couch.

Dusky pine and leather. Faint cool aftershave and the vital heartbeat of warm boy. Something heavy and buttery soft draped over your previously cold shoulders.

Another dream.

Yet, it feels more corporeal than ever before and the drumming in your chest strikes a thrilled beat. Your hands wildly pat him up and down, drawing forth his sweet laugh at your antics. You don’t stop, though, running up the neoprene vest, the straps buckled over his torso, his strong jaw and chin. Then hair, those long chestnut strands lightly curled at the edges, grown a little longer and tucked loosely behind his ears.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, honey.”

You bristle in disbelief, distracted by the realization with some embarrassment that you’ve been sleeping on top of him for who knows how long.  Stupid syllables stuck like caramel chews in your mouth, welding your teeth together in a solid disappointment. After spending six months dreaming about seeing him again, now you’re finally here and you’ve got nothing to say. Bucky lifts his chin to place atop your head, pressing kisses down and chills race to your fingertips and toes.

“Nat said she kissed you at midnight,” Bucky muses, and you can just hear him smiling how he does when he thinks he’s done something clever. “And what about me? You owe me a kiss, unless you’re all done with kissin’ for the night?” His gloved finger traces your chin, thumb pad rubbing over your nose, lifting your gaze until you’re staring up into his eyes.

Blue, blue, blue, like milky ways dipped in a cerulean sea. Behind his head the cosmos continue to spiral, outlining him in silver and starlight. He is beautiful in the night, brighter than suns. You want to sob and say Bucky, Bucky, if I’m sleeping don’t wake me.

Cheekiness snuffs itself out as he tilts his head with a smile, eyes roaming over your expression curiously. A statement begins in the silence of his thumb caressing your cheek, then brow, then making a path down to your bottom lip, skimming over the edge.

He punctuates it with a press of his mouth to yours. Hand moving to latch onto your jaw, then neck, then cradling your head between two and your heart hurdles all the way to the finish line.

“Missed you.” He murmurs, “Missed you a lot.” Licks to your lips and you vaguely wonder when he learned how to sweep you completely off your feet. Bucky tugs on the lapels of his jacket around your shoulder, crushing your torso to his. After six months of longing and anguish, you could float away if he wasn’t holding on so tightly.

“You look beautiful. Always thought so.” Fingers rub the lavender tulle and he smiles. You didn’t believe him then, the night Bucky complimented you and yanked the knife from its strap. “Like a dream.”

Now, you know he means it.

“Happy New Year, honey.”

Bucky pulls you fully into his lap, solid beneath your hands and flush against your torso. Real. Real. Real.

Winter rages on outside. Wrapped up in him, here, now, finally, you’ve never felt warmer.

“Happy New Year, Bucky.”

-

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[aughtpunk]

White is Not the New Black

Crowley woke up feeling weird. Like, weird weird.

He laid in bed a good three hours just trying to find the best way to describe said odd feeling. Like if someone spackled a crack with whipped cream and for some unknown reason it worked. Like a completely boneless adorable kitten that kept slipping through his fingers. Like floating safely on an inner-tube in the middle of a stormy ocean. Like stepping on dew-covered grass knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt there were no red ants for miles around. It felt like the time Warlock decided to bake cookies using marshmallows and kool-aid mix. It felt, for reasons Crowley could not comprehend, a bit like Aziraphale.

So of course Crowley decided to ignore it.

Crowley was an expert at ignoring his feelings. He should be, considering he’s been doing it since before The Fall. There was nothing with feelings per say, it was just they tended to get in the way of things. Feelings made it hard to do evil. Feelings compelled Crowley to save children, to save Aziraphale, to save those two bloody unicorns, to save Aziraphale, he was thinking about Aziraphale again, he was thinking about Aziraphale and that odd feeling in his chest only got worse. 

“Shutupshutupshutup.” Crowley muttered to himself as he watered his plants. He opened his mouth to snap at them only to find that nothing would come out. It was as the feeling was forming a wall between him and his usual projected self-loathing that morning. Crowley fought down the staticy sensation and gave being mean to his plants another shot.

“You,” He said pointing his finger at a particular irritating Norfolk Island Pine, “you can do better! Don’t make your needles as sharp! Stop looking so smug for being mistaken for a Christmas tree! There better not be a single dropped needle on this floor or, or,” the words scratched at his throat, unable to escape but unable to settle as well, “or I’ll gift you to Aziraphale this Christmas! And you know he’ll go full Victorian on dressing you. He’ll use candles. Real candles.”

That got the Norfolk Island Pine to stop looking so smug. 

(Crowley was rather proud of himself for the sudden popularity of the Norfolk Island Pine. He had convinced humans it would be a perfect Christmas plant, what with it being vaguely pine-ish and having the word Pine in its name. In reality the Norfolk Island Pine was possibly the worst plant to have around the holidays. It was a tropical plant that needed high heat and even higher humidity with multiple waterings a day and frankly had no business being in a cold dry climate. Because of this they tended to drop dead the second they left the store. The fact that once it died the dried pine needles became as sharp as rose thorns but three times as long was just an added bonus.)

Crowley rubbed an odd spot on his chest. Mentioning Christmas had only made the odd feeling grow feelers and wiggle about. Maybe he just needed coffee. Or a drink. Or Aziraphale.

Don’t think about Aziraphale.

Evil, he decided, he needed to go do evil. That would fix this right up.

***

Being evil didn’t help.

It did cheer him up in that the-misfortune-of-others-is-hilarious sort of way, but it did nothing to get rid of the feeling in his chest. In fact, the feeling felt as if it was growing. He couldn’t rid himself of the mental image of it being this multi-limbed fuzzy insect lodged in his chest. Right between his lungs, he decided. Just this spider-wasp-scorpion thing clawing at his internal organs. In a metaphorical sort of way, of course. 

After an afternoon spent causing traffic jams and making people forget their significant other’s birthdays, Crowley knew there was no use putting it off any longer. He had to go see Aziraphale. Not that he didn’t want to see Aziraphale! In fact he felt totally the opposite way. Ever since they toasted to the world Crowley’s only desire was to spend more time with Aziraphale. Possibly all of his time. He never wanted to leave his angel’s side and that was a problem because there was no way Aziraphale wanted the same. 

This was Aziraphale! The dear angel who spent a decade re-reading every book he owned because he quote ‘didn’t feel like going out’ end quote. Crowley knew that Aziraphale would be sick of him hanging around within days. Yes, they were best friends. Yes, they had chosen each other over Heaven and Hell. But that didn’t mean Aziraphale wanted Crowley to hold his hand and never let go.

The odd feeling wasn’t love. Crowley knew this because he had felt love for Aziraphale since Eden. He could feel it still as he drove over to the bookstore. His love had no odd descriptions attached beyond the usual overwhelming yearning for returned devotion. Not a single insect leg or boneless adorable animal to be seen. Just love. Simple, pure, unrequited love.

The bookstore was closed of course. Crowley could count the times he had seen it open on one hand (He would have been able to even if he got two fingers cut off before the count). That didn’t stop Crowley from opening the clearly-locked front door and walking in. The shop knew better than to keep Crowley out. 

“Angel?” Crowley called out as he entered the shop. Even after all of these weeks there was always a funny twist in his stomach when he came to visit Aziraphale. This feeling, unlike the love and the squirmy feeling that current reminded Crowley of a bowl of ice cream covered in stale pieces of candy corn, was one of dread. The fear that Crowley would find the shop burning once more and his angel missing for good. Crowley had managed to convince himself that the reason he visited Aziraphale so often was to check in on things, and not because it was the only way for that fear to die down.

Crowley was very, very good at ignoring his feelings.

“Crowley! You’re just in time! I need your help with this.” Aziraphale popped out from between the shelves holding what must have been someone’s lost smartphone. Yes, a lost smartphone that just so happened to have little angel wing stickers on the case. The white case. The sparkly white case. Oh no.

“Oh no.” Crowley groaned, “Angel, where did you get that? Why did you get that?”

The angel beamed with happiness even as he kept his eyes glued to the screen. “It was Miss Device’s idea! This way we can keep in touch with each other in case anything happens! I already have the numbers for Adam and all of his friends, too. We really must go visit them some day. Pepper, the girl who killed War, she’s trying to explain how I can set up a twitter account and I thought oh, Crowley helped make that, I should ask him--”

Aziraphale finally lifted his head up enough to look at Crowley.

He froze on the spot, causing the phone slipped right out of his hands and land on bookshop floor with a muffled thud.

(Luckily the phone liked the angel stickers so much it refused let its screen crack.)

“Uh.” Crowley cleared his throat once the silent went on a beat too long. “Angel? Aziraphale? You okay?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond right away. His eyes were wide with shock, his lips parted, and he looked one loud noise away from passing out on the spot. “Crowley,” he finally managed, “Are you okay?”

Crowley almost lied out of habit, but the feeling stopped him again. Well. If anyone knew about weird feeling it would have to be Aziraphale. “No? Kinda. I feel...off.”

“Off.” Aziraphale echoed.

“Yeah. Like, like there’s something in me that shouldn’t be there.”

“I see. What does it feel like?”

“Like if someone glued fake fur to a balloon and inflated it in my chest.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond to that.

“And the balloon is filled with those little sphere things that grow when you put them in water.”

Aziraphale closed his mouth.

“What the hell are those called, anyway?”

Aziraphale took a few steps forward. 

“I’ve seen them used for growing bamboo.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale finally said once he was within arm’s reach of his dear friend. 

“I should try that sometime--”

“Crowley, show me your wings this instant!”

Crowley didn’t even think about questioning Aziraphale. He did as he was told, unfurling his wings for the first time since Almost-End and giving them a good flap to stretch them out. A few feathers shook loose, as they tended to, sending bits of white fluff flying across the shop floor. “There? Happy? I know, they’re stunning, I know, but that doesn’t--”

Bits of white fluff.

White fluff.

White.

White.

Crowley spread his wings out wide enough to circle around him and Aziraphale. 

White. They were white. Pure, brilliant white feathers sparkling in the bookshop’s dim light.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s shaking hands within his own and said in a hoarse whisper. “Crowley. That weird feeling you’ve been experiencing is holiness.”

***

“Fuck.”

Crowley laid on Aziraphale’s couch, waiting to see if anything would happen. When the feeling--the feeling of God’s Grace--didn’t go away, he decided to experiment a little more.

“Fuck. Shit. Arse. Arsehole. Dick. Prick. Fucking shitting arshole prick cu--”

“Crowley, cursing isn’t going to make you re-fall.” 

Aziraphale placed a nice hot cup of tea on the small side table next to the couch. Not close enough to imply that Crowley had to drink it, but close enough to let the demon know the option was there. 

No, Aziraphale reminded himself, not a demon anymore. 

He was still kicking himself for not noticing the second Crowley stepped into the shop. Demons didn’t give off the same energy as angels. In fact, they absorbed it. Standing around a pack of demons was spiritually akin to getting one’s shoelace stuck in an escalator. Crowley’s pull just happened to be weak enough that Aziraphale stopped noticing it after the first few thousand years. At most all it did was given Aziraphale the heads up that Crowley was somewhere in the immediate area. But now?

Now Crowley was burning. 

The ex-demon (that was easier than thinking of him as an angel) was absolutely crackling with holy energy. It was probably strong enough to give everyone in Soho a lovely day. Maybe even powerful enough for them to find a fiver in an old jacket pocket! Aziraphale hadn’t felt such pure holiness since...well...since before. Before it all. 

Crowley sat up and removed his sunglasses. “What about my eyes? How do they look.”

“Still very snake-like.” Aziraphale said, which was the truth. Unfortunately the truth also required him to keep going. “But they’re less yellow and more um, gold.”

“Gold.”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“In a...um...golden-angel-halo sort of way.”

Crowley promptly fell back onto the couch. Aziraphale waited for him to say something, anything, but when it was clear Crowley wasn’t going to say a word Aziraphale did his best to fill in the silence between them. 

“It must have been the whole saving-the-world thing that did it. Too much good all in one go. And frankly I don’t see why you’re pouting about this! Isn’t this good? Isn’t un-falling, ah, isn’t rising exactly what all demons strive for? Don’t you feel...better?”

Silence. 

“You told me falling felt like having a part of you violently ripped out. That demons aren’t filled with evil, they’re filled with nothing. Absolutely empty! You said, and I quote, it feels like slowly bleeding out for eternity! That you spend the first thousand years on Earth simply getting used to the pain!”

“I was drunk.” Crowley finally replied. 

“Drunk means you were telling the truth.”

Crowley let out a deep sigh before rolling onto his back. “Drunk means I was melodramatic. Falling didn’t hurt that much.”

“But it did hurt, didn’t it?”

Crowley didn’t answer that. 

“Does it hurt now?”

“Hasn’t hurt in ages, angel. Decades. Not even sure when it faded. Just realized one day it was...gone.”

Aziraphale sat down at the other end of the couch, just far enough to let Crowley’s feet dangle in peace. Crowley was lying. He knew if he pressed Crowley would not only tell him the exact day but the exact moment down to the millisecond. Not that Aziraphale needed to do that. He already knew the answer. “The church.”

Crowley stared up at the ceiling above. “Yeah. After the church.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure when his hand moved onto Crowley’s ankle, or when he begun to soothingly trace a circle against his friend’s skin with his thumb. Funny. He had always dreamed of what life would be like if Crowley was an angel. If they were on the same side since the very beginning. 

(What Aziraphale nor Crowley realized is that they had been on the same side since the beginning. Their side was formed the second they stood side-by-side on the Garden’s wall and made small talk. God had looked down upon them and said oh, oh this is new. This is interesting.)

“Do you really hate angels this much?” Aziraphale said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“What? Aziraphale, angel, course I don’t.” Crowley said as he finally sat up. “It’s just that it’s, well, it’s wrong. All of it feels wrong! It’s like, it’s like there’s always been this balance, right? You being all goody-angel and me being all, all demony-demon! It, it worked, didn’t it? Six thousand years it worked fine! I mean, humans go on about having a bloody angel and demon on their shoulders, right? No one ever goes oh no I’m in a terribly difficult situation, better consult the angel on my shoulder and the angel on my other should who is just like the first one but dresses in black. But not his wings! Nooooo, can’t have an angel with black wings. Gotta be white! Perfect bloody bone-bleached wings! Only pretty clean doves allowed in Heaven! Noah never would have accepted that olive branch if it was being held by a damned raven.”

Aziraphale stared into Crowley’s desperate now-golden eyes, his heart ready to burst from his overwhelming desire to help his dear friend. Yet at the same time thought over everything Crowley had said with a fine-tooth comb. He knew Crowley better than himself. He knew the snake always had a terrible habit of showing his hand. He also knew that sometimes Crowley was just...Crowley.

“Crowley. Darling. Are you upset because white wings ruins your aesthetic?” 

“They bloody destroyed it!” Crowley shouted as he threw up his arms in defeat. “White wings! Six thousand years of black going with everything and then I get white wings dropped on me like a damn missile! Do you know what white wings go with, angel?”

“Cream and tartan?”

“Nothing in my bloody closet, that’s what!” As if to punctuate the point Crowley outstretched his wings again and pointed at them as if saying ‘see?’. And as much as Aziraphale hated to admit it Crowley was right. The white wings didn’t go with Crowley’s normal attire at all. 

Aziraphale struggled internally with his centuries of British politeness. “Now Crowley, they’re very...well maintained. Impeccable grooming as always, darling. All the feathers are pointing the right way. Yes. Very good wings.”

Crowley sunk into the couch. “That bad?”

“You look like a salesman's half-hearted costume for an office Halloween party.”

“You don’t have to rub it in, angel.” 

Crowley drew his wings close to his body, using them to create a feathery barrier between him and the rest of the world. Aziraphale had seen him do it many times, usually after humanity had done something awful or when a TV show he really liked ended. The worst part was that these sulk sessions could last months, if not years. Aziraphale had to do something to shake his now angelic-snake friend out of it before it got bad.

“I have an idea.” 

Crowley peered at him through his feathers. “Good idea, or bad idea?”

Aziraphale thought it over carefully in his mind before settling on “Stupid idea.”

***

It was an immensely stupid idea. So stupid that if any of their human friends were around, yes even the children, they would have sat the angel and slightly-different-angel down and explained why this was a stupid idea. Why it wouldn’t work. That feathers don’t work that way. Ink doesn’t work that way. That the world didn’t work on cartoon logic. But they weren’t there, which meant Aziraphale’s stupid idea worked perfectly.

“There! That’s the last one!” Aziraphale stepped back with brush in hand to admire his work. The ink had soaked through Crowley’s feathers, turning them that lovely shade of endless void they used to be. “Now we just have to wait for it to dry--”

Crowley snapped his fingers.

“--or you could be an impatient child and miracle them dry. Really, Crowley?” 

“Just because I’m all holy now doesn’t mean I’m into any of that patience is a virtue nonsense.” Crowley stretched his wings up and out, their feathers once more the color of the space between the stars. He twisted his wings as best he could, marveling at the way the bookshop’s dim light danced across the feathers. “They’re perfect, angel! Course we’ll have to do touch ups whenever new feathers come in but that’s a small price to pay for fashion. What do you think, uh, Aziraphale? You okay?”

Aziraphale stood there, brush still in hand, his lip trembling the way it always did when he was upset. “Crowley. Are you really okay with this? Being...one of us?”

Crowley took the brush from Aziraphale’s hand and dropped it into the large ink pot on the floor. “It isn’t like I’ve never been an angel before. Besides, I’m not with,” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of heaven, “them. We’re on our own side, remember? I’m not with Heaven as an angel the same way I wasn’t with Hell as a demon. I just got to get used to this...holy-feeling.”

Aziraphale removed his cotton gloves and let them fall to the floor. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“It feels like someone handed me a baby lamb wrapped in a blanket and told me that if I drop it I’ll die.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Crowley shoved his hands as deep into his jacket pockets could go before mumbling “Yeah it’s alright, I guess.” 

“I’ll just have to be a little bit more of a bastard to balance everything out.”

They smiled at each other, as they always did, right within arm's reach yet so far away. There had always been that barrier between them even as they stood side-by-side at the end of the world. A barrier that, in roughly thirty seconds, both men would realize wasn’t there anymore. Crowley reached the realization first, most likely because of those long dangly legs of his.

“I’m not a demon.”

“Yes, Crowley. We’ve established that.”

“I’m an angel.”

“Yes, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale, we’re both angels.”

Crowley may have reached the conclusion first, but Aziraphale was the first one to move. He closed the distance between them, happy to find that Crowley was already leaning down enough to welcome his angel with a kiss. When the world didn’t try to end again they followed it up with a second, a third, and then quickly lost count in the double-digits. They spoke between the gaps, neither man willing to let go long enough for proper dialog.

“I was afraid--”

“I thought we couldn’t--”

“What if Heaven found out--”

“What if you Fell--”

“What if it hurt you--”

“What if your saliva counted as holy water or something--”

“That’s not how it--”

“Doesn’t matter, not anymore--”

“I love you--”

“I love you so much, angel--”

“You can’t call me that anymore now that you’re,” Aziraphale suddenly pulled away, his eyes wide, “oh fuck, you’re an angel. If you’re an angel that means Heaven--”

“--Will find out.” Crowley said, slightly annoyed that the kissing had to stop for a bit. The second this conversation was done, however, they were going right back at it. “And Hell. Bugger all.”

Aziraphale reached up and tugged on Crowley’s jacket enough to pull him back down for a softer kiss this time. “Maybe we should beat them to it with an official announcement?”

“Angel, you got that right-bastard look in your eyes.” Crowley laughed, the holiness in his chest mixing in with the rest of his love. Once combined they settled in naturally, allowing the odd feelings to finally pass. “Another stupid idea?”

“Better. This idea is hilarious.”

***

There were angels missing in Heaven.

Gabriel flipped through the ledger again, as if the missing names would simply magically reappear. Oh look, those couple hundred names were just hiding in the index! Nothing to worry about here. No angels going AWOL and seemingly vanishing from Heaven’s gaze for good. But no matter how many times Gabriel went through the old ledger not a single missing-angel name popped up. The worst part was that it wasn’t like they fell because their name would have been scribbled out like the rest of the demons.

He paused mid-flip as an absolute terrible thought occurred to him. Some people thought Gabriel wasn’t smart, or a bit thick, or any other number of phrases that meant he wasn’t the brightest angel. This was only partially true. He--and many other angels--may have been clueless when it came to Earthly matters, but were very sharp when it came to celestial matters. That was why Gabriel returned to the first page of the ledger and began counting the scribbled out demon names. 

Two hundred and seventy-five were missing, the same amount as the missing angels.

Gabriel closed the book with loving care before pressing it against his face to muffle his screams. He found screaming very therapeutic. He couldn’t really curse at God as that was a big no-no, but he could scream to the universe at large about that damned angel and that double-damned demon and their damn-damn-bloody-damned ineffable plan and--

Gabriel’s scream session was cut off by his holy smartphone going off. He could scream at whoever was on the other side, he thought. Even better! Gabriel answered the phone and was just about to start bellowing when the person on the other end cut him off.

“GABE! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!”

Beelzebub. Great. His eternity wasn’t going bad enough. “Beez--”

“DO NOT CALL ME BEEZZZZZZ!”

Gabriel took a deep breath before continuing with “Beez, if this is about the missing names in the ledger I’ll have you know I had nothing to do with it, Heaven had nothing to do with it, and if you actually sat down to read the thing you would see that there’s just as many angels missing as demons--”

“I didn’t mean that! I meant the pizzzzzzzza party!”

“The what?”

***

“The Pizzzzza party!” Beelzebub sunk down on their throne, phone in one hand and slice of pizza in the other. “Hell is full of pizzzza!”

There was a beat of silence on the other end before Gabriel replied, “What like, just lying around in piles or--”

“No! There’s, there’s tables! And streamers! Balloons! There are balloons here, Gabriel! In bright cheery colors! And there’s this one really long table full of different types of candy and and ice cream it’s supposed to be a, a,” Beelzebub lowered the phone just enough to shout “Ligur! What did you say it was called?”

“An ice cream sundae bar!” Ligur shouted back.

“An ice cream sundae bar!”

“Hold up, didn’t you tell me that Ligur was dead?”

Beelzebub shrugged even though they knew Gabriel couldn’t see it. “He showed up right before the trial. Said he just stopped being non-existent.” 

“I got better!” Ligur shouted again. 

(Of course Ligur was better. When Adam said he was going to put the world back together he meant it. That included any and all demons killed over the course of the week. There were also a lot more bees and whales than before but Adam figured no one would notice.)

“Anyway!” Beelzebub snapped, “No one down here did this so it must have been one of your lot!”

“My lot?! If you think any of ‘my lot’ would sully themselves with pizza and ice cream--”

“No but your lot is more likely to use their powers to create a pizzzzzza party large enough for all of Hell because they thought it was nice or something!”

“I am insulted! I will have you know there’s not a single angel up here who would waste even a drop of mercy for ‘your lot’ and you know it!”

“Well if it wasn’t me, and if wasn’t you, then...who…” Beelzebub let their voice trail off. Much like their counterpart, Beelzebub was not stupid. But they were a fly, and sometimes it took their brain a bit of buzzing around before landing long enough to connect the dots. 

“Fuck me.” Beelzebub said the exact same time Gabriel said “For fuck’s sake.”

It was at that moment Hastur popped out of the milling crowd of Hell and said “Hey boss? Ligur found a cake and uh, I think you need to see it.”

“Of course there’s cake.” Beelzebub said as they shoved their phone back into their pocket without bothering to hang up (Butt dialing was an invention of Hell after all). They wolfed down their slice of pizza disturbingly quick and followed Hastur through the crowd, eager to get this over with. If you asked why Beelzebub was impatient they would say something about needing the time to plot against this grand insult against Hell and all of its demons. They would not under any circumstances say because they wanted one of the cake’s corner pieces before a far less worthy demon claimed it. 

The crowd parted as Beelzebub swept through, giving them a clear path to this mysterious cake. Beelzebub was slightly disappointed to see that it was round, therefore meaning there were no corner pieces to claim. In just a few more minutes Beelzebub would be even more disappointed when they found out it was an angel food cake. But at that very second all they could focus on was the sprawling script written across the cake in flowing gold-frosting letters punctuated with a tiny angel wing on both sides.

He’s mine.

- A. Z. F.

***

Back in Heaven Gabriel didn’t hear Beelzebub’s frustrated scream on the other side of the phone because he was too busy staring at a sticker. 

He had no idea how he missed it during his numerous searches through the ledger. Whoever had placed it in the ledger did it in a way that it covered a name that could have been angelic or demonic scribbled-out.  It was absolutely hideous. A mess of holographic rainbows and sparkles designed to catch the light of Heaven at just the right angle to annoy Gabriel with its glare. The sticker also so happened to be in the shape of a black and red snake wearing sunglasses.

Gabriel couldn’t even find it in himself to scream. 

The door to Gabriel’s office opened as Michael stepped in with rather puzzled expression on his face. “Gabriel, I apologize for interrupting but I just got word from my informant that there’s been a massive miracle performed in Heaven and Hell and I wanted to speak to you about--”

Michael stopped talking. Odd.

“About…?” Gabriel asked as he finally tore his eyes off the garish sticker. Michael was staring at him. “About what?”

No, he thought, Michael wasn’t staring at him. He was staring up and over Gabriel’s shoulder. Dread pooled in Gabriel’s stomach as he turned around in his heavenly office chair to see what was behind him. 

There, right on the back wall above his desk, was a large portrait of The Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Mankind, Boyfriend of That Angel We Don’t Talk About, and a General Royal Pain in the Ass, Crowley. He was grinning from ear-to-ear, shooting double fingerguns to make it absolutely clear that he was far cooler than anyone looking at the painting. Aziraphale was there too, pressed up against the serpent’s side with his head propped up on Crowley’s shoulder. And there, under the painting, was a shining golden plaque with a single line engraved across its surface in a style that Gabriel didn’t know, but any Earthbound human would recognize immediately as comic sans. 

ANGEL OF THE MILLENNIUM - ANTHONY J CROWLEY

Gabriel didn’t bother to muffle his screams this time.

[chilling-seavey]

OKAY THESE IDEAS R JUST FLOWING IN RN BUT AMOUREUX DANIEL SNEAKING CHRISTMAS PRESENTS INTO LOUISA'S ROOM AND VICE VERSA YES YES YES AND LIKE IMAGINE IF CHRISTIAN WAS LIKE "OH THIS LOOKS NICE, WHERE'D YOU GET THIS FROM DARLING?"

So Christmas was never in the original time period as Amoureux spanned August-November so this is like an AU to my AU where we pretend Christmas happened during the whole situation just because I really like this idea!!

Kensington Palace was always decorated extravagantly for Christmas and once the first snow fell, it truly felt like the magic of Christmas spirit had settled. Garlands were draped over the banisters of the grand staircase and the tree was set up in one of the sitting rooms and donned with candles and tinsel and gold and silver decorations. Louisa always loved Christmas so she was excited to see all that England had to offer when it came to her favourite holiday. Of course, winter was the perfect time for romance and Christian often took her out for snowy walks through the palace grounds and they would return for mugs of tea to Daniel playing Christmas music on his cello, the sound echoing almost through the whole building. The romance of Christmas time only had Louisa yearning for Daniel more and more but their opportunities to sneak off together were fewer and farther between as Christian never seemed to leave Louisa’s side all day.

It was a snowy night, the warm candlelit palace surrounded in crisp white sparkling snow that fell gently to the ground by Louisa’s bedroom window as she sat on the windowsill and watched the quiet night pass by. The knock on her door startled her – who would be awake so late? – but she offered a quiet “come in” to the mysterious guest. Daniel poked his head in, offering her a smile that was lit by the candlestick in his hand.

“Come with me.” he whispered.

She bit back her eager grin and jumped off the window ledge, making sure her nightgown was smoothed out down to her ankles, and followed him out of her bedroom. He took her hand in his and they tiptoed across the empty second storey hallways to the back stairwell. The palace was so quiet that it felt like the only sound in the whole place was their breathing and the soft pat of their socked feet down the vacant stairs. Daniel’s single candle lit just enough space around them to see where they were going; reflecting off the gold trimmed walls and paintings.

Louisa could feel her heart hammering in her chest; wondering when they were going to get caught by one of the palace guards and be completely busted. She just held Daniel’s hand tighter as he led her down to the sitting room where the Christmas tree had been put up a week or so prior. He ushered her inside quickly, making sure no one was coming as he shut the double doors silently behind them.

The candles on the tree were still lit and the warm glow flickered and danced around the room, instantly bringing a smile to Louisa’s face as she sat down on the sofa and admired the decorations. Daniel set his candle on the table in front of them as he knelt on the sofa beside her with a bashful smile, a tad cheeky from being able to pull a successful stunt like sneaking out of their rooms after curfew.

“Isn’t it pretty?” Louisa breathed, turning to face him.

The candlelight cast dancing shadows over his face and she could see the reflection in his light eyes as he stared at her, “Yeah.”

She pushed her hand through the back of his hair just as he leaned in towards her for a soft kiss, locking their lips perfectly for a few long seconds before pulling back and tilting their heads to move in again. They shared slow, deep kisses in the warm light of the Christmas tree, snow falling gently outside the windows behind them.

Daniel finally pulled back from her after a moment, licking his lips slightly as his eyes found hers. He whispered, “I have a present for you.”

“What ever for?” Louisa frowned slightly, watching him shift away from her a little to reach under the couch and pull out a small flat box. “I don’t have anything for you.”

“That’s okay.” Daniel leaned in to press a few more quick kisses to her lips before passing over the box.

She took it hesitantly, eyeing him and his bashful smile as he leaned his arm on the back of the sofa and them rested his head against his hand, watching her untie the ribbon around the box. She pulled open the top to reveal a string of pearls resting on black velvet, polished and shining.

“Oh my…gosh…” Louisa breathed, running her fingers across the necklace.

“Do you like it?” Daniel asked softly.

“It is truly magnificent, Daniel. Thank you.” Louisa whispered, glancing back up at him and they both leaned in for a lingering kiss.

“Can I put it on you?”

Louisa nodded, passing him back the box and she turned around to face the tree as he draped the pearls around her neck and clasped them together. She turned back to show him, her fingers reaching to touch them as if they weren’t real.

“Stunning.” Daniel smiled, nodding once in agreement at his gift.

“Where did you get this?”

“A shop in London. Traded one of my old hideous brooches for it.” Daniel explained, shuffling closer to shift his arm around her shoulders and he gently ran his fingers over hers before they both intertwined them. “I think this is much nicer.”

“I would have bought you something if I knew we were-”

Daniel shook her head to cut her off, “No need. Don’t make a thing out of it. Just saw it and thought you would suit it well.”

Louisa smiled at him, welcoming his sweet kiss to her lips before she was draping her arms around his shoulders to pull him right close. They held each other and kissed for a while on the couch in the warm sitting room, not a word spoken between them. Blame it on the Christmas spirit and the undeniable attraction between them, but they were so hung up on each other that they didn’t notice one of the butlers coming down the hallway to blow out the candles on the tree for the night. Daniel never moved faster, tugging Louisa after him to duck behind the couch just before the door opened. They were slightly breathless from having been steadily kissing for the previous twenty minutes but they held each others hands and stayed perfectly silent, Louisa’s free hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

Daniel peeked up over the back of the couch to see the butler busy around the back of the large tree and he pulled Louisa up after him and made a mad dash to the door. They didn’t stop running until they made it through the halls and to the dark privacy of their secret stairwell.

“You left your candle!” Louisa whispered quickly with realisation.

“And the box.” Daniel added, linking his finger around the string of pearls to gently pull her close to kiss her again. “They know better than to ask questions.”

She giggled lightly into his mouth, keeping him close as he pressed her back up against the wall and bit lightly at her bottom lip.

“I should go to sleep.” Louisa breathed, feeling his chest rising and falling in time with hers with how close they stood.

“Okay.” Daniel nodded, pressing a few small kisses to her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Louisa only nodded with a bashful grin, pushing one more strong kiss to his lips before her hands slid down his chest and she was rushing up the stairs to her bedroom.

The next morning at breakfast, Louisa was the last one to arrive and she apologized quickly as she took her seat between Daniel and the King, her dress trimmed with the string of pearls draped around her neck. Daniel hid his smile behind a sip of his juice.

“That’s a lovely necklace, darling.” Christian complimented.

Daniel and Louisa’s attention peaked anxiously as if he knew something they didn’t want him too but his smile was nothing but genuine.

“Where did you get it?”

“Oh,” Louisa ran her fingers over the pearls, trying not to think about the memory of Daniel’s soft lips on hers and his hands on her body as she pushed out a lie, “It was my mother’s.”

“Your mother has exquisite taste.” the Queen smiled honestly.

Daniel only smirked silently to himself as he took another bite of his breakfast.

[dailynicholasgalitzine]

If anything is going to get you in the Christmas spirit, it’s English actor Nicholas Galitzine’s latest look. In his newest starring role, the 26-year-old wears a dashing Feng Chen Wang red suit, with any echoes of Old Saint Nick negated by the slick fit and even slicker hairdo.

He wore the tailoring to join an all-star cast including model and British Vogue cover star Adut Akech, The Morning Show actor Bel Powley and designer Michael Halpern in a new tongue-in-cheek film for Mercedes-Benz. The stars appear as contestants in a retro take on a gameshow hosted by Adut, Supermodel Fashion Statement, in the hope of winning a Mercedes G-Class. Nicholas plays a heightened version of himself in the “OTT” production, which was “super fun” to film, he told Miss Vogue over the phone.

“The red suit really just kind of popped along with the other extremely bold outfits we wore as a cast,” he said. “I’m very much an easy person, and I love to work with people who have bold eccentric vision. As a performer, I love to facilitate that in whatever way.” 

Nicholas’s performing career wasn’t part of any grand plan – he says he was more at home on the rugby pitch than the stage while at school. But a trip to the Edinburgh Fringe saw him return to South West London with a flurry of agents eager to have him on their books. “I was always a pretty shy kid. At that point in my life, [being in a play] felt like a big step that I needed to take, but I wasn’t expecting anything to come of it,” he said. “There, this idea was presented to me of potentially becoming an actor, which was kind of crazy. I left school unsure of what I wanted to do in life. It was kind of by fate that it came at this perfect moment, and I haven’t really looked back since. I don’t think anyone who I went to school with would have necessarily have been like, ‘Oh, he’s going to be an actor one day.’ I am just as surprised as anyone else.”

Seven years have since passed, and Nicholas has had roles in Netflix’s Chambers and as a closeted teen in the Irish film Handsome Devil, and played Timmy Andrews in The Craft: Legacy, released earlier this year. But it’s his role as Prince Charming in the forthcoming live action retelling of Cinderella – due for release early in 2021 – that is sure to catapult him fully into the spotlight.

For Prince Charming, Nicholas drew on his own personality and experience to bring a modern, more human element to the role. “I definitely had a sort of rebellious period as a kid and was alway getting into trouble and was very mischievous,” he chuckled down the phone. “Yet I’ve always aspired to be the quintessential gentleman. This version of Prince Charming is very much a fusion of both those things. He’s not your typical clean-cut, linear fairytale prince, there’s definitely an edge to him and there are things about him that make him more human than your typical fairytale prince.”

The release of Cinderella couldn’t be more timely, he hopes. After the last 12 months, a happily ever after might be just what everyone needs. “People will be drawn in by the familiarity of it, but then ultimately surprised by our interpretation of it, which is kind of the best of both worlds,” Nicholas said. “I think you always feel a certain level of nervousness when you’re taking on a character that is so well known and so iconic. I felt very comfortable in the fact that we were making something bold and new, and with the team that was assembled around me, I was just so supported going through the process.”

Fans of the original Disney classic will be pleased to hear that this Cinderella is packed with musical numbers. “I just had such an incredible amount of fun doing it, being in a movie musical is one of the greatest creative gifts you can possibly imagine,” said the actor. “It was definitely intimidating in the beginning, but as soon as we finished I was so sad it was over.” Of his co-star, Camila Cabello, who plays the titular role, Nicholas said: “I can tell you for a fact that I have never felt as untalented as when I had to sing alongside her and the other incredible singers, like Idina Menzel (Cinderella’s evil stepmother), and Billy Porter (who plays a genderless Fairy Godmother). I just feel so blessed to be on these tracks with these incredible singers, and regardless of what happens in life, no one can take that away from me now.”

The Cinderella soundtrack won’t be the only album Nicholas appears on next year. “I’m going to be releasing some of my own music in the new year, which is super exciting because I’ve never really had time to pursue that, as acting has taken precedence,” he said. “My goal is to continue working with passionate, driven, artists who are willing to think out of the box, and to keep challenging myself as an artist and a creative.”

Fashion is something else that Nicholas is keen to get his teeth into. Having donned “Cuban heels and super-tight trousers” to play Prince Charming, he’s been picking up style notes from set. “I think you have to step outside of your aesthetic comfort zone when you’re creating characters, because for me, a lot of characterisation happens in costume building,” he explained. “I’ve been very lucky to play a plethora of different characters, and have had to experiment with a lot of styles that aren’t typically what I wear and have been influenced through that.”

He said he admires the wardrobe of Harry Styles, who famously takes a fluid approach to getting dressed. “Something that I’ve definitely taken on when I think of my style icons – people like Harry Styles and the way he’s managed to bring a femininity to his masculinity – is that that’s definitely the way that we’re moving as men going into 2021.” Nicholas name drops young designers Daniel W. Fletcher and Harris Reed as creatives he would like to work with in the near future, and adds that he’s long admired the work of Kim Jones and yearns to own a Tom Ford Suit.

Though classically handsome, Nicholas admits that he hasn’t always felt accepted by the fashion and film worlds. As a broad-shouldered former rugby player, Nicholas said some fashion brands simply don’t cater to his shape, but added that things are changing. “I still have thick thighs, but the male aesthetic is very much tailored to the Timothée Chalamets and the Charlie Plummers of this world,” he said. “I think that we’re moving back into this space of normalising different body types, for both men and women. I think there has been a beauty standard in fashion and the movie industry, but all the shapes are great shapes as far as I’m concerned. If people don’t want my thick thighs then that’s just that’s their fault.”

BY NAOMI PIKE (16 DECEMBER 2020) BRITISH VOGUE

[thetranquilteal]

The Gift [AO3] by @thetranquilteal​

Jamie has spent almost every night of his deployment yearning to be with his wife and newborn child. When he is given the opportunity to be home for Brianna's first Christmas, however, he unexpectedly finds himself torn between the past, present and future. 

A modern day short story inspired by @thelallybrochlibrary Holiday Prompt: "Soldier Jamie returns from his deployment in time for Brianna’s first Christmas” submitted by @becc127.

Part I: Home For Christmas

Jamie looked down at the photograph resting in the palm of his hand. 

There sat his beautiful wife, their brand new wean resting in her arms. The stark contrast between Claire’s dark and unruly curls lightly brushing their daughter’s red tuft was only highlighted by Claire’s dark blouse and the cream coloured crochet blanket she had wrapped Brianna in. 

He chuckled to himself and raised his eyes as if to follow the sound carrying away with the wind into the mountains lit only by moonlight shining through sparse clouds.

He could still remember the moment Claire had announced her name over the phone.

“Brianna,” the mouthed to himself and smiled again. He had made a fuss at the time but it had been token, half-hearted at most, as he hadn't truly minded. How could he? After what had happened with Faith -

He shook his head quickly in an attempt to dispel the thought.

He loved Faith. A Dhia, he loved her. So much so that it hurt to think of her - their first, a daughter born too early, too silent and too still - let alone speak of her out loud and, truthfully, he could only deal with so much heartache on a dark night like this, where stars were dulled by lingering clouds and death curled around them like unwelcome hot breath. 

His hold on the photograph tightened as his throat constricted and heart thumped in his chest. 

It had been a standard patrol. Standard. There was a scoff bubbling up from within but he hadn’t enough energy to dispel it, instead opting to let it simmer in the barely controlled but well-concealed anger that had been plaguing him for hours. It was supposed to be standard, damn it! Instead, they had stumbled across an IED. 

Unmarked. Unexpected. Deadly.

Now, instead of continuing their assignment as planned, they would be departing at first light to escort Angus' body home. 

Christ, how he wished he could speak to Claire. Touch her. Feel her. Wrap his arms around and just hold her. 

During her time as a Combat Medical Technician, she had been on two tours of her own and had seen such violent harm up close and intimately more times than he would wish upon any soul. Unlike any other Tech here in this God-forsaken desert, however, she had the ability to heal a lot more than just physical wounds. She had hands that wove stories across the skin, lips that formed words to heal the soul, and a heart more loving than anyone - including he - could ever deserve.

From the very first, when she had come and laid a hand on him to reset a dislocated shoulder, he had known - she was everything. 

Everything he knew he wanted.

Everything he hadn’t known he needed. 

Leaving her, just weeks pregnant with their second bairn, to go on this tour had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and news of a happy and healthy daughter had provided incredible relief. For a moment in time, he was devoid of the burden that had been tying him down ever since he had step foot on the aircraft and the weightlessness had left him giddy with the feeling he could do anything - achieve anything.

But all too soon that feeling had been replaced with something new. A yearning, almost.

A calling. 

On nights he managed more than an hour or two of solid sleep, he would dream of Brianna. Shifting within her swaddle, asleep in her crib. Small fingers wrapped tight around one of Claire's. Crying out blindly in hunger only to be soothed by her mother’s scent shifting closer. 

The following day the images would linger, there in the background of his mind, as they cleaned their rifles and organised equipment, long after shifts changed and there were no words to fill the silence that fell down upon them, and every time they paused to take refuge from the hot sun beating down upon them. 

Despite their continued occurrence, he resisted speaking of them out loud, too afraid that the sound might interrupt the ethereal connection that existed between the two of them. That he might be left even more alone than he already was. 

The mere thought made him grit his teeth. 

In his youth loneliness hadn’t bothered him - if anything he had welcomed it. First, it was the solitude that came with working in the Highland fields as a teenager and, then, the freedom that came with being an entry-level soldier travelling between various stations and training grounds, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots or form any serious relationships outside of work.

Then he had met Claire. 

While, from that point onward, he had spent his days afield eagerly awaiting their next reunion, their intimate relationship had had very little impact on life in the Armed Forces. It was one that the two of them were used to and one that continued on even after they had wed. When Claire, pregnant and suffering from terrible morning sickness, was released from active duty, however, things changed. It was then he had come to truly understand what it meant to be ‘away’. Away from his wife. His family. His home. And now, another daughter. 

One that would be there when he returned. 

The thought gave him hope - a small flicker somewhere deep down beneath the bone-weary exhaustion and budding sense of desperation.

The sound of worn boots upon dusty gravel grew nearer and he turned slightly, more so due to a long instilled need to keep anything and everything within his line of vision than simple curiosity. 

He shifted again as Murtagh sat down next to him and waited. 

It wasn’t uncommon for the two to sit side by side in comfortable silence from time to time but he knew the man, both godfather and superior, had sought him out with purpose. 

"Received confirmation from Stuart - schedule remains unchanged,” Murtagh stated casually. “Dougal's putting together the last of the equipment. Thought it would be best to leave Rupert be fer now."

Jamie nodded his approval. While Rupert had not been severely injured by the blast, he remained in the medic station for a long while before making his way to Angus' cot to start packing his best friend's belongings and it had been second nature for the team to unofficially take the man off rotation, wordlessly absorbing any and all remaining jobs between them. 

"I should double-check the paperwork's been lodged," Jamie replied though he made no move to stand and Murtagh did the same, having obviously decided it was his own turn to wait. Minutes went by unchecked until he finally said aloud, “I always thought this job couldnae get any harder,” the words spontaneous and providing little to no detail for their use. 

Still, his Godfather understood.

“Tomorrow may be harder than most, aye," Murtagh brushed a hand over his bearded chin and then waved it towards Jamie’s own, "but at the end of it, you’ll be home. In time fer the bairn’s first Christmas, no less.”

"Christmas," Jamie echoed, mostly to himself, nodding his head slowly before looking back down at the photograph. “I'll be home for Christmas.”

When Murtagh put a hand on his shoulder and stood, he dipped his head in acknowledgement but continued looking a moment longer, before tucking it back into his chest pocket and rising himself. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck - a long practised method used to replace the battered armour he had worn for far, far too long but destined to wear a little while longer yet. 

He would be home for Christmas but until that day came, he reminded himself, he had a job to do. And a promise to keep.

A/N: For a lot of people, Christmas is not a time of joy but of sadness, anxiety and distress. There can be an overwhelming sense of pressure to be happy and this underlying notion that expressing anything different is not only inappropriate but harmful to those around us. It leaves many - like Jamie in this AU and myself in real life - conflicted, confused and, at times, hopeless and lost. This story is dedicated not only to all service-men, -women and their families but to all of those who struggle during the holiday season. Please know that I am thinking of you and hope that you, like Jamie towards the end of this story, are blessed with a sense of inner peace and many restful nights. A x

[doctorgerth]

Here i am, coming out of my shyness, leaving my anon mask behind 😈 I've been feeling a little down lately so i'd love something sweet, fluff, with Shanks, but still romantic. Maybe how we get together? Like, how it gets serious, a confession, something like that, but whatever you feel like will be good 🥰 (Teal anon, you can call me Liru too) Thanks for all your work!!! 💕✨

Shanks is...a goofball when he’s drunk. And just such a cheesy man in general. At least in my head anyway lol I had lots of fun writing for him. I don’t get to do that a lot, so thanks for this request! Hope you enjoy and that it helped cheer you up a bit! Proud of you for conquering your shyness 😋

"Liru, c’mere.” Shanks motioned for you in silly manners and you knew well enough that he was drunk. Patting his lap, you rolled your eyes with a small smile and sat down, no matter how embarrassed you were at the notion. His arms wrapped around you instantly and he nuzzled his face into your back like a child. The crew members that shared the table with their captain couldn’t help but laugh at the scene before them and that made the all too familiar warmth blossom along your cheeks. Shanks noticed immediately and beamed brightly with that infectious smile, “Aren’t they the cutest?!” 

“Shanks, stop...” You whined as you attempted to cover your face and wriggled in his lap. His grip on you was firm however and he shook his head violently.

“No way, look guys, look at my little shortcake. Tell them how pretty they are!” 

You’d never get used to that, what was supposed to be endearing, nickname. It always made your stomach flip in the weirdest ways and you weren’t sure if you actually liked it or not. What you knew for sure, was that Shanks would be the death of you. Sober Shanks was enough of a handful, but drunk Shanks constantly had you flushing bright red from his shameless advances. 

“Woah, woah! So you’re the captain’s lover now?” Lucky Roo laughed loudly and you whined even further as you jabbed Shanks in the ribs with your elbow.

“I never said that.” 

Shanks pouted, “Hey! That’s mean! Then why were you all kissy with me last night?” Another jab to the ribs and even drunk Shanks got the hint to shut up.

The entire table laughed and you joined them awkwardly, hoping everyone was just laughing off. It was still a mystery to you whether the crew knew of you and Shanks after all. It was true that you weren’t his. It’s not like he had officially asked anyway. It didn’t matter how many kisses you shared or how tightly he held you in his bed at night. He had yet to ask you officially, properly, and you were beginning to assume that what you two had was nothing more than physical. Though you two had shared many heartfelt conversations countless times before and the emotional connection was more than evident.

The rest of the night was long and Shanks continued to tease you just to rile you up. You didn’t mind, no matter if your actions said otherwise. Shanks’ playful nature with you was one of the many things that had you head over heels for him. It made your heart thump wildly the way he’d look at you and it amazed you at how it never faltered whether he was drunk or sober. There was always that twinkle of adoration in his eyes, paired with that toothy smile that made your heart melt every single time. And you easily noticed that he always gave that look to you alone.

You were unsure what to think of it, especially as he was giving you that look now while you tucked him gently into bed.

“So...you won’t be mine?” His smile drooped into a dramatic frown as he easily complied to you fluffing his pillow and pulling the blankets over him. 

You sighed exasperatedly but smiled down at him nonetheless, “Maybe tomorrow, Shanks.” He’d probably forget this entire exchange by the morning anyhow. 

“Well I’d better get to sleep then, so tomorrow will get here faster.” He sounded like a kid on Christmas Eve and it only made your heart yearn for him even more. If there was anything you knew about Shanks, it was that he never said anything he didn’t mean. Not even when he was drunk. So if he was so eager to claim you as his, why wouldn’t he do so? 

You left his room with further confusion, and you knew you were probably over complicating the situation. You just desired to feel a sense of control over your relationships, and with Shanks it was nearly impossible to control your intense whirlwind of a romance. It was a nice change and you loved what you had together, but you needed clarity. You needed to know what you two were. As you laid your head upon your pillow, you struggled to fall asleep as your head raced with possible scenarios, both good and bad, and suddenly you were very nervous and probably unprepared for tomorrow. 

The next day came and Shanks was nowhere to be found. You’d intended to wake him up in the morning with water and hangover medicine, but you only found his bed empty. When you returned into the hallway, you felt a hand on your back and instantly peered up to see Benn towering over you, “Captain said we’re having an important meeting. We gotta go.” 

You followed the herd of the crew as they collected onto the deck and your eyes instantly caught Shanks’. He smiled down at you and waved excitedly which made you wonder if he remembered your conversation last night after all. 

“Now that everyone is here, I have an important announcement to make.” Shanks called out while the crew listened intently. “It’s come to my attention that there’s been a rumor going around that Liru and I are together.” Your face burned instantly as all eyes fell on you and you could hear the murmurs of the crew. Just what was Shanks up to?

“I just wanted to take the time to squash those rumors.” You swore you could hear the sound of your heart breaking over everything else around you. Your skin grew cold as the many piercing eyes remained on you and the murmuring only continued, “And hopefully make them a reality. If Liru will have me.”

The crew emitted a low and amused ooh that tingled your body to its core. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as his words echoed in your brain, slowly making less and less sense as they repeated like a broken record. You watched with bated breath as he descended the stairs and made his way toward you, the crowd easily clearing the way for their captain. When he stood before you he took your trembling hands in his, giving you the look.

“So, it’s tomorrow. Whaddya say? Will you be mine?” 

Pause. Both for dramatic effect and so you could regain your composure. Just as his confident smile began to fade, you took his face between your hands and inhaled a shaky breath.

“Yes, you dummy. You kept me waiting long enough!” Without thinking twice, you pulled him down into a passionate kiss. He easily met you halfway, lifting you up off your feet to pull you as close as possible into him in eager excitement to finally seal the deal. The crew cheered wildly around you, already setting up for another big celebration, but all you could focus on was the familiar softness of Shanks’ lips on your own. His lips now finally yours to claim.

[ariannnafm]

𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍  𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑  am  i  right?  hello  everyone!  marie  here,  coming  at  you  after  a  long,  stressful  day  at  work  (  we  love  coworkers  who  don’t  take  this  pandemic  seriously!!  )  anyways  ,  i’m  so  freaking  excited  for  this  group,  i  applied  so  last  minute  last  night  because  i  am  obsessed  with  the  plot  and  i  knew  arianna  would  be  perfect!  everything  about  this  babe  is  below  the  cut  and  i  am  itching  to  get  to  plotting  with  you  all!  so  please  like  this  post,  or  reach  out  via  tumblr  ims  or  discord @*  ɪ'ᴍ ᴀ ʟᴏɴᴇʟʏ 𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉 .#3088 

[  sofia  carson  .  22  .  cis female  .  she/her  ]  just saw ARIANNA MORENO dragging their suitcase up the steps to CABIN 2C. good luck living with HER,  i hear that that they’re MATERIALISTIC, CREDULOUS,  EFFERVESCENT,  &  EARNEST.  apparently they’re the SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER.  let’s hope the upcoming season doesn’t affect their JUNIOR year of COMMUNICATIONS  [  marie  .  23  .  she/her  .  mst  ]

*  𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒  :

full name  :  arianna josephine moreno

age  :  twenty two

gender  /  pronouns  :  cis female / she , her

hometown  :  scarsdale , ny

major  :  communications

*  𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘  :  ( tw : mention of cancer , death )

arianna comes from old columbian money. her family is a pretty big deal back in their home country, her great - grandfather being the founder of a major luxury hotel chain. many years ago, arianna’s grandfather decided to branch the family business out to the states and he planted his roots in scarsdale, new york, which is where arianna was born and raised.

her father eventually took over the hotel chain, which led to him being busy a lot and having to travel extensively. luckily, arianna’s mother, a talented author and freelance editor, was able to stay at home and raise ari and her two older brothers.

being the only girl and the youngest child, arianna has a bad case of spoiled princess syndrome. she grew up getting pretty much whatever she wanted whenever she wanted it, so hearing the word no is a foreign feeling to her.

however, where the morenos are known for being wealthy and successful, they’re equally noted for their confidence, ambition, and intelligence. nothing just fell into their laps, all of arianna’s ancestors worked for what they had so that was deeply instilled in ari from a young age. chores were a weekly routine, along with good grades and extracurriculars. 

a future in the family business was never forced down the throats of the moreno children...much. sure there was a tradition of the kids taking over the chain, sure ari’s dad would love to keep the chain in the family, sure he began taking each kid to work when they turned 16 to dip their toes in the water. but a life in the hotel industry was never proposed as the only option for them. arianna and her brothers had the world at their fingertips, they could truly do anything and have the support of their parents.

come high school graduation, arianna decided to take some time off from school and worked for her father for a while to properly experience the family business. after two years, she could tell that a future with the company was something she wanted, but her brother took much of the weight off of her shoulders by stepping up to be ceo in training, leaving arianna to set her sights on a place behind the scenes where she could excel.

she decided to attend her mother’s alma mater, hollis univeristy, to major in communications. hollis is a far way from home, but ari wanted to properly experience life away from the nest and where better than across the country? 

now fast forward two years to when arianna is just finishing up her finals for sophomore year. she got a call from her mother that her father had a case of acute leukemia, leaving him with mere months to live. arianna raced home to scarsdale and practically fell off the face of the earth to most of her college friends. she did not return to hollis in the fall, instead taking a year off to spend time with her family. her father passed away shortly after christmas.

returning to hollis had been up in the air for arianna for a few weeks. she was unsure about leaving her family again, especially with all of the trouble they had to deal with regarding the company. but when one of her professors called about an opportunity to work as the social media manager for the knights, her family all but shoved her on the plane back to california, eager to see arianna find her passion again and move forward with her life.

*  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑  :

labels  :  quixotic , aesthete , halcyon

traits  :  effervescent , ambitious , credulous , possessive , charming , magnetic , determined , earnest , materialistic , perfectionist

zodiac sign  :  virgo

hogwarts house  :  hufflepuff

aesthetics  :  valentine’s candy hearts , rose gold jewelry , early morning sunrises , organized agendas , freshly manicured nails , laughter echoing down a hallway , coffee at midnight 

in a nutshell, arianna is a beacon of charisma, optimism, laughter, and ambition. her smile is infectious and she really just loves to spread love and optimism.

growing up, she was always a bright - eyed, excitable girl, but moving away from home and finding herself seemed to unleash a whole new level of wonderment.

she loves to explore. having grown up with her family name plastered on hotels around the world, arianna has seen much of the world. she loves to travel and make every trip count, and yearns to find a little adventure where ever she goes.

trusting, very trusting — too trusting. almost on the verge of gullible. she really just believes in the best of everyone and can’t imagine why anyone would want to cause any harm in the world. but on that note, also a little firecracker when she needs to be. if you do cause any harm to her or her loved ones, she’s not afraid to step up and tell you to shove your head where the sun don’t shine. 

incredibly independent and determined. especially since her father’s death, she wants to live up to the moreno name and make her family proud.

love is one of her favourite things ever. she’s probably the biggest hopeless romantic ever and she often cries over cheesy romcoms on sunday nights. 

she’s the type who’d swoon over a bouquet of roses or a sweet text message, but she’s not dependent on finding the one. although she’s no stranger to the dating game, ari is determined to focus on her studies and her future career, and just wants to enjoy her youth.

*  𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒  :

i will start this out by saying i’m totally open to pretty much anything plot - wise. brainstorming is my jam and i love to help others out with their wanted plots, so if there’s anything specific you want or you have an idea for arianna, don’t hesitate to throw it at me! 

you can find my page of wanted plots right here — it’s a little under construction still, sorry!

[noctisfishing]

Colors in Distance

Color Shot #03 [ AO3 | FFN ]

Rated: T

Pairing: Taiora

Notes: This one has some heavier emotions compared to the other Color Shots so far. It tells a little bit about a long distance relationship, and echoes some moods of this pandemic, especially during the holidays. Don’t worry, this one still sticks to the fluffy theme, and I threw in some optimism, too.

I felt like giving readers something for my birthday (funny and annoying how this reminds me of Sora LOL) and I’m glad I published this in time. Much love and many hugs from Noct. <3

Color Shots are one-shot side stories to Colors in Autumn. #03 is set after a major plot point of Colors; otherwise, the stories can generally be read without reading the 152K monster of a fic. I’d still love it if you gave my monster baby a read, though. <3

Here it is if you’re ready for a little slow burn [ AO3 | FFN ]

See also:

#01 Colors in Christmas if you’d like to get in the spirit (bg Koumi & Takari) [ AO3 | FFN ]

#02 Colors in Dancing if you want to read pure fun (bg Koumi) [ AO3 | FFN ]

Click for an excerpt:

"Good morning, Taichi," Sora said in a gentle singsong, almost with a hint of mockery.

"I can't believe it's that time already," he grumbled with his eyes still shut.

"Weekends seem to run away from us so quickly."

"Mm." He turned to his side, yearning to return to slumber.

"Are you up yet?"

"Just a few more minutes…"

Sora laughed. "I don't have a 'snooze' button, remember? Do you want me to hang up and make your phone annoy you into waking up?"

With one final groan, he rolled out of bed and held his phone in front of his face as he stood up, using his free hand to rub his eyes. When he removed his hand, he looked back at his phone screen and noticed Sora staring with a smile.

"You're mocking me with those eyes," he said.

She giggled. "At least you're up now. You don't want to be late."

"If you insist."

Tai kept the video call on while he washed up and started to prepare for his day. Sometimes he would end the call the moment he stepped into the bathroom, but Sora would never be the one to hang up when her day was winding down just as his was starting up. There were some mornings that he wanted her to stay on as long as possible.

That morning was one of those times.

[admiralty-xfd]

Each Charted Course

Mulder reflects on Christmases past, and considers some roads not travelled. 

This was my entry for the @xfilesfanficexchange​ this year. 

He sits on the back porch, the frigid air biting at his exposed skin. He should probably be wearing more than a T-shirt but the idea of going back inside is unappealing at the moment, for some reason. He likes it out here in the quiet, alone with his thoughts.

There are no sleigh bells echoing in the distance or even the sharp scent of pine but Christmas isn’t just a time of year; it’s a feeling. And he feels it tonight.

“Hey,” a voice comes from behind him, as the back door opens a bit. Even in the thick chill he can sense home as it escapes through the crack: the scent of Christmas ham and pumpkin pie, the snap and crackle of the fireplace, yuletide carols softly spilling out, all the things he’s so content to be part of.

Scully plunks down next to him, wraps her hand around the crook of his arm, and leans in against him. “Mom left.”

He nods, staring out into the woods. “Sorry I didn’t say goodbye.”

Scully nods. “She’s worried about you,” she says, hesitantly. “You were a little distant tonight.”

“Got a lot on my mind.”

She squeezes him tighter. “Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she says softly. “I love you.”

Her voice is soft as the moonlight, but warm. It’s really all he needs, and he knows it. He turns to face her, to return the sentiment.

“I love you, too.”

“What are you thinking so hard about?” she asks, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Regrets,” he says simply.

“That’s a bit sad, for Christmas,” she points out. “Doesn’t seem like the time for regrets.”

“Well, I’ve had a few.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, and from inside the house Frank Sinatra’s White Christmas comes on, as if their stereo had read his mind. His most immediate regret is feeling this way at all on Christmas. He doesn’t really want to think about all the things he’d have done differently over the years if he could.

“Pretend I don’t know,” she says. “About these regrets.”

He sighs, knowing she’s had plenty of her own. He hadn’t meant to make everything heavy. Maybe he can lighten the mood a bit. “Well, for one, that you and I didn’t allow ourselves to have this so much sooner.”

“I know that one all too well,” she says. “But I try not to see it as a regret, more like… the path we chose. And it did lead us here, eventually.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “But there are a few things over the years I’d have done differently if I could.”

“Oh yeah?”

He shrugs. “Ghosts of Christmases past, I suppose.”

A steamy plume of breath escapes her lips from beside him, and he can feel her smiling, the way he always can. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me about these ghosts. Tell me what you would have done differently.”

He smiles, pulls her into his lap. His butt is freezing from the icy porch but she surrounds him with her warmth. It’s Antarctica. It’s trust. It’s everything he needs and more. He still finds it difficult to believe how long it took him to come around regarding this quiet, uneventful life they share together. But he’s here, now. Truly here with her. And happy.

“Well, Tiny Tim,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to her hair, “sit a spell with your old Scrooge and let me tell you a few.”

1 9 9 3

“It’s just dinner at my place,” Scully says hopefully as she puts on her coat to leave the office. “My parents were out of town visiting my brother for Christmas so it’s a little belated celebration.”

Mulder rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Please,” she rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t be. My mother has been bugging me to meet you for months.”

He stops pulling his own coat on, mid-sleeve. “She has?”

“Mm-hmm,” she says in that sly, kind of sexy way. He shakes away the errant thought. He can’t think of Scully like that.

“Why?”

Scully shrugs. “She’s my mother. It’s bad enough I go to work carrying a gun every day, she wants to know who it is I’m trusting with my life.”

He finishes pushing his arms through the sleeves, inexplicably flustered. Trusting one’s partner with one’s life comes with the territory. She’s required to trust him to effectively do her job. But something about the way she’d said it puts him off guard.  They’ve only been partners for a few months but he’s already put her in so much danger. Guilt creeps over him like a bad rash.

He’s nervous to meet Scully’s mother. He’s never really been in a position to think about it before but suddenly it could happen, and tonight. Right now. He isn’t prepared at all.

“Well, what do you say?” She looks at him expectantly.

He wants to tell her yes, even though he’s afraid to. He wavers. One answer will take him one way, a different answer will lead him another.

“Why not?” he grins. “I hope they’re prepared for me to regale them with conspiracy theories.”

She smiles, that really wide one he rarely gets to see. “Don’t worry about that,” she assures him. “They’ve heard plenty about you.”

When he arrives, he takes in his surroundings. Scully’s apartment is cozy and, just as he’d expected, pristine. There’s a distinct femininity he likes, but at the same time it unsettles him. Dana Scully is his partner, his friend. He’s not supposed to see her as a woman. This feels intensely private, but she’s allowed him into her space and he’s thrilled in spite of his reservations.

Mrs. Scully is all warmth and politeness, fawning over him like he imagines she does her own sons. Imagines, because he’s certainly never received such treatment from his own mother in all thirty two years of his life; not really. He lets her take his coat, lets her kiss his cheek, lets her call him “Fox.” He likes her already.

Scully hasn’t spoken much about Ahab, but he’s exactly as Mulder had pictured. He’s tall and serious, with the military manner he sees jump out of Scully every time he himself steps out of line. He has a firm handshake and looks Mulder in the eye, with the same familiar skepticism he sees in his daughter’s eyes practically daily. He has to stop himself from laughing, knowing he’d be unable to explain.

The four of them chat and laugh and eat a wonderful meal Scully had prepared; he’s impressed and delighted by this unexpected domestic talent he’d never had the occasion to wonder about before.

Ahab jokes about the fact that Scully’s Christmas tree still stands so close to New Year’s and a good natured argument ensues: a tiny portrait of their lives. He sits back and profiles, watches her interact with her family closely, sees how she yearns for her father’s approval and takes her mother’s for granted. He realizes he’s learned more about his partner in one evening than he’s allowed himself to since he met her.  

At the end of the night Mrs. Scully hugs him, and he hugs her back. Ahab grasps his hand firmly, pumping it a couple times, and looks him right in the eye again, thanking him for looking after his baby. Mulder says “you’re welcome” and is instantly compelled to do a much better job of that particular task from here on out.

Turns out Scully was right about her father; he asks for nothing less than the best you can give and you’re happy to give it.

He and Scully stand at her front door and wave goodbye, both weirdly cognizant of her parents’ strategic departure that’s enabled the two partners to be left alone. Suddenly this feels like a successful date; some kind of test he’s passed with flying colors. She looks at him and grins, and he grins back, the miraculous outcome of the evening giving them both a high. He’d charmed her parents, plain and simple. If there was a stamp of approval to be received, he’d earned it. There is pride on her face, as if she herself could somehow take credit.

They stand on her front stoop looking into each other’s eyes and there’s gazing, definite gazing happening. Maybe it’s just the environment; the proximity to home, to the personal, but his mind wanders to how pretty she looks right now, and as if to further accentuate this new knowledge, snow begins to fall around them like they’re stuck inside some terrible romantic comedy.

She laughs, however, a bit shyly, and turns to go back inside.

The spell is broken, for now, but he knows. He knows a lot sooner than reality will allow him.

“Well, what do you say?” She looks at him expectantly.

“I appreciate the invitation, Scully,” he says. “But… I promised my own mom I’d go see her tonight,” he lies. Save for a quick call on Christmas, he hasn’t talked to his mother in weeks.

“Oh, okay,” she says. He can tell she’s disappointed. “Next time, then.”

Mulder watches her leave the office, going back to her enigmatic personal life. The next day she calls him with the news of her father’s untimely death.

It doesn’t take him long to realize he should have said yes.

1 9 9 7

He isn’t sure how much he should tell her. What he’d said in the children’s center is the truth: that Emily is a miracle that was never meant to be.

What he hadn’t said is an entirely different story. What he hadn’t said is that he knows far more than he should: that her ova had been stored in a government lab. That he’d found them, kept them. That he’d actually had them tested for viability.

He never told her for one reason: he hadn’t wanted to see that look on her face: the one he sees right now, watching her mother holding her on the couch as she cries quietly.

Scully’s truly worried about the adoption, he realizes, and he hasn’t been helpful at all. He doesn’t mean to hurt her, ever. It’s just that he knows, he knows deep down the way Fox Mulder knows so many things instinctively, that this is not going to end well for her, or for Emily. There’s simply no way.

But he doesn’t want to be the one to tell her that. He doesn’t want to be the one to break her heart this way.

“It’s all right, honey,” Margaret Scully says as she holds her daughter, rubbing her shoulder. Mulder hangs back on the landing, looking down upon them, and despite the protective part of him that wants to keep her from knowing anything that would cause her harm, he wants to go to her. Tell her everything, and be the one who holds her instead.

He walks down the steps as silently, footsteps audible only to Mrs. Scully who spots him over Scully’s shoulder. She nods at him, and they share an unspoken understanding.

He comes around the couch and sits next to Scully on the other side, and Mrs. Scully gently releases her, rolling her into him as if she were gingerly handing an eager relative a fresh newborn. Scully doesn’t react, or if she does, he doesn’t notice. She grips his shirt and continues crying, her walls completely down for once.

Mrs. Scully stands up and leaves without another word. Mulder is grateful for her ability to read the situation so well and he continues to be impressed by her astuteness when it comes to him and Scully.

“What is it?” he asks when her mother is gone. “Scully, talk to me.”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” she cries into his shoulder.

“It’s okay, you can tell me anything.” He laughs inwardly, ruefully, at the ridiculousness of the statement, considering everything he’s kept from her.

“This whole thing, it’s just… bringing up these fears and desires I never really knew I had before, Mulder.”

“Such as?”

She sniffs. “Such as, coming to the realization of how much I want to have children. And learning over and over that it just isn’t a possibility for me.”

Summoning his courage, he knows the right thing to do. “I need to tell you something,” he says.

She leans back to look him in the eye. “What, Mulder?”

He sighs. “I know what’s happened to you, why you can’t conceive. I’ve known for a few months now.”

She stares at him, stunned. “What are you talking about?” He was aware her oncologist had told her she was barren, and she’d known it was a direct result of her abduction, but had never really known what had occurred, exactly.

“When you were abducted, your ova were taken from you, all of them. It was a high application radiation procedure, the same thing that caused your cancer. That’s why you’re unable to conceive.”

She shakes her head. “How do you know this?”

“When I was looking into your illness, I found them. They were stored in a lab. ”

“You.. found them?” she asks, absolutely shocked.

“I had them tested immediately, Scully, as I knew you would.” He’d never discussed what he’d found with her, too afraid for her life at the time to consider her thoughts on having another. But now is the time to be honest.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” she asks carefully.

“You were deathly ill, Scully. I couldn’t bear to give you more bad news.”

She looks up at him, her eyes so, so sad. “And that’s what it was…? It was bad news?”

He shrugs, helpless. “The doctor said that the ova weren’t viable.”

Scully takes this in, still holding him by his forearms. “And you’re telling me now because…”

“The hearing, Scully. I think you should know what you’re getting yourself into. So you can be prepared.”

“...For them to tell me no,” she finishes.

“In case they do,” he nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says.

She is quiet, still processing. He hopes she isn’t angry with him.

“Scully, whatever happens, I’ll be here for you, okay?” He knows it isn’t enough. He’s certainly not her consolation prize for the future she’s going to be denied. “I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do.”

He realizes he’s recited Elton John lyrics without even meaning to and hopes she doesn’t notice. Luckily she doesn’t seem to, and he’s relieved. He’d meant it and he wouldn’t want her to think his response was artificial, canned.

“Thank you for telling me,” is all she says. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

Mulder stands on the landing, watching the scene beneath him. Mother and daughter, sobbing together on the couch.

“Same shit, different day, eh, Mr. Mulder?” a gruff voice comes from behind him, just soft enough not to draw attention from the women below. “I keep wondering when all this will end. I guess it doesn’t for you, does it?” Bill Jr. glares at him from the top of the stairs.

Mulder is exhausted and devastated on behalf of Scully. He wonders when it’s going to end, too. He wonders all the time.

He really doesn’t want to be dealing with her older brother, the dickwad, right now. Bill really has the wrong impression of him, especially when it comes to his feelings for his sister, but he can hardly blame the man.

“I know you don’t believe me, but I really wish it would, Bill.”

“Do you?” he challenges. “Seems like every time you turn up, I see my sister crying again.”

Mulder stares the other man in the face. He wants to punch him, but for what? Being absolutely, one-hundred percent correct? He bites his tongue.

Luckily, Bill Jr. is rarely interested in long, drawn out conversations. His specialty is a drive-by-slinging with the final word on top. So he scoffs, gives another glare and continues down the hallway.

Mulder glances once more at Scully, her shoulders hitching as she sobs quietly.

Bill’s an ass, but he’s right. The truth will only hurt her more. He’ll say what he needs to say in the hearing but only as much as he has to.

He can’t give her more bad news. He can’t bear to be the one who keeps making her cry.

1 9 9 8

Snow begins to fall gently outside his fourth-floor window as they sit on the couch and tear into their presents. He doesn’t really need to open his; seeing the grin on Scully's face when he handed his gift to her was good enough of a present for him. But he’s eager to see what she’s picked out.

He stops unwrapping to watch her, but then she stops too.

“You first, Mulder,” she says.

Her wish is his command. He opens the wrapping paper, snaps the ribbon. Pulls out a cassette tape.

XXX Alien Anal Probe. He nearly chokes on his own tongue.

“Scully!” he admonishes, and that mischievous smile of hers is back. “You got me porn for Christmas!”

She shrugs. “Figured you were missing some after the office fire. Just want to help you get your collection started again.”

He turns to look at her. “Scully, that’s so sweet,” he grins delightedly.

“Eh,” she shrugs. “It’s no trouble.”

“No, I mean it’s so sweet you think I haven’t got backup copies.”

She shoves him good naturedly. “Anyway, take it out.”

His jaw drops. “What?”

“I don’t mean… no!” He chuckles and now it’s her turn to be flustered. “Come on, Mulder.”

“I don’t know if this is something you really want to be here for, Scully,” he warns.

“Just open it already.”

He slides the video out of its sleeve and two Knicks tickets tumble into his lap. Next Thursday against the Wizards.

He smiles at her warmly. “Scully, thanks, this is really great.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiles, seeming genuinely pleased with her gift. She shifts uncomfortably. “I hope you have fun with… whoever you take.”

He looks at her. “Scully. I’m taking you.”

Scully blinks, looking genuinely stunned. “What?”

“Of course I’m taking you. Who else would I ask?” He regrets the question instantly as the thought completes itself, the tension of the past few weeks still lingering in the air. Diana.

Not a chance, he thinks, but doesn’t say it. He’s too much of a chicken shit.

“Okay,” Scully replies softly. “Thanks, I’d love to.” He can tell she’s relieved, even happy, and considering how little Scully cares about basketball the implication alone is enough for now.

“Open yours,” he says, eager to blow right past a potentially awkward moment.

She smiles again and finishes unwrapping her own present, pulling out the object, confused.

“It’s… a paper towel tube,” she says.

“Look inside, Einstein,” he says impatiently. She feels around inside the tube and slides out the rolled up gift, unrolling it, taking it in.

It’s a small, somewhat weathered photograph of a luxury liner, angled a bit away from the camera, headed out to sea. In the corner is a scrawled date- 1939.

“This is… is this what I think it is?” she asks.

Mulder nods. “It’s the last known photograph taken of the Queen Anne before it set sail, never to be heard from again,” he says. “I was going to frame it, but… I know you’re particular about that kind of thing.”

“How did you even find this?” she asks, awed.

“The boys helped me with that.” The Gunmen had actually done more work than he had in an effort to track it down. When he’d told them who it was for, they’d been on a mission. He was beginning to think they could find Jimmy Hoffa if he told them it was for Scully.

She just looks at it, and he isn’t sure what she’s thinking. “I know it wasn’t real to you, Scully, but everything about that experience was so real to me. And you saving my ass for the millionth time was real to me, too,” he chuckles. “I guess… I want you to have something from my experience that was real.” Since you couldn’t be there with me. Since I didn’t have the balls to ask you to be there with me.

“It’s beautiful, Mulder,” she breathes, and he doesn’t think she’s just being polite. She traces her finger across one of the smokestacks gently.

“Careful not to handle it too much, it’s an original,” Mulder points out. She pulls her hand away.

“Thank you, Mulder,” she says. “I love it.”

He looks at her intently and he wants to say it. He closes his eyes, summons up the courage.

“What I said to you was real, too, Scully.”

She looks up from the photograph, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

He takes a deep breath, soldiers forward. Like he should have done so many times. Like he should have done back in his hallway. “I mean.. what I told you in the hospital.”

She waits. He knows she wants him to say it and out of the thousand times he’s wanted to, the thousand times she’s deserved to hear it, there’s no time like the present.

“I love you, Scully.”

She looks at him for a long time, every second an eternity. For a moment he worries he’s completely misread everything, that maybe she doesn’t love him back, maybe this was a huge mistake. But then he sees a small tear forming in the corner of her eye, a familiar one. One he saw once before in a very similar scenario. Then a tiny smile. And before he realizes if he’s actually made an active decision or if his body is doing it for him, he reaches out to grasp the back of her head like he did on that ship, and pulls her into him as their lips meet for real, finally, without interruption.

The kiss is soft at first, chaste, even, but he isn’t interested in sending her mixed signals anymore. He places his other hand on the side of her jaw and ever so gently opens his mouth, inviting her in. The possibility of more; the inevitability of the two of them.

A quiet, almost inaudible sigh of relief escapes her lips as she opens her own mouth, allowing her tongue to enter his and there they find each other, at last, in the place where there is no more “platonic,” there is no more “professional.” They are no longer “just friends.”

She shifts her body until she is sitting up straight and he pulls her into him, close, and the kiss is endless, perfection, until they finally break away, both panting, eyes dilated, overcome with promise.

“I love you too, Mulder,” she says, her voice filled with emotion.

His eyes open and she is smiling. “You okay, Mulder?”

He sits back, Maurice’s words still echoing in his head. The audacity of the ghost’s assessment of his personality still staggers him. Mostly due to its deadly accuracy.

Do you know why you see the things you do? Because you’re a lonely man.

What if he is only seeing things? Maybe he’s only trying to convince himself she feels the same way. It’s been months since the bee incident and she hasn’t said a word about it. What if she doesn’t? What if, by doing this, he loses her forever?

He is lonely, pathetically so. She’s the only one who can fill that void and making that move right now is selfish, pure and simple.

“I’m fine,” he says, Scully’s signature disclaimer. “I’m happy you like it.”

And maybe if you hang it up where I can see it, it will remind me of a moment when I was actually brave.

None the wiser, Scully continues looking at her gift, a smile plastered across her face that’s really much more than he deserves.

1 9 9 9

“Scully, it’s me.”

There’s a crackle on the other end of the line and he can barely hear her. She sounds so far away. “What is it, Mulder?”

“You’ll never guess where I am right now.”

He hears a sigh, that excruciatingly familiar one. “I’m sure I couldn’t.”

“I’m investigating an old, open X-File. You don’t even want to try to guess?”

“Mulder, I’m stuck in family mode. I can’t talk about X-Files with you right now.”

“Okay, I get it. But this is one is Christmassy,” he says, hopefully. “Have you got a couple minutes?”

She sighs again, but this time he can tell she’s smiling. “I’m on my mother’s porch in my slippers. You have as long as it takes for my toes to start to freeze. Go.”

“Twenty one years past, Christmas Eve, Lexington, Kentucky. The twinkle and jingle of lights and bells sing...”

“The lights sing, Mulder?”

“Shh, I’m telling a story.”

“We did this last year, you remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The scent of gingerbread wafts through the air but on one dark street a terrible, terrible accident occurred.”

“How festive.”

“An accident— or was it?”

There’s silence on the line. Then, “I’m listening.”

Mulder grins. “The victim was an old woman, found heavily intoxicated, in the middle of a snowy road.”

“Hit by a car?”

“Not quite. I don’t think this case would have drawn good old Spooky Mulder’s attention if she was.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Mulder?” he can hear the skepticism he’d expected as he begins his unraveling.

“Well, the manner in which she died was... unusual, to say the least.”

Scully is quiet. “How did she die, Mulder?”

“There were some interesting… markings… on her back. Some would say they were almost claw-like.”

“And…?”

“And,” he says pointedly, “on her forehead, too. Although those ones looked more like… hooves.”

The line is silent. “Mulder.”

“Scully.”

“No.”

“Looks like grandma got run over by a reindeer,” he says, barely containing his glee.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, wait!” he laughs. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. How’s the family?”

A sigh. “They’re great. Bill really wishes you were here.”

He chuckles, then lets out a deep sigh.

“Is this really what you called for, Mulder?” she asks, and he’s suddenly gripped with the realization that he’d actually called for a very important reason. He’s only delaying the inevitable.

He takes a deep breath. “Um, Scully… I actually called because I have something important to tell you.”

He can hear her voice turn serious. Even more serious. “What is it?”

He exhales. “A couple months ago, I was experiencing some pain... in my head. I didn’t want to worry you so I saw another doctor just to rule things out, you know?”

She’s quiet for a moment. He hopes she isn’t angry already.

“Anyway,” he continues, “They couldn’t rule anything out. Something is definitely not right.”

“Mulder…” she says quietly. “Is this to do with the D.O.D.? What happened to you there?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m guessing so.”

He can hear her shaking her head. “But your scans were clean…” she sounds like she’s talking more to herself now, in that way she gets when she can’t believe something. In this case, her own eyes. “They were clean…”

“I don’t want to worry you, Scully,” he says. “That’s the last thing I want. I’m hoping this is nothing. But just in case it isn’t…” he trails off. “I want my doctor to know about it.”

He wonders why he picked up the phone tonight of all nights to tell her this, and in an instant it hits him: he’s so lonely it hurts. He looks around his quiet apartment, his sad little stocking hanging up next to his fish tank, its googly-eyed occupants his only company for the holiday. He’d been so desperate to just hear her voice that it seemed like a good excuse.

“Mulder, are you by yourself tonight?”

“No,” he answers, perhaps too quickly. “I mean, there’s a Twilight Zone marathon on the Sci-Fi channel, and I’ve got an entire half gallon of eggnog. I’m all set.” He grins. “I’m fine, Scully, okay? Have fun with your family. Be sure to catch Bill under the mistletoe for me.”

He hears a half-chuckle as she sighs, somewhat resigned. “Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she says quietly. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”

“I know, we always do,” he replies. “Merry Christmas.”

“Is this really what you called for, Mulder?” she asks.

“I just wanted to hear your voice on Christmas, Scully. Is that so terrible?”

Scully sighs on the other end of the line. He can hear her smiling again. “No, it isn’t.”

It’s a nice thought, he muses, that they’d somehow figure this out. That Scully might find the answer to this unanswerable question. Somehow find the cure he knows deep in his gut does not exist. But he knows the truth; there is no Christmas miracle that’s going to get him out of this one. And if he tells her, everything will change. Everything.

“Okay,” he replies. “My joke is done. You can go warm up, Scully. My best to the family.”

“Bye, Mulder,” she replies, and the line goes dead.

He realizes he forgot to wish her a Merry Christmas.

2 0 0 2

Scully is crying in the bathroom again.

Six months, more than twice as many motel rooms, their world in complete and utter upheaval. He sits on the edge of the disheveled bed, the sheets scattered to the floor. They haven’t left this particular room in over forty-eight hours and have certainly made good use of that time, in his estimation. No more than twenty minutes ago he’d made her scream in ecstasy so loud he worried the FBI would hear her, wherever they happen to be at the moment.

She’d gone to take a shower, and he thought everything was okay, great, even. But now she’s crying, quietly; retreated into her own space like she has a few times since they started this adventure.

Adventure. He shakes his head, pissed at himself for ever referring to it that way. He’s well aware what Scully has given up to be with him: her job, her family. Her identity. There are any number of reasons she could be tucked away behind her walls right now, and he’s responsible for every single one of them.

But maybe it isn’t one of those reasons. Maybe it’s something else; something they haven’t discussed, not really.

Something she feels responsible for.

He stands and walks the four steps to the bathroom door, knocking gently. “Scully? You okay in there?”

He hears nothing.

“Scully?”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she says softly from the other side of the door.

But he knows she isn’t fine.

He pushes the door open gently, and sees her on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, hair wet, eyes running. He kneels down next to her and reaches out, pulling her into his bare chest. Her bathrobe opens just enough so he can feel her skin against his when he holds her close, her heartbeat right next to his. She rests her head on his shoulder and he strokes her wet hair as she tries to calm down her breathing.

“It’s William, isn’t it?” he asks. They haven’t so much as mentioned their son’s name in months. After an attempt or two, she’d made it plain she had no interest in reopening that particular wound. The nature of their circumstances brought other, more pressing matters to the forefront and over the months it seemed the longer they went without talking about him the harder it was to bring him up at all.

He never wants to see her cry, ever. But maybe she needs to. Maybe they both need to.

“I’m so sorry, Mulder… I’m so sorry I wasn’t strong enough to protect him, for the both of us,” she sobs. He feels his own tears welling up and wonders if she’s been holding onto this pain for months, keeping it inside because both of their modus operandi seems to be perpetual denial of truth. He knows this, as ironic as it seems, because it’s been that way with them from the start.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Scully,” he tells her. He plans to tell her this every day for the rest of their lives if he must. “You did the right thing and you can’t keep beating yourself up about it. It won’t do either of us any good.”

She cries, really cries into his shoulder and he holds her close, and they talk about William, really talk about him: the things Scully remembers, the things Mulder missed. And the things they’ll both miss, together. They cry and hold on to each other tightly and come out the other side stronger, unified.

Unbreakable.

“Scully? You okay in there?”

He hears nothing.

“Scully?”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she says softly from the other side of the door. He waits, wondering what to do. After a few moments, the door opens, and she comes out. Her eyes aren’t puffy, her body isn’t hunched.

She’s fine. It’s easier to believe it than to press her further.

“Well,” she says, walls back up, clearly attempting to put any unpleasantness behind her. “Should we order in? Watch A Christmas Story on TBS?”

Christmas. Right. It’s easy to lose track while stuck in this neverending limbo-type existence.

“Um. Yeah, anything you want, Scully,” he says, reaching out to touch her face, make her look him in the eye. She does, for a moment, then the moment is gone.

Everything is fine.

2 0 1 2

He sits on the back porch, the frigid air biting at his exposed skin. He should probably be wearing more than a T-shirt but the idea of going back inside is unappealing at the moment, for some reason. He likes it out here in the quiet, alone with his thoughts.

There are no sleigh bells echoing in the distance or even the sharp scent of pine but Christmas isn’t just a time of year; it’s a feeling. And he feels it tonight.

“Hey,” a voice comes from behind him, as the back door opens a bit. Even in the thick chill he can sense home as it escapes through the crack: the scent of Christmas ham and pumpkin pie, the snap and crackle of the fireplace, yuletide carols softly spilling out, all the things he should be thrilled to be part of.

She plunks down next to him, wraps her hand around the crook of his arm, and leans in against him. “Mom left.”

He nods, staring out into the woods.

Scully continues. “She’s worried about you,” she says, hesitantly. “You were a little distant tonight.”

He wants to tell her of course he was distant. He has a lot on his mind. The world was supposed to end and it didn’t. He feels restless and unhinged.

Now what, Scully? Now what?

She squeezes him tighter. “Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she says softly. “I love you.”

Her voice is soft as moonlight, but warm. He does not respond, though. He’s confused, distressed, untethered. He doesn’t know up from down, even with Scully sitting right next to him. His true north. He wishes he knew what to do to make this feeling go away.

She leans in to kiss his cheek, rubs his forearm a couple times like a habit, then gets up to go back inside. When she shuts the door the porch is silent and he sits alone in the cold chill.

He doesn’t know yet what will happen, if anything. He doesn’t know yet he’s going to become impossible to live with.

He doesn’t know she’s going to leave him.

If he’d known, he’d have done things differently.

End note: Part of this prompt was “If possible, there must be a surprising end at the story.” For me, surprising means gut punch. Happy Holidays, everyone!

[antihero-writings]

If These Walls Could Talk Chapter 3: “Alucard”—Castlevania (Netflix) Fic (Full Chapter!)

Fic Title: If These Walls Could Talk

Synopsis: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Title: “Alucard”

Chapter summary: 

“‘Alucard’, they called me. The opposite of you. Mother never liked that. Did you know that? She hated the idea that I might define myself by you. Even in opposition to you. She loved us both. Enough that she wanted us to be our own people. Living our own lives. Making our own choices."

Notes: 

I am SO sorry this took so long!! And that this chapter is so short. My December was so busy, what with Christmas, vacation, family over, etc. I had hoped to get this out before all that, but with what writing/posting time I had I ended up needing to focus on the christmas/time-specific fics, and I didn't want to rush the chapter. In the end I'm very glad I didn't, as I'm much more proud of how it turned out now! 

I fear I'm jinxing myself by saying this, but the next chapter shouldn't take that long, as I'm not as busy now, I have it pretty much written out--I just gotta finish editing--and it's one of my favorites! It'll be longer too!!

Also, if after reading there's anything in this chapter you'd like to see expanded upon as its own little fic, don't hesitate to let me know, either in the comments/replies, or as an ask! I feel like there are a lot of things that would be really fun to write out as little oneshots!

Chapter 3:

The castle doesn’t like it when Adrian leaves.

Adrian is a child of both worlds, so he must walk in the day every once and a while. He cannot stay in the castle, in the night, forever; he must travel outside the room, feel the sunlight without the glass. He must understand his mother’s people; his human half. A glass half full is a glass half empty, and he understands his duty to fill in the blanks where humanity is supposed to be.

Castlevania is unsure. Afraid, perhaps. It does not know much of humanity…but it does know that their blood tastes sweet, their words sound sour, their hands feel bitter. It knows they are not likely to treat the son of the vampire king with kindness.

It knows of only one human whose touch and words are sweet without taste.

If his mother can be kind… is it possible other humans can be too? Or does being a mother simply necessitate kindness? Is it possible there is more to them than sour speech and the bitter fists? That they are more than just something to fill its master’s appetite and quiet his boredom?

Lisa tells them all so. She gathers her family in the room, and tells them stories of knights and heroes, witches and villains. Of good kings, and evil priests. Of good gods, and evil queens. Of demons and zombies and the heroes who rose up against them—(and maybe Adrian can be one of them, some day). Of people who have nothing but manage to change the world anyways. Of people who have everything but are empty all the same—(that one started to sound a little too familiar). And not all of the stories are read out of books. Some are real, were history. Some she’d even seen herself. Some were told to her. She said she heard some of the most wonderful ones from a Speaker once. She even made some up. Until Adrian himself formed stories when she wasn’t there to tell them.

Dracula looks out the window at the rain, chuckles to himself at the fact that too many of her stories end happily…but something deep inside his eyes is trying, trying to believe her. To believe there’s truth to these stories, even those she made up. To let the light in her eyes flow into his. He tries to make up his own stories too, sometimes. But the darkness in his presence does its best to swallow the light in her words.

Adrian snuggles up beside her and the gleam in her eyes reflects in his without a second’s resistance. Enough that after a childhood of listening to these stories, begging for his parents to take him outside, he can barely wait to experience it himself.

That’s not to say he never left. She took him out on little trips, letting him take bites of the world out there. Each time he came back with treasures—(well what he considered treasures)—in his hands, and a grin secured firmly to his face, and he’d ask with voice bright and fast as a hummingbird, where they’d go out next, and how long he’d have to wait. Even his father took him out to the enchanted forests and grottos of the world for lessons, but always made sure they were the deepest, most well-kept secrets of the world, where no human would find them.

Well, most of the time. There were times when he came back with tears in his eyes. He’d ask what a What’s a ‘monster’?, and his father would lean down, put his hand on his cheek, and say Definitely not you. Lisa would plead or argue with her husband, but when Dracula would leave, the moon would turn red, and he’d remember what blood tasted like.

But this is different. This isn’t some day trip to come back with trinkets, some night lesson to come back with knowledge. The time it’s stretched out, and stretching them thin.

When he leaves and doesn’t come back that night… that morning…the next…the room tries to speak but finds there’s no breath in it, like it got the wind knocked out of it.

This is a different emptiness from what Castlevania was before. It isn’t a principal, not simply a fact of life. It is an absence. An absence of something living. An absence of a fact of life. A true emptiness in that the room was once full.

It doesn’t take long for the room to know what I miss you means; that absence creates ripples of yearning in its wake. That emptiness aches to be filled. It misses the games he played in the sunlight, it misses the lullabies, the drawings, counting the stars and sitting by the fire, the moments when the family would tell stories to the walls they didn’t know were listening.

It even misses the crying.

The clock tower’s ticking eats away at them from the inside.

And within the ticking, the room, the castle, wonder what the humans will do to him out there.

Will he be a monster in their eyes? An enemy, a beast, an ugly thing? Will they not see the light in his nature, rather the dark that nurtured him?

Will he be a cacophony to their ears, the screeches and howls of undead things, instead of the symphony they know his voice to be?

Will his blood be that of demons and beasts to their noses, and will they cast him out for not being human enough?

Will he be a toy in their hands, just as he played humans-and-vampires, just as he pretended to fight monsters with wooden swords?

…But he is alive, and living things ought not be played with, for they cannot be imagined into something they’re not.

And if he is a toy to them…what will they make of him? Will they imagine him as a human like them? Or will they imagine him into a monster he is not? Will they realize he is neither? Will they think he needs the night when he is perfectly fine in the day? What stories will they tell of him?

Castlevania has not met many humans. But those it has were prone to make monsters out decent men, and weapons out of instruments of peace.

Will the humans’ mouths be forked and deadly as ever? Will their hands be weak and empty as ever? Will they assess him as fuel for their ever-greedy fire? Will they take the life—they who have so much of it, take the single life they have here, the one that brought it to them all—and crush it out of him, figuratively or literally?

Will they bully him, and scorn him, and lie to him, and cheat him and hate him and…hurt him?

The room twists and spirals in its thoughts, as if going down a hill, and throbs at the last word.

Or… says the castle softly, Will they welcome him? Will they understand him? Will they see him as we have? As he truly is? Will his light withstand the darkness in them? Can he bring life to these bloodthirsty beasts?

When Adrian returns, what—or who—will he be?

The castle and the room wonder, and wait, and question, and long for him as they are left in the dark, holding their breath until breath itself is but a fleeting memory.

They couldn’t say how long it had been since he left, it could have been a lifetime. But one day, as black and white as the rest, the morning comes with spreading color, and breath tumbles into the deepest corners of the room again.

They are equal parts nervous and eager to hear the stories he has to tell; for these monsters and men are more than toys.

And he does have stories to tell.

Out there, adventure exists in more than just books. Out there he can learn without charts and lectures; he can learn by doing, by experiencing. He can put to use, and to the test, all the spells and techniques he practiced indoors. Out there the scenes that were pictures before are real, are alive—the rain licks and the snow bites, the grass whispers as the wind sings its haunting melody, and the rivers join in response. Out there he can smell the trees, and flowers, the campfires, listen to the howls and chirps of the animals, and feel the sun on his skin without the glass to separate them. Taste the world. And out there the heroes and villains are animate too—he can speak to them, and won’t have to dream up their responses. He can make friends and enemies out of words and actions instead of wood and clay. Out there the threats, the demons and monsters are real too, and he has to fight them with something sharp—be it his pen or his sword. Out there, imagination is a weapon against reality. Out there he doesn’t have to imagine his world to life because it already is. And he is alive in it…this is his life that he is finally living.

That is what a life is. The idea echoes in the room.

(If this is a life…are we alive? The room asks.

Alive isn’t the same as life. Castlevania mutters softly, and doesn’t explain.)

And, amongst all the adventures they learn that while he walked the world a spell, his mother’s people gave him a new name:

“Alucard.”

Alucard. The reverse of Dracula.

They looked at him, they listened to him, they spent time with him and they understood—(breathe again and be still, they understood)—they understood that he was not the dark and the cold and the death his father is. In fact, they thought that he was so different from his father that this reversal must be his name.

The room is proud of him, happy for him, relieved, for this was its purpose, its hope. Relieved to have him back—more full of life and light than ever.

Lisa, while always proud of him, doesn’t like the name. She named him after all, it makes sense that she wouldn’t appreciate a dismissal of the name she chose. But…there’s more to it than that. She doesn’t want him to be defined by his father. She doesn’t want him to be a difference, a reverse. She wants him to be himself. Him and his father to be different people. She wants them to be themselves; not dividends, fractured pieces of one another put back together in different orders.

(But aren’t we all fractured pieces of each other? Don’t we take fragments of each other to make up ourselves?)

This is a strange thought to Castlevania, for it has always been defined by Dracula, and never minded, but perhaps mirrors ought not mind their reflectors. Adrian is no mirror. Still, the castle has always compared the boy to his father. The room was always meant to be the opposite of the Dracula, of his castle. The boy’s very existence has always spelled the reverse of everything they knew. Its only fitting the boy would be a reversal of his father.

‘Adrian’ is a nice name…but ‘Alucard’ fits like a tailored suit.

Adrian likes the world. Makes sense, he likes the sun, the day, the mirrors, the books, the stories, the people.

But what doesn’t make as much sense, and what’s more important, is the world likes him. At first its strange, but as the castle thinks about it more it makes sense; they may have come with pitchforks before, because they didn’t like Dracula. …But Alucard is not Dracula.

The room breathes deep, more alive than ever. And, as its master returns, tells his story, the room learns too.

Castlevania may be able to move for its master, but the room is stuck in its place. It cannot see the rest of the world like the boy can. It understands now that Alucard being different from Dracula also means that he cannot stay inside like his father does. That though it hurts when he leaves, the room can never be everything he needs the way the castle can for Dracula. That he is made for something bigger than four walls…even if those four walls were part of what made him.

It understands that breath cannot be a constant for it. That its master will leave, and the room will be hollow and ache for certain periods of time. This is a fact of life. This is what living is.

But it also understands that he will always come back. This isn’t something it reasoned or multiplied out. This is just something it knows within the oldest parts of it; that they will never be apart forever.

Now that the room is alive within the castle it will always be its own existence. Even if it’s empty, even if it gets broken and battered, it will always be the universe they built for him, a universe can’t be destroyed by mortal hands. It can never be fully erased as long as Alucard lives.

(…And Castlevania understands that is dangerous.)

The room understands that though life was always a stagnant thing for the castle, it is more dynamic and elusive for it. It will go through periods where there is nothing in that room, and the emptiness will throb, but in the same way that Alucard has the kind of life Dracula could never have, the room will have the kind of life the castle could never have.

The room’s breath will ever be catching itself and falling, like a dance, as if always during the most exiting part of a story.

[whatawriterwields]

seasons, changes

In the autumn Aziraphale and Crowley go out apple picking. 

It’s the first time they’ve ever done something so simple, so easy together, with no fear of punishment. They hold hands as they browse through trees low-hanging with ripe red fruit, and Crowley points out the shiniest, the most tempting. Aziraphale plucks it from its overwrought bough and sinks white teeth into red skin, and Crowley thinks he looks like a painting, a vision, far more divine than ever before. Aziraphale smiles and says a taste like this is worth original sin. Crowley can’t help it - he wraps his arms around Aziraphale, kissing the sweetness from his lips, those easy, flowing words that tell Crowley it’s over, this war. It’s finally over.

In the autumn they bring baskets of fruit home and make pies and cobblers and cakes, and invite Warlock and Adam and their friends over to taste them when they’re ready. They set a pumpkin outside the bookshop’s doorstep for Halloween. They watch the trees change color from the windows of their flats, always with their fingers intertwined, together. They smile at the thought that the world is still going. 

Music gets sweeter when the air gets colder. They spend time in silence, just listening to old songs they haven’t heard in decades or centuries, and some new songs, too. Then Aziraphale begins to sing, softly at first, humming as he reshelves books, then louder when Crowley says he loves hearing the angel’s heaven-gold voice. Crowley, for his part, learns to play the guitar. He stays up long hours into the night working out the complicated patterns on his ages-old fingers, which look young enough but still resist the birth of something new within them. Aziraphale is there with him, watching him, sometimes singing along to the simple tunes Crowley plays. Sometimes their musics combine and Crowley feels transported, swept away on a tide of something he can’t name. He’s never entered an autumn with so much hope before. 

Read on Ao3

Winds start to blow into London, chilling the streets, and gray clouds descend from the pale blue skies. Aziraphale and Crowley hold each other closer. Aziraphale knits a sweater for Crowley, crimson as his hair, and Crowley nearly cries. Emotions feel larger when the trees are so bright. Crowley leans his forehead against Aziraphale’s and says I love you, I love you, I love you, like the phrase is too large to be contained in his chest and must be spoken. Aziraphale draws it gently out of him, whispering the secret of his own love against Crowley’s lips. 

Autumn is a time for yearning, and so sometimes they lie on their backs and stare at the ceiling and yearn for each other, think of each other, let their hearts burn again for a little while. When they’ve had enough they turn and fold into each other’s arms. Leaves drift from brittling boughs outside the window. They pay no mind. 

__

In the winter they make snow angels. Frozen air sweeps down the clouds, which land in mounds of soft whiteness that glitter in winter’s newborn sun. Aziraphale urges Crowley outside, and they wrap themselves up in hats and gloves and scarves and track through the drifts, breath misting in front of them, letting the crisp, clean air fill their lungs.

Aziraphale flings a hastily made snowball at Crowley, who collapses as if he’s been injured; when Aziraphale hurries over to him, horrified, he grabs the angel and pulls him down into the snow. They tussle for only a moment, giggles echoing through the emptiness of this newmade world, before Aziraphale, huffing with effort, yanks Crowley to his feet again and they go on. They build a snowman, they sled down a hill, they kiss each other in the brightness like it’s their first time - they feel young again, not like the lovestruck fools who left Eden but like the children they were when the heavens were first created. Before the Fall, before the seven days, before the apple. They feel like creation has restarted. A little more right, this time.

In winter the weather’s tight, freezing fist is combatted on all sides by Christmas lights strung up in windows, and warm, brightly colored clothes, and rich food whose smell wafts from every door. Friends come to the bookshop for large dinners. Crowley and Aziraphale welcome them together, and loud, rowdy conversation rises through the rooftop to the sky, reaching upward to the celestial multitudes in Heaven and the creeping masses in Hell, proclaiming their freedom from both. When everyone else goes home the two of them curl up beside each other and watch movies, hands brushing together over popcorn bowls, kissing salt from off each other’s fingertips. Aziraphale reads while Crowley sleeps. Then Aziraphale begins to sleep, some nights, as well. 

Crowley has never loved winter; it’s usually the time of year when Hell’s dreary dampness begins to seep into his bones, chilling him so deeply he wants nothing but to crawl into a little hiding place and wait for spring. It’s usually the season that sees him shuffling through the days remembering the Grace he’s lost, and bitterly demanding of a God he doesn’t know anymore what did I do wrong? Why am I condemned to this? 

He’s never enjoyed the winter, but these days when he wakes up from a nightmare Aziraphale’s arms are around him, and comfort is so close that he can’t help feeling safe. Love is suffused so thickly through the places he goes that he has no room for despair. The universe looks bright again, the stars gleam against the black winter sky, and Crowley feels he’s beginning to understand something he gave up long ago as lost. 

One night at a large party Crowley halts the dinnertime conversation, holding up his hands for silence, and goes to one knee beside Aziraphale with a ring. Aziraphale nearly knocks him over when he flings his arms around Crowley, and Crowley is tempted to simply pull Aziraphale to the floor and hug him tight and never let go. But there’s the dinner to complete first. When the guests are gone they’ll hold each other all night long. 

Winter is the time for celebration. They finally have something to celebrate, after six thousand years. 

___

In the spring Crowley waves Aziraphale over to his laptop and shows him what he’s been looking at online. It’s a sweet little cottage in South Downs, big enough for both of them. A perfect place to live out their retirement, Crowley suggests. 

Aziraphale gains a dreamy look, eyes shifting momentarily to the little colorful buds of flowers beginning to bloom outside the window. He says it sounds like an excellent idea. It’ll be a wonderful hideaway for all his unsellable books. And Crowley can take up gardening there, with something more than just his houseplants. 

Crowley grins at the thought. He and his plants are on better terms, these days. They’ve been growing beautifully with almost no threatening at all, since Aziraphale began to inhabit his flat along with him. He hasn’t had to dispose of a single one since the end of the world. He’s beginning to think he won’t do so ever again.

Gentle, warm winds blow away the frigid winter, and the snow melts, replaced with tender stalks of grass and the soft petals of springtime flowers. Spring is a time for busyness, and Aziraphale starts packing his first-editions into boxes, bustling around the shop and picking them out at seemingly random intervals, obeying a pattern only he understands. Crowley watches, helping when he can, distracting Aziraphale when he’s feeling devilish. They talk over lunches and dinners about plans for the wedding, which will occur at the end of May, just on the cusp of the new season. Crowley spends long night hours, this time in secret, writing up the perfect vows, scribbling them out onto scraps of paper only to crumple them up when they don’t feel quite right. Aziraphale knows just what he’s going to say, but he practices saying it every morning, still, when he gets a moment away from Crowley. 

Together they load everything from their London lives into the Bentley (which is miraculously able to fit it all) and drive, and drive, down to a quiet place where the sound of rushing water is louder than that of street traffic or pedestrian babble. They could simply miracle everything inside, but they help each other with the boxes instead, enjoying the weight of books and potted plants, enjoying the strain of old muscles in work toward this goal they’ve chosen as one. Lovingly they put their new home together by hand. They paint it together, too, slopping paint on their hands, smudging it on each other’s faces, laughing uproariously at themselves as they’re reduced to messes by the kind of frivolous work they’ve never bothered to do before. Crowley miracles every stain away from Aziraphale’s clothes, in the end.

The first night they spend there together, they don’t want to go to sleep. They stay up into the wee hours excitedly planning what they’re going to do with the garden, whether they can start up a strawberry patch, where they’ll travel for their honeymoon - they’ve been everywhere in the world, but tradition is tradition, after all. At last they’re too exhausted to keep up the chat, but they wake early the next morning, ready, ready as the spring sun beams through their windows. 

The world wakes in spring. It’s never seemed so enthusiastic before, so optimistic. Crowley has never felt so ready to meet the rest of his life.

__

Summer descends hot after the wedding is done. After Crowley stumbles through the latest draft of his vows, and Aziraphale reduces Crowley to tears with his, flawlessly delivered, and they kiss - and it crashes over them all over again, the wonder, the glory of being allowed, of being permitted, of being free, the agonizing relief of unfettered closeness, and they can’t take their eyes off of each other for the rest of the day. They travel the world for a while, and then they return to the cottage, and then summer sets in.

They slow down from the spring, and they reflect. Summer is the time for quiet happiness, for satisfaction, for gratitude, and Aziraphale and Crowley have much to be grateful for. One night over dessert Crowley brings up that this time last year, they were still preparing for when Warlock came into his full power. They were staring down the jaws of Armageddon, and they were almost positive all their work was going to be for nothing - that there was no way of stopping the Antichrist, and that they were going to be forced apart again, forced into battle against each other. Only a year ago that was all the future they could see.

Crowley asks if Aziraphale really would have done it - rejoined Heaven’s ranks and marched out against him. Aziraphale does not smile. He’s grown more honest, this past year. He says, quietly, that he’s not sure. But if he had, he’d never have been able to forgive himself. Crowley nods. Aziraphale turns the question back on him, and Crowley is just as honest - no, he’s sure he never would have fought for Hell. He’d have escaped, or he’d have let them kill him, before taking up arms against Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is not overwhelmed by the words. He’s come to know, to understand, by now, just how fully and deeply and desperately he’s loved. It doesn’t shock him. Instead of breaking down, he simply reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand, and tells him he’s good, he’s so good, he’s wonderful and brave and compassionate and selfless. And Crowley, who’s learned a thing or two himself this past year, doesn’t contradict him. He smiles. He lets himself be content in this world and in the love of this beautiful angel, and he lets himself believe he deserves it. 

Summer is a time for easy things. They settle into a comfortable routine, here in this cottage at the beginning of the world. Cocoa and tea in the morning. A newspaper that’s read slowly and deliberately, cover to cover. A vegetable patch that needs tending, a fresh bouquet of flowers to pick for the table, a stack of books to be read and annotated. Long drives in the country, Aziraphale learning to enjoy the freedom of speed; serene picnics under the lazy sky, Crowley feeding Aziraphale little bits of cheese and sausage with greasy fingers. Aziraphale braiding Crowley’s hair, weaving wildflowers into it, kissing his neck when he sweeps the long locks aside. A welcoming home to return to when the sky begins to dim. 

Autumn will come soon enough. The cold wind will blow in again, and it will be time for apple-picking. Crowley can’t wait to watch Aziraphale be tempted by the fruit of humanity all over again. He can’t wait for music to stir his soul in the way it only does when flame lights the treetops, and he can’t wait to make pies and invite the children over to eat them, and he can’t wait to discover the year once more with his love.

These seasons taste like hope. It’s been a very long time in coming.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @sdewan6!

Written for the lovely @sdewan6 for the Malec Secret Santa 2019 exchange! I hope you enjoy the holidays and your gift!

Read on AO3

*****

Sensing You

SUMMARY: It starts from there. From the memories he tries not to think of. It grows slowly, creeping up on him until he comes to realise that he can’t trust his own senses. Is it his own mind playing tricks on him? Or is it Lilith?

The five times Magnus allows himself to hope Alexander is there in Edom with him, and the one time Alec actually is.

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Magnus counts the first few days, works them back to the time on earth, and allows himself to mentally follow the routines of those he loves. Alec. Catarina. Madzie. Raphael. Clary. Isabelle. It’s torture. Self-inflicted. And though it hurts to not think of them almost as much as it does to think of them, he pushes everything from his mind but Edom.

Time is endless in a place like Edom, and Magnus, having lived centuries already, has more of an understanding of how long eternity will be. It stretches infinitely in front of him, with the despair of a loneliness he hasn’t felt in years. Not that Magnus plans to spend eternity here. With time (something he’s not short on), there’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll find a way to repair the rift. But he’s unsure it will be soon enough to see half of his family and friend’s faces again.

Alexander’s face.

The sharp angles of it. The quirk of an eyebrow. The crooked smile and loving gaze.

It starts from there. From the memories he tries not to think of. It grows slowly, creeping up on him until he comes to realise that he can’t trust his own senses. Is it his own mind playing tricks on him? Or is it Lilith?

Even in Lilith’s weakened state, Magnus wouldn’t put it past her to play this kind of cruel trick on him.

1.

“Magnus.”

The word echoes around the chamber. Softly spoken. Barely a whisper. Adoration in each syllable. And the cadence of it belongs to Alexander.

Alexander.

Magnus’ eyes hastily scour the room, but the sound dies out, silence falling. And the man the voice belongs to isn’t here. The hope that has sprung to life in Magnus’ chest crumbles. He made the choice - though for Magnus there was no other choice - knowing it would be difficult, but the reality of the situation is far worse.

Desolately, Magnus sinks to his chair. Alone.

2.

Magnus spends hours looking through the small squares of the windows, out at the wilds of Edom. His eyes linger on the horizon, learning the intricate ways the air stirs the earth until the ground and sky are one, horizon blurred.

He rubs at an eye, weary in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. And he sees it… a figure.

Tall. Rangey. Dark hair. Pale skin. Clad in black.

Magnus’ heart leaps in his chest. He watches a moment longer and a swirl of wind blurs the edges of the figure, morphing it, before revealing its true form: an outbreak of rock. It’s just his eyes playing tricks on him and, while Magnus’ heart aches, it strengthens his resolve. He’ll keep Alexander and their friends and family safe for as long as he has to.

3.

Magnus works his mind to exhaustion in the hope that he won’t dream. But he sleeps fitfully; the dreams he doesn’t allow himself to consider in consciousness finally able to plague him.

He wakes slowly to the feel of gentle fingers against his cheek. There’s a roughness to the pads as they learn his skin, and Magnus keeps his eyes closed, savouring the touch. It’s a caress he knows: Alexander’s.

With a hope he hasn’t felt in a while, Magnus’ eyes slide open, and as they do the touch softens, is barely there, before fading completely.

There’s only Magnus here, no matter how real it felt. And though Magnus would give almost anything to have another moment with Alec, the price could never be worth it.

4.

Frustrated when his latest idea for repairing the rift hits a dead end, Magnus decides to take a stroll. Better to walk it off than stew, which is something he excels at. It doesn’t work. With every step, his annoyance with himself grows. He knows there’s a way to fix this. There must be. There has to be.

Petulantly, he lashes out with his magic, dust swirling around him. It’s not the expected stench of sulphur that assaults him. There’s the sweetness of the beeswax used on the string of a bow. It almost chokes him as he uses his magic to still the air, the dust falling back to the ground.

He tries to hold on to the scent, but as the last speck settles, the sulphur returns.

Though his mind tells him Alec isn’t here, Magnus can’t stop the yearning of his heart. Even so, he turns, eyes checking all around him, but there’s only the open expanse and not another person in sight.

His frustration is gone, and in its place is a longing that Magnus knows will never be satisfied.

5.

There’s cruelty to his self-imposed exile. A cruelty that Magnus has become familiar within his lifetime. The joyous moment of realising he hadn’t lost Alec, of overcoming his father, was twinned with the reality of walking away from his life in order to save the rest of the people in it.

Would it be easier, Magnus wonders, to be faced with spending eternity here without learning that truth? To be unaware of what he could have had?

His moods are tempestuous and, feeling self-indulgent and particularly downtrodden, Magnus conjures himself a drink with little thought. He takes the first sip, eyes sliding closed, and he’s instantly somewhere else.

Sunlight pours through the wide, open windows, warming his skin. As does the phantom press of lips against his. There’s the taste of coffee on his tongue, mixed with the mint of Alec’s toothpaste.

It’s a strange taste to crave and the hit of it has him almost certain the taste is from Alexander himself. He envisions reaching out a hand to pull Alec back for another kiss. But when his eyes open, the light is dulled by the reddish glow of a burning sky, and there’s only Magnus, mug in hand. Magnus throws it to the floor in disgust and tries to extinguish the newest flame of hope.

Not too long ago, he stood on a rooftop ready to destroy the memories of the man he loves, and in these darkest moments of despair, a part of him wishes he had.

+1

Magnus gazes out of the window. There’s a beauty to this place, even with the malevolent forces it houses. There’s something about the barren landscape. The emptiness. It’s not unlike his recent self.

With every moment that passes, Lilith grows stronger, and Magnus wonders if he has the strength to hold the rift together and fight her off. His magic is strong. He’s strong. He’s fighting for his family, for his world. But he worries about the risk if he falls.

“Magnus! Magnus!”

The rough timbre of a familiar voice interrupts his thoughts and Magnus turns before he can stop himself. Unlike every other time he’s heard that voice, the owner of it stands in front of him.

“Alexander,” Magnus utters in disbelief, not even aware he speaks the word aloud.

There’s too much space, too much ground to cover, and he needs to touch, needs to hold on for as long as this illusion lasts.

Wrapping his arms around Alec, Magnus half expects his fingers to slide through Alec, but his body moulds itself to Alec’s. Warm. Here. His. He pulls Alec close, feels strong arms grip him tight, and he breathes Alec in. The mix of his own sandalwood shampoo and beeswax assault him. It’s so vivid.

Can this be real?

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Magnus admits.

Pulling back, his eyes search Alec’s, still expecting the man in front of him to fade into nothing.

Their faces are close, Magnus’ fingers caressing the hair at the nape of Alec’s neck and he leans in, lips pressing against Alec’s. The taste is like coming home, and even as it soothes the places that have ached since he made his choice to come here, there’s a niggle of doubt that he can’t yet let go of.

“I told you… it’s only Edom,” Alec says when they break apart. “And we weren’t gonna let you fight Lilith alone.”

“We?”

It’s only then that Magnus notices Lorenzo, and with his senses still coming to terms with the reality of Alexander, the last bit of doubt is gone. He could never dream up that Lorenzo would come to his aid. Especially in Edom of all places.

“I’m simply doing what any high warlock would do,” Lorenzo says, but Magnus only half hears the words.

His attention falls back on Alec, and he almost daren’t ask the question, but he knows he has to.

“If we succeed, then what?”

Magnus doesn’t think he can take losing Alec all over again.

“Then I stay here,” Alec says. “With you… I’m never leaving you again.”

Magnus takes a steady breath, almost overcome. It doesn’t matter what Lilith’s plans are. Doesn’t matter what they’re up against. With a joy that burns so brightly inside of him, Magnus knows they can take on anything.

It’s only Edom.

Yes. And it’s only Lilith.