#crystal & edwin friendship my beloved

[shaylogic]

Crystal Palace joining the Dead Boy Detective Agency! ★~(◠‿◕✿)

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dead Boy Detectives Victor AU Edits (pt. 5!)

And three parter:

Once again. I am having feelings. And editing these things (aka dicking around on a sidequest, as I have come to call it) gives me inspiration to write when I'm slowing down on Chapter 5 of the amnesia fic (which is already at 9.8k and is nowhere near done). So here y'all go!

As always, here is the series:

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @magpiemarten @ashildrs

@hartigays @tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@tiredghostby @sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

[stasyalovem]

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

The thing about Crystal Palace is that, for all intents and purposes, she and Edwin Payne have never gotten along. They are rivals on the critic sphere, often butting heads about certain restaurants and responding cattily to each other's reviews.

Crystal became a critic at first because she's got the flair for it. She's a bitch with a high-society background who knows all the most expensive places in town like the back of her hand. Her blog was well-known around the city before she even hit sixteen. Became nationally-recognized before she could (legally) drink.

Edwin is not that. Where she has the street cred and flare and was out drinking and trying new things as long as she can remember, he learned his skills in culinary school. Their styles- and their shared ability to tear into people- have always bumped up against each other. Rankled each other. Anyone who knows them both is not surprised to find out that they're rivals.

What they are surprised to find out is that after three years of bashing heads, Crystal and Edwin became friends. (Of a sort.) They still regularly eviscerate each other's reviews in public, still have what many consider the highest-profile feud in the city's culinary world, but if someone else was to critique or call them out or make a bigoted remark, their responses are more vicious to the outsider than they would be to each other.

If you asked them, they'd say that they're bitter rivals. But there is a certain fondness in their sharp smiles as they say it.

Crystal Palace and Edwin Payne have more in common than not. He might be old-money, she new, he stiff and clipped-syllable and posh while she is brash and loose-limbed and dyed-hair, but they are similar down to their cores.

---

Crystal knows what happened with Paul's Palace. She read the review. It's the very review that convinced her that Edwin wasn't entirely a classist, posh dick. It's the very review that made her drive over to his office and sit down to hash out some shit (though not too much, of course; there is too much fun and too much business sense in continuing their "feud," especially since she grabbed her shit from her parents' place and struck out on her own- Crystal's gotta support herself somehow, after all).

And Crystal can tell that there's something about Charles Rowland and the way that Edwin talks about him, like he's the answer to a goddamn prayer.

Crystal has had her fair share of bad relationships. She knows all too well the dangers of falling for someone too fast, catapulting yourself down that canyon until you hit the bottom and break every single bone. She knows having to claw yourself back up by your bloody nails and reshaping yourself from your broken parts.

(Edwin helped her get her shit from David's place. Despite having no self-defense experience and being the literal furthest thing from a jock there could possibly be, he'd stood by her side, between her and David, as she'd packed. When David tried to get near her, Edwin had gave him a tongue-lashing. And though Crystal could do it herself- and had, when she broke up with David- it meant something she couldn't say to have him there. Standing up for her. Being there for her.

Crystal had hugged him afterward. He hadn't hugged her back, all stiff and uncomfortable with showing affection, but he'd smiled that small, tight, fond smile at her once they were in her car and driving to her new place- a room at the top of a butcher's place that she'd reviewed on a whim a few months prior.)

Crystal isn't exactly going to let Edwin go through the same thing that she did. She isn't going to let someone chew him up and spit him out.

And, well, it's Paul Rowland's son. Excuse Crystal for being a bit wary.

So she goes to the restaurant (without mentioning it ahead of time, of course; this is her finally repaying a personal favor) and the difference between the restaurant in the review and the current state of the place could not be more striking. The love that exudes from every corner, the smell of spices on the air, the naan cooking in the back, the sweet smell of jalebi in the air. The way that the waiters and waitresses seem happy to work here, no matter how busy it gets- and Crystal came at the height of the lunch rush for a reason, to see how Charles Rowland operates under stress. That's always when people show you the worst of them.

(That's when David showed the worst of himself, when things crunched at his job and suddenly Crystal was the one dealing with the crunch, the bite, at home.)

But Crystal starts to understand the difference between Edwin's two reviews as she eats.

Crystal didn't become a critic for the love of cooking. She became a critic because bitchy is what she was good at. Because food, especially the expensive kind, was an area she knew that she could lean into.

The restaurant isn't of the expensive sort. But it is of the good sort. The sort of place where you can taste the warmth in the cooking, the care in the ingredients, the home in the chef.

And speaking of the chef: while Aadhya Rowland might spend most of her time as head chef in the kitchen, coordinating and cooking, Charles Rowland works both in the front and the back, since it seems like today a waiter called out. That sort of stress would make any chef or manager lose their mind, but Charles handles it with ease as he flies past her table, earring glittering like it did in the photo with his mother for Edwin's review.

Charles Rowland flirts, and he's good at it. He's charming and smiling and anyone could fall for him, she's sure, what with those pretty brown eyes and prettier smile. It's almost too good to be true, and Crystal knows 'too good to be true' like the back of her hand.

But then the door opens to Edwin and Crystal sees the way Charles' smile changes. The way it goes from something polite and warm and convincing to the full strength of the sun. To the way that Charles' expression goes from easy to sincere, from polite to half-in-love.

(Crystal knows that expression, because Edwin wears the same one when he talks about Charles, even if he thinks he's covering it up.)

After the visit, Crystal calls Niko and asks to see if Niko needs another voice on the show. A rivalry could boost ratings, Crystal explains, but she knows that Niko sees right through her. Niko always has, since they first started rooming opposite the hallway from each other and Crystal had been woken up a couple of months in by a late-night Scooby-Doo marathon and questions about cuts of meat and how they compare to human flesh. For science, of course.

(Crystal might have fallen half in love on the spot.)

Charles Rowland and Edwin Payne are going to be a fascinating partnership, and Crystal will be damned if she can't get an eye in on the front lines for what might be Niko's best idea yet.

Restaurant owner/chef Charles / Food critic Edwin AU!!!

So, I just thought of this AU and I am so jazzed about it that I need to drop this idea somewhere so it can become a 100k fic I can devour in one sitting asdfhfhfhf

In an ideal world I’d want to offer the floor to someone Desi to run with this idea, or to collab with me on it because I want to do Charles' food and culture and relationship with his mum justice. I’ve only been adjacent to the restaurant business (my family ran a small café for a bit and I worked there, and I have a family member who did culinary school, so).

I just know that this idea has Arrived in my brain and I can’t just let it sit in there unattended, asdjfjfjf

I'm tagging @nix-nihili and @queen-of-hobgobblers 'cause I feel like this will be up your street???

Okay - so Charles and his mum own a small Indian restaurant. It’s a family business and his parents ran it together ("together") before. Charles’ father was incredibly controlling about the menu, their community partners and suppliers, as well as pretty much every other aspect of the business (and their lives, behind the scenes). Now Charles’ father is out of the picture—I'm undecided how this happens, but I just think Charles deserves to live an unfettered life without Mr. Rowland hurting him anymore, tbh.

He gets to rediscover the joy of cooking together with his mum, cooking as freely as he wants and not being held back by his dad's expectations, refreshing the restaurant's menu to feature more authentic versions of the dishes, making connections with new suppliers, redoing the accounting to pay everybody a living wage... Just generally, like, revamping the entire restaurant to be a more joyful place to be that celebrates delicious food and companionship as a form of connection and sharing. Edwin is a food critic who goes to the grand reopening of the restaurant. Edwin likes to write about and document food. He enjoys experiencing a restaurant and its food possibly even more than the tasting of it. He presents like the uptight, exacting sort of food critic restaurants are intimidated by, with his many layers and his bow tie and his posture and his perfect hair, his little notebook and his vintage pocket pen. But inside he just wants to be able to feel some sort of a connection: with the chef through the food (What is the dish trying to tell him?); with the other person at the table—if there is another person, which is so rare.

Family mealtimes for Edwin growing up were distant affairs, overly formal and stilted and coded, minefields for being scrutinized and speaking and acting in only the most acceptable ways; not places to be honest or genuine or to let one's guard down. Certainly not occasions to experience genuine enjoyment. He wants to believe that food, which is so vital to life, and the preparing and the sharing of it, can be different. Positive. Joyous.

Charles gives Edwin a tour of the restaurant when he arrives. Charles is not like a lot of other restaurant owners Edwin has met. He introduces Edwin to his mum and the way he looks at her makes a pang go through Edwin's chest because clearly, they love each other so much, and Edwin may have never had that but just looking at it heals something in him. He's not getting invested, though. (Right?)

Charles' enthusiasm is like, off the charts. He's practically vibrating, to the point where excitement tips over into anxiety, clearly trying to keep it toned down and failing. And Charles is like, "I'm sorry. Just a bit nervous, yeah? I really care about this place. I need it to—I mean. I really want it to do well."

Edwin's heart goes out to him. "Do not worry," he says, softly. "I am not here to hurt you." He doesn't know why he says it but all the tension goes out of Charles, the slightly frantic look goes out of his eyes, and he gives Edwin the brightest smile he thinks he's ever seen. It's a gorgeous smile. Relieved, and carefree, and warm like sunshine.

"D'you want to try some food?" He says it almost conspiratorially, as though this is not Edwin's primary and entire purpose in being here.

Edwin looks around the quiet, empty restaurant. It's cozy and warm with mid-afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows at the front. Even without any patrons, without the din or bustle of a full dining room, it seems to beckon to foster shared happiness within it. "I was under the impression that I would be partaking of your dinner service this evening," he says delicately, trying to hide that he might actually want nothing better than to never leave here at all, let alone try some food.

"Well, yeah," Charles says, "'course you are. But this is different, innit? Not for the article. Come on, let me cook for you. You look like..." He stops. Perhaps considering if he's about to say too much. His eyes are bright and thoughtful and fixed on Edwin so intently that Edwin doesn't breathe for a moment. "You look like no one's cooked for you in ages." It comes out soft, but firm; as though he knows what he's talking about. Edwin feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

"No one has ever cooked for me," says Edwin matter-of-factly.

He has no idea what it is about Charles that makes him admit something so honest—although it is not entirely accurate. His family had had a personal chef. Technically speaking, all of Edwin's meals had been cooked for him, until much to his parents' chagrin he went off to a student flat, and culinary school, and began to cook them for himself. But he suspects that no one has ever cooked for him, the way Charles Rowland is offering to now. Properly. Like it means something. Like he is trying to say something through it; unspoken words that Edwin has always wanted to hear.

Let me know you. Let me connect with you. Let me take care of you.

Charles' eyes widen. Clearly, he is trying to process Edwin's bleak admission. "Right," he says, after a beat, as his posture gains something determined; his grin bright and charming. "That settles it, then. I know exactly what I'm going to make you."

And before Edwin can say anything else, he's taking Edwin's hand in his and tugging him towards the kitchen.

[many-gay-magpies]

WIP Word Game

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of that word.

Thank you beloved @babyseraphim for tagging me!! I love these shbdfkjsfkj— the word I got was MAGIC :)

M: From Reach Out and Touch, my ever-in progress artist!Crystal/Crystal and Niko friendship fic

Maybe it’s because of all the memories David took. Even though Crystal doubts she’ll ever be stupid enough to lose her memories to a misogynistic fuckboy demon again, there’s a part of her that worries that one day these memories will get taken, too.

A: From my post-canon casefic, where the gang investigates a witch that’s been slowly luring in and destroying more and more of a small town’s ghost population.

A trembling anxiety was climbing higher and higher in [Edwin’s] throat at the threat of losing either Charles or Crystal to their respective impulsivities.

G: From a fic based off a dream I had, where Charles and Edwin get thrown into the sea by a wizard and Charles’s fear of water makes an appearance.

Ghosts cannot feel cold, but Charles is shivering, so hard it would be sending ripples out through the water if he were corporeal. Ghosts cannot get wet, either, but Charles is positively drenched, his curls weighed down and sending rivulets down his unsettlingly grey face.

I: Also from the post-canon casefic. It has the largest word count of everything here, so it has the honor of securing two spaces in this game :)

It was a garish thing, all bright jewel tones woven into beige and covered in large embroidered insects; altogether out of place among the sage greens, bone whites, and earth tones of the greater house interior.

C: From my little domestic ficlet in @/dontoffendthebees’s modern AU. I have yet to do any more work on this, but it HAS acquired a solid title, which is To Watch You as You Wake

Charles pulls Edwin closer under the covers, intent on leeching as much of his frankly insane body heat as he can. “Like a reptile,” Edwin had said of the habit once; to which Charles had replied, “well, it’s not the most conventional pet name, but I can make it work.”

The word I’m choosing is GHOST, and I’ll tag (no pressure ofc; just if it strikes your fancy ^^) @williamvapespeare @blusandbirds and anyone else who wants to do this <3 (I need more writer mutuals seriously . if any of my mutuals or followers out there are writers who like doing these things pls let me know and I will start tagging you!!)

[wagner-fell]

Finished episode 4 and I won't lie to you, the first episode and the first half-ish of the second episode were a bit boring, but these last two episodes were great!

Niko's really sweet and just the best, though Charles is my favourite character.

I love Edwin and Charles's relationship, as well as Edwin and Niko's relationship. I will say, though, that the cat King's a massive creep and I don't like Charles and Crystal's relationship. Not even because Crystal's just there, but because the bond that ties them feel very superficial in comparison to the one that ties Edwin with Charles

I think those are my thoughts so far?

Charles can own my heart. Protect Edwin from creepy men and crows. Niko my beloved (but why do someone people headcanon (?) her as a lesbian when, with all due respect, my girl's a fujoshi)

Also you don't know how much I love the inclusion of different accents + English slang (you can bet I'm taking for tkc lol; Cal definitely says she's really aces)

I would die for Edwin and Nico’s friendship it’s so cute!!!!

FHIJYYHHH I KNOW YOU WOULD LOVE CHARLES THO

No literally, tbh a lot of people were saying that Crystal and Edwin are so much alike that Charles should realize he has a type 💀💀

I think it’s because in the first scene of Niko when Crystal sees her with the faerie disease, everyone basically collectively thought that Crystal was just having a sapphic moment of wow she’s magical instead of anything actually, yk, magical going on

[ars-simia-animus]

You’ll Rise Up, Free and Easy

Chapter Four: “Those Days of Living Gently”

Summary: Childhood is sweet and cruel to both Peter and Tony. They are loved, but each faces violence in their every day. It informs who they grow up to be. Trigger warnings for this chapter: mentions of child abuse, mentions of bullying. The theme of child abuse will heavily impact the next chapter as well. Please keep yourselves safe and protected! This story is not meant to hurt anyone.

January, 1903

Peter flitted outside in the morning light to get more firewood for the kitchen. He returned to the doorway less than a minute later, calling to May. “Come look at all the little prints the birds made in the snow!” He cried.

Smiling, she followed him out to a patch of white close to the bare American ash shrubs, where the birds liked to rest. May hummed cheerily, appreciating the delicate tracks made by the birds’ hopping feet. The shadows of these veinlike prints were blue against the crystal snow.

“Aren’t they pretty?” Peter asked.

“As a picture, bambino.” May touched his shoulder. Then she urged him: “Fetch the wood and hurry inside if you don’t want those ears of yours to turn worse.”

Peter grinned, shaking his head. She’d already made him a pair of earmuffs from an old quilt and some wool. He wore them to please her but felt the lingering earaches were finally gone. For two weeks they had held on and May fretted about hearing loss. But, the only impediment to his hearing were the earmuffs.    

While she returned to the kitchen to mind the lox, he jogged to the woodshed. In his mind, he assembled the colorants he would need to create that opalescent blue. Rutile, maybe, could be coaxed into that cornflower hue. How would the little veins look on a porcelain body? When he entered the kitchen, with his basket of firewood, he asked May her thoughts.

“Mmm.” She pondered the question briefly. “I think you could make any idea into a beautiful artwork.”

“That’s not much of an answer, Aunt May,” Peter said ruefully. “I want to know what you think of how it looks.”

“I’d have to see it, bambino.”

“Well, when you imagine it, though.” He persisted and she laughed.

“I’m not in your mind,” she said. So he wouldn’t feel too disappointed, she added: “But you do show me so much of the world that I might bustle past. You have a gift, sheifale.”

He let the topic go, though he felt silly for asking at all. In the little brass box by the stove, he stacked the logs from his basket, scolding himself. Why couldn’t he ever express what he was imagining? It seemed the only means to let anyone into his head was to recreate his thoughts and feelings in the clay. Even then, they never resonated in others the way they did in him.

“Honestly,” May said. “You know who you ought to ask? Mrs. Stark.” Peter brightened, so she continued. “Mrs. Stark is in town for a while, I understand. She has a wonderful sense of aesthetics…”

Peter interrupted with a mock chiding tone: “Aunt May, you make beautiful dresses and blouses—”

“There’s no doubt,” May said, humorously. “However, I piece together what I’ve already seen. You create things no one else has ever seen. You have an artist’s soul.” She transferred the lox onto their plates. “I think Mrs. Stark has a sensitivity…” Her words teetered on the back of her tongue. Unsurely, she said, “... For beautiful things— but also people. I think— Mrs. Stark would understand—what you tell her.”

Peter closed the lid on the box then carried the basket to its place by the back door, considering May’s suggestion. He missed Pepper even though he had seen her less than two weeks ago, on the day after Christmas. She, Tony, and Peter had talked for a little while about his apprenticeship. Of course, they were all soon distracted.

Tony tinkered with a music box that Pepper had gifted him for Christmas; and, somehow, he and Pepper began to play a game in which he wore a blindfold and she directed him, around furniture, from one end of the room to the other. He’d done well until Tony had snuck up silently and poked his chin, causing him to cheep like a startled mouse.

Perhaps, he thought, wilting, they should have focused more on the apprenticeship. There were obviously some differing ideas about it between himself and Tony. Not that he was ungrateful— he sighed miserably.

Is that what Tony thought?

May glanced at him compassionately. “Peter, after breakfast, would you be able to help me make tulle flowers?” He turned to her with a smile, thankful that she’d pulled him out of his head. “Just until Mr. Stark comes to fetch you for your outing?”

“Of course, Aunt May.”

By nine o’clock the table had become a grove of cherry blossoms made of tulle. Peter allowed his mind to wander as he twisted each little flower. Soon Tony would arrive and they could try to talk again. Hope was still in his heart that he could articulate himself without losing his important friendship with Mr. Stark.

April, 1868

Ana despised traveling anymore; it was a stone in the pit of her stomach from beginning to end. All the papers and acting and constant scrutinization by government officials… She’d loved traveling once, when she was innocent and free, but after all the danger of her young adult life, she knew that peace and safety could only be found at home— the home she made, not the one she left.

Realistically, she could have been exempt from going to Canada if she had pushed. The trip was only through the summer and Tony didn’t need her as often now. As he’d grown, she had transitioned from his nanny to the role of his governess. She had a background in education that even satisfied Maria’s standards. Tony was more independent and wouldn’t need lessons over the summer; if Howard insisted he studied, he could always be occupied with bookwork— in theory.

Yet, four months alone, without Edwin and Tony, seemed too high a price to pay for comfort. Edwin assured her that crossing the Canadian border was nothing similar to the secured bordered of Europe nor like entering America from Europe. Also, the Starks had influence and money so as to not be questioned in anything they did. She snorted at this.

“I mean this as a comfort, beloved, truly,” Jarvis said. She could just see him smiling dryly in the dim dawnlight of their bedroom. “But there’s a higher likelihood we encounter a criminal than an official at the border.”

“What ease you bring me, my love.” Ana retorted, glaring at him across her pillow.

He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled until she was flush against him. She tucked her head into his neck and sighed. “Even then” —he murmured into her hair— “There’s nothing to fear,” he said. “Many years have passed and I’ve never relied on inhabitants of this continent to have a knowledge of foreign affairs.”

Ana decided to trust him, just as she had when she was twenty-two. He had helped her escape the war that her family had adopted in her place. For this, he deserved her faith. “Did I ever tell you about the remarkable person I met in Budapest about twenty years ago?” She grinned then gently began to kiss along his collarbone.

May, 1868

Summer in Canada was somehow reminiscent of her youth. Or, perhaps it was an illusion caused by her absorption in the Little Mister’s boyhood. Tony was happy; her heart was always so full when he was happy. It nearly ached. More than once, in fact, she found herself teary while watching him run through the grass, racing kites through the sky. He had made a friend at last and was adorably devoted to him.

The other boy was slight but tall, “all elbows and knees” as she heard Edwin say, gentle, patient, and bashful. Yet, Ana also detected an almost adult sense of self-awareness. His name was Samuel. Maria approved of him, as he came from a family of similar but not competitive wealth. Howard openly mocked the boy as a “dandy” and a “silly-heart.”

Ana wondered what crime it could be for a child to be sensitive. Or whimsical. No, Howard valued analysis, innovation, imperturbability, and any sin that made a businessman look powerful in a smoking room. He never allowed his own son to be expressive or sentimental. Fortunately, Tony found moments of safety and Ana fiercely defended his friendship with Samuel.

With bare feet, the two galloped over the lawn of the Stark’s Toronto estate. They pulled kites behind them that Tony had made, based on the designs Ana and he had created when he was much younger. She beamed at the sight of them, sun-backed, in the sky; they were strong kites and fast.

He had burst into the windowed porch where she was sketching the cour d'honneur of the Királyi Vár, and asked if she had any pink, green, or blue colored paper. “I’m going to make kites, Mrs. Ana, for my friend and I.”

“‘For my friend and me’ is what I’m sure you meant.” She corrected without severity. Laying aside her drawing, she said “Let’s see what we can find! Why pink, green, and blue?”

Tony hopped after her. He was already out of breath, whether from play or excitement, she wasn’t sure. “Those are his favorite colors. Well, he said white was his very favorite and pink was second. But, I already found some white paper in the kitchen.”

Ana led him to the room designated for her husband and herself. It was unfamiliar and uncomfortable to board in the main house— even if Howard had granted them this small apartment and not a room in the servant’s quarters. Jarvis was very favored by their master, she remembered.

Nevertheless, she missed her cottage. She missed the sanctuary of foxglove and larkspur, the stone fence and the iron gate that spoke “hello, bye” with its hinges, the water spigot where Tony liked to steal a drink before they tramped out to the field to play football. Mournfully, she wondered if the groundskeepers were treating her garden well. She had persuaded them to tend it for a pretty sum— pretty enough they ought not to neglect it.

When they reached the room, Ana rummaged through a cabinet of supplies she brought for Tony’s creative interests. These were things that Maria and Howard were not likely to prioritize, such as paste, string, dowels of differing sizes, wax for paper boats, paint and similar supplies. Howard, albeit begrudgingly, had finally noticed Tony’s prodigious acuity with engineering and architecture. He allowed Ana to order extra supplies like bolts, copper wire, etc., for Tony, which were delivered along with Howard’s own materials monthly to his lab. Howard wouldn’t see the purpose of colored paper, though, so Ana kept a supply with the educational budget Maria gave her.

Interrupting her thoughts, Tony asked, “Why didn’t you ever have your own child, Mrs. Ana?”

Her heartbeat was needlessly rapid. She blinked, hard, to control it. “I never wanted any.” It was a simplified explanation.

Finding a collection of colored paper sheets, she pulled it from under a jar of tacks and returned her gaze to him. Immediately, she recognized that her comment had struck him in an unintended way. She took a breath and amended: “I was the eldest in a house of eight children—“ (and fifty revolutionaries, always in and out; mother tended them and I tended the children, the other children…) “and that rather quashed the urge for a while.”

Tony stared at her, so she continued. “Then, in Porthcurno in Cornwall, I was schoolmarm to about twenty students and, again, my maternal needs were more than fulfilled. They were my children.” She held out the bundle of paper until he took it. His face looked like a slack curtain. Behind it was a flurry of activity. “Why do you ask, Little Mister?”

He slipped away from her as if he were going to leave. Then he paused, rubbing his shoulder against the door frame. His back to her, he asked, “Why do you say they were your children?”

“I cared for them. I got to know them and they relied on me.” Ana wondered if he was jealous. Before she could say anything to validate his importance as her pupil, he faced her.

“Am I yours?”

“Yes.” She replied. No hesitation.

“I love you.”

Tony’s words came in a steady but unreadable tone. It was a statement, a declaration, and yet underlaid with vulnerability. Ana’s chest lifted reflexively.

She wasn’t fast enough, though, in swallowing the knot in her throat; he fled out the door. Following him, her hand reached out, but he was gone. He couldn’t bear to wait for a response. His experiment was over. Alone with her breath like a fluttering dove, Ana sank into a chair. I love you— oh, I love you, Little Mister!

January, 1903

May looked across the sea of tulle blossoms at Peter. His face was ablush as he touched the tender fabric. She knew that he was lost in reverie, inhaling the beauty, letting it mingle with his soul, with the parts that reflected it. As if to confirm her thoughts, he said, “Sometimes I think it would be especially nice to be a cherry tree.”

She smiled, murmuring, “Yes, sheifale.”

Peter finished the blossom and reached for more tulle. “I wish I could be one, just for one spring day.” Eyes as soft as clouds, he blew a breath across his palm and the fabric flower floated down to join the others.

Considering him, she asked: “Would you like me to sew some onto your clothes?”

“I,” Peter said, chuckling, “I don’t know. Would I look ridiculous?”

May shook her head. She didn’t speak, but beamed at him. He smiled and his glance fell. Pausing first, May then said, “I have liked having you at home again.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “I’m very happy to be here with you, Aunt May. I am so grateful—” He let the words snuff out with a sigh. I’m so grateful to Mr. Stark.

“This should be enough,” May said and indicated the finished blossoms spread over the table. “Thank you.” With that, he stood to get ready for his outing with Tony, but May’s voice sounded. “I remember what school was like for you.”

Peter’s smile died. He sat back down with resignation, as though he knew this conversation was coming. May had not looked at him but she slowly raised her eyes when he sunk into place. “Please don’t make me go back.” He whispered.

“I would not wish to go back either, if it were me.” May kept her voice low. “I agree with Mr. Stark, however, as I said when he was here last.” Peter cast down his eyes to his sleeve cuffs and began pulling at them. “You deserve an education, motek. Refusing one will only deny you a full life.”

Peter drummed his leg. “Ned is apprenticed to the butcher and Harry is boarding at the academy upstate. School was only bearable before because they were with me.” His voice was as small as it had been when he had come home, dappling the floorboards with blood. “They defended me.” He said.

May felt a hot rush of emotion in her chest. School days had been dreadful for her nephew. Peter would come home from school very late, kept back by the teacher to empty chalk trays or pick up litter. At first May and Ben had hailed his sense of helpfulness and responsibility; but, slowly they realized that no other children were expected to do these chores so often or so many at one time.

He came home with bruises and bloodied noses from his classmates, who he insisted just played too roughly in the schoolyard. They wouldn’t stop when he asked to be left out of these games. Many times Ben found him crying at the boiler room steps of the tenement building, only to have Ned explain that some mean trick had been played on Peter by the other boys.

Letting a hum pass her lips, May reached out and took his hands. “I know. But, sheifale, you are not defenseless.”

Pain crossed his face— pain and worry. May rethought her words. After she had turned over a few in her mind, she said. “Would that old gonif Jameson ever have bullied you away from ceramics? Would you not have returned to study with Mr. Stark because Jameson terrorized you?”

“Aunt May,” Peter said with a huff, “that’s different.”

“Not so different.” She countered. “Would you have allowed your education of ceramics to stop?”

Wordlessly, Peter frowned.

“Listen to me.” May pressed his hands firmly. “You should at least talk to Mr. Stark about it. I’m sure he would listen. He’s a creative one when it comes to solving problems.” The last statement sounded wry, but it was spoken in good faith. She knew that Tony cared for Peter.

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter said. Though the quavers emitted from his heart were blooming wider and wider through his frame, he decided to trust Tony and talk honestly with him.

June, 1868

Jarvis woke to what at first sounded like a morning dove in their bedroom. The cooing filtered through his drowsiness and he finally realized it was a child’s muffled whimper. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and nearly stepped on a bundled form on the rug. After a sharp inhale of surprise, he fumbled to light the lamp on his nightstand.

Ana lifted herself on the third strike of the match. She began to mumble a question, but they were both silenced. The little moans had begun to resemble words. Jarvis replaced the glass chimney of the lamp and moved away, allowing the flame’s light to reveal the bundle on the floor. They knew it was Tony.

“Edwin,” Ana said with a cry.

Jarvis lifted Tony gently. When his hands cradled Tony’s neck and knees, the boy seized. The indiscernible syllables quickened. Jarvis held him more securely as he tried to wrench away. Ana made room on the bed for the child to lie between them. She leaned over him, listening, to decipher the words. He was saying: “Please—don’t—please don’t—please, please!”

Stricken, Jarvis made a motion to wake him, but Ana stayed his hand. Instead, she fixed the blankets over Tony and lied beside him. She brushed his forehead and cheek with her hand. Then she spoke comfortingly to him. In sleep, Tony shifted toward her, though he continued to cry.

Jarvis watched his wife for a moment then followed her lead. He stiffly lowered himself to one elbow. Unsurely, he pressed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Together, they created a nest around him. Tony began to calm.

“What nightmare do you suppose is causing him such a fright?” Jarvis asked.

Ana was quiet. She flashed a pointed look. “One he’s lived during the day.”

Jarvis sobered.

Without warning, Tony opened his eyes. He must have remembered where he was because he wasn’t startled to see them. First he saw Jarvis and sighed with— relief, Jarvis realized. Then, he found Ana and reached for her the way children do, asking to be held.

Ana drew him against her. He winced and scooted himself closer. “I’m here, Little Mister. We’re here,” she said. Jarvis noticed that he was included in her promise, included in this intimacy.

Snuggled safely, Tony closed his eyes. Ana gave Jarvis a nod; he stretched behind him and extinguished the lamplight. The three settled into each other. A long moment passed.

Then, almost inaudibly, Tony whispered. “Father whipped me.” Sleep abandoned both Ana and Jarvis. Neither closed their eyes again that night. Their gentle days would now become only moments stolen amidst a tumult in the Stark household.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Palace & Payne Detective Agency is in!

They start the Palace and Payne Detective Agency (yes, there was a massive fight over whose name would come first, Edwin saying that he had the experience in hell, while Crystal said she had the experience with the living, before they eventually compromised on alphabetical order).

Yes, some people wonder why they stick together, considering that not a single case gets completed without them bickering to all hell about it.

But not only are the two of them good at what they do, they understand each other as few others do.

As far as Crystal and Edwin can tell, they are the only ghosts wandering the earth to have returned from Hell.

That sticks two people together, that knowledge of sulfur and brimstone and blood, those memories of bare feet on concrete and the skittering sounds of a doll-headed-spider and the crunch of knives shoved down one’s throat. That grows them together, binds them by unmoving blood and unbeating heart and unbreathing lungs.

(Crystal dies in the 1960s and she and Edwin escape Hell a bit earlier than planned, forming the original Palace and Payne Detective Agency. Niko and Charles come along a bit later.)

@qwanderer @nix-nihili @vyther15 @anything-thats-rock-and-roll @wordsinhaled

@bitterdesert @mellxncollie

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dead Boy Detectives Victor AU Edits: Crystal and Monty Against Thomas King!

Hey besties, long time no see with this stupid (beloved) project! I was in a bit of a writing slump and so I wanted to tackle this again to get back in the right writing mindset. I've had this scene so vividly in my brain for awhile now when it came to the images, and I tried to get as close as I can! Hope y'all like it!

Also, as always, here is the link to the fic!

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@tiredghostby @sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @holvivum

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dead Boy Detectives Finale AU: We're Back In Port Townsend! (ft. Edwin's Hellish Self-Image Issues/[REDACTED MONTY ROCK BOTTOM]

Aka: Edwin has self-image issues, but Crystal does her best to help a friend out. Meanwhile, Monty puts himself into an uncomfortable situation in order to help solve a case.

Welcome to what I've affectionately been calling one of the top three most painful chapters in this AU. We're going to focus on Edwin's, well, hellish self-image issues and his friendship with Crystal, and then Monty's willingness to put himself into the worst situations possible for the sake of a case. Will feature some Cat King/Monty development (of a sort) and some sweet Edwin/Monty and Edwin/Charles moments.

You still might want to scream at me at the end, though.

Here's the chapter playlist, as always! (It really does set the vibes that this chapter is delving into.)

@tipsyscone @immacaria @antfarm-antoni @billcipherstoes @moonycorvus @anything-thats-rock-and-roll @magpiemarten @moonyslesbian @bushbees @datglutengoblin @annawry @watermeezer @polaris-and-ink @the-enbyrat @astalkerof28 @itsthenovelteafactor

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dead Boy Detectives Finale AU: We're Back In Port Townsend! (Ft. Crystal POV)

Aka: Crystal is trying to be a better person than she was before, but it can be hard to be the only living person in a room filled with ghosts.

(Or, Crystal deals with the fallout of what happened in the forest.)

Welcome to the Crystal follow up to the forest chapter! This chapter heavily focuses on the Crystal&Edwin friendship, the Crystal/Charles relationship with all of their messy parallels and affection for each other, and even has a Niko/Crystal/Charles cuddle pile at the end! What more can you ask for?

Here's the chapter playlist, as always!

@tipsyscone @immacaria @antfarm-antoni @billcipherstoes @moonycorvus @anything-thats-rock-and-roll @magpiemarten @moonyslesbian @bushbees @datglutengoblin @annawry @watermeezer @polaris-and-ink @the-enbyrat @astalkerof28 @itsthenovelteafactor