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artificialqueens · 5 years

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Daybreak over Manhattan (Scyvie) - Phryne

A/N: Long time, no see AQ! I’m finally back after putting DOPS on a slight hiatus to work on Ficmas and this fic right here. It’s a coffee shop au with some cute fluffy bits, a little angst, and that classic DOPS humor (I hope) we all love.

Also thank you to @scarletenvynyc for being incredible throughout the whole writing process and encouraging me to see this fic through, and to @artificialmeggie for being the most incredible beta.

Enjoy!

Word Count: 13K

***

Yvonne Bridges tugged at the collar of her tan trench coat in vain, trying to shield her neck from the mounting October wind. It was cooler in the mornings, though she didn’t mind it. In fact she quite enjoyed it. It was the time of year when the sun was just peeking over the horizon as she flew down the steps of the subway stop a few blocks from her apartment, and was fully bright, making her reflection golden and stretching in the skyscraper windows she passed, when she arrived at her first stop before work: the Starbucks.

It was part of her morning routine, which she followed religiously. She arrived at the same time nearly every morning, buttoned the bottom two buttons of her pantsuit jacket while waiting at the register, placed the same order, checked her emails in silence while standing at the counter, waiting about about the same amount of time—it was a fairly empty store around six a.m.—and then left, heading on her way to work, fully prepared to handle her caseload, no matter what her boss would throw at her.

It was comforting to see her usual barista Brooke and follow through the same thoughtless exchange. She only learned her name when she broke away from routine a couple months ago to study the barista. Brooke wore her hair wound up in a tight bun near the nape of her neck, her hair perpetually shiny and well placed. She wrote her name on her tag in all capital letters. It was severe. It was pointed. So was she.

Brooke began each conversation with ‘hello’ and a nod. Yvonne replied ‘tall triple latte, blueberry muffin’ and pulled up the Starbucks app, her phone raising to a blinding brightness as she brought up her card. Brooke pressed a few buttons and said ‘seven seventy-four.’ Yvonne scanned her phone. Brooke nodded and therefore Yvonne moved to the side. They said a total of nine words to one another, each day the same nine words. It had been long enough that she shouldn’t have to explain her daily order to Brooke, but they weren’t feigning the closeness of friendship over ordering coffee, so they continued on with their nine word exchange, over and over until Brooke wasn’t there anymore.

And on that October day, when Yvonne came in from the whipping wind, smoothing down her collar and adjusting her grip on her well-worn leather briefcase, the sunlight pouring in from the windows behind her, brushing against the back of her exposed neck, warming her so deliciously, so palpably, she was taken aback.

“Welcome to Starbucks! What can I do you for this mornin’?”

The voice was warm, like a well blended whisky settling in her belly, though it felt grating after what had to be years of Brooke’s cool, monotone voice. This voice belonged to a woman with brunette hair clipped back haphazardly, shorter strands escaping to graze across her sharp cheekbones, full from the smile she spoke with.

The first thing Yvonne thought was that she couldn’t be from here, that was for sure. If the voice didn’t give it away, the exasperated joy at six a.m. did, the way she went about beaming at strangers like she had no good reason to save a grin that wide for a more special occasion did. She had to be new to the city—new enough to believe in the magic of Manhattan and all the people in it.

Yvonne would scoff, but it would be quite difficult to scoff at the sun itself, and she thought that assumption applied here. She didn’t think she was bitter enough to scoff at joy incarnate appearing in front of her, wearing a leopard print cardigan and a soft pink t-shirt under her apron.

“Where’s Brooke?” she asked, diverting the new barista’s question. “She’s always here in the morning.”

The barista finally broke from her incessant grinning, looking almost softer, more real, though Yvonne could now see the harshness of her jaw, the delicate point of her nose. She looked like a sculpture. She let out a weighted sigh.

“Brooke got cast in some dance thing.” The barista drummed her fingers on the counter, pondering. “Like a group thing. I think she’s got some kind of team?”

Yvonne put her phone down, the words still sounding off. More off than the prospect of Brooke not taking her order anymore. “A team?”

“No, I guess that makes it sound like sports, huh?” The barista exhaled a light laugh, nothing more than an airy, thin laugh. “Like a ballet team. A posse? A gang?” She rambled on, somehow still holding Yvonne’s attention with each iteration of team, as though her words had a grip on Yvonne.

“I don’t know,” she ended decisively. “But she got cast.” A little snort. Definitely a little miffed, which seemed understandable.

The barista blew some hair out of her face before snapping back into her original sunny disposition. “Brooke quit yesterday, so now I have the opening shift,” she said. “I’m Scarlet.” And then she pointed to her name tag, her index finger highlighting how she wrote Scarlet in cursive, wide, looping letters, with little stars drawn around them. Yvonne couldn’t help but notice the stark difference between Scarlet and Brooke’s tags. And the difference seemed quite fitting.

So Yvonne nodded, hoping to let that information pass, maybe even establish the same routine with this Scarlet, though it seemed unlikely with all the talking they had done already, which had to have passed her and Brooke’s nine word conversations.

“Okay. Tall triple latte, blueberry muffin.” Yvonne said, watching her rapidly input on the register, tacking on “please,” as though it were necessary to be more polite to her—she didn’t know Yvonne’s routine yet.

“Oh that sounds so good,” Scarlet replied. “I would kill to have a triple tall latte right now.”

Yvonne couldn’t let what had to be Scarlet’s standard reply to an order hang limply between them. It all happened without her knowledge, the words firing from her brain and out her mouth, landing between them before she even knew it.

“You’re telling me you haven’t had any coffee yet? And you’re like this?” Yvonne gestured lightly, now gripping her phone. “I’ve had no coffee and I’m like this.” She gestured down herself. Her exhausted self really — though exhaustion was a constant enough state that she learned how to look like it wasn’t.

Scarlet laughed. And yes, it was a laugh directed at Yvonne’s thoughtless reply. It wasn’t even a joke. But nonetheless the laugh registered as authentic for a barista laugh. There was an appropriate lightness to it, enough to note it as actually funny but too much. Not enough to let Yvie know she was so unfunny that she warranted fake laughter from this poor barista.

“You’re funny, even for this early,” Scarlet reassured. She uncapped her Sharpie and took up the cup. “What’s the name for the order, funny lady?”

Her throat was tight. “Yvonne.”

Scarlet nodded and wrote on the cup, setting it aside, ringing Yvonne up, and holding up the scanner for her phone. She stepped to the side, expecting the transaction to be finished. She didn’t expect Scarlet to tell her to “have a good morning” after the fact, and the elongated pleasantries left her floundering. She checked her emails, hoping to bring about a sense of normalcy.

“Yvie. Latte and blueberry muffin for Yvie,” another barista called out. He glanced around, noting only Yvonne and an older man in a windbreaker and running tights in the store.

Yvonne continued sorting through emails, adding Silky’s ‘daily meme’ email to her spam folder.

“Order for Yvie.” The barista pointed at the muffin in the bag. The older man shook his head.

“Yvonne,” Scarlet called over to her, now standing where the other barista stood, holding the same latte and muffin. “It’s your order, Yvie.”

She should have been irritated by the nickname. Never in her adult life had she been called by a nickname — really, she didn’t think something as cutesy as Yvie could suit her. It sounded like a name for a well groomed Pomeranian, not a grown woman.

But she nonetheless accepted her latte and muffin, finding herself glancing down at the way Scarlet wrote ‘Yvie’ in sprawling handwriting, the dot of the ‘i’ trailing off in her haste. It was endearing.

Scarlet was quite endearing, and something she could get used to every day, she decided, walking past the window on her way to work, stealing another glance at Scarlet, only to find her waving goodbye, her fingers fluttering away.

***

“Tall triple latte, blueberry muffin,” Yvie said, still buried in her phone. “Please.”

Please had quickly become a part of her routine with Scarlet, as much as Yvie didn’t enjoy setting new routines. Through it didn’t feel correct to carry over the same practices with Brooke to Scarlet, especially when Scarlet always beamed back at her, especially when the October sunrise seemed to chase through the front windows to meet up with Scarlet, making her perpetual flush look warmer and the little frizzy hairs along her hairline look nearly blonde. It made the please deeply necessary, and therefore routine.

Scarlet pulled out a cup and wrote out Yvie’s name, chirping back, “the usual, got it,” before getting Yvie’s muffin from the case.

Yvie continued typing away at her phone, feeling her face tighten and her brows thread together with no way of easing them. She scanned over the email from Silky, her coworker, with whom she was handling the Davenport case—a complex web of familial relations, undissolvable trusts, and heaps of old money. It was nearly all wrapped up, but Silky was now flip-flopping on their analysis for their client, A’keria.

“What the fuck does this mean?” Yvie exhaled steam, rapidly typing back to Silky.

Scarlet returned with the muffin, sliding it across the counter. “It’ll be $7.74.”

Yvie groaned, swiping through Silky’s attachments from her last email. The message only said “please advise.” Yvie did not want to advise on what she’d already advised on for the past three months.

“Capitalism, right?” Scarlet threw her hands up with a shrug. “But you still gotta pay, Yvie.”

“Oh sorry.” Yvie pulled away, glancing up at Scarlet, looking more and more like a court jester with her puffy-sleeved shirt and exaggerated expression, as though she were on the set of I Love Lucy rather than behind the counter at Starbucks. She pulled up her app and Scarlet scanned her card.

“What’s going on?” Scarlet printed the receipt, tore it off, and immediately threw it away. “You seem all tense today.”

Today. Scarlet really did joke. “I’m a lawyer,” Yvie replied dryly, her voice gritting. Just thinking about Silky’s email made her grimace. “I’m always tense, Scarlet.”

“Nuh uh,” Scarlet tutted back, clearly waging her bets and pressing further. She was a woman of nerve, that’s for sure, pressing at Yvie when she was in one of her moods. “You look more stressed than usual. I can see it in your face.” She held up her thumbs and index fingers perpendicular in front of her, making a frame for Yvie’s face, as though she were capturing a shot of the stress.

Yvie gave in easily, turning her phone over on the counter, ignoring the email. She sighed. “Well, I have to go argue a big case. Like a big money case today. And my partner’s reconsidering our arguments like we haven’t been preparing our arguments for fucking months.” She let out a long exhale, meeting Scarlet’s intent gaze. “But whatever. I don’t want to just bitch to you about it.”

Scarlet laughed, brushing her off with a flick of her hand. “Please. No one else is here.” She looked around at the nearly barren store, the lack of line behind Yvie, prompting Yvie to notice the same. “Bitch away, honey.”

She walked on over to the espresso machine, released a hot spurt of steam from the wand, and grabbed a jug of milk from under the counter, then pointed at the stools that lined the counter opposite her. “Sit down and spill it.”

And for no godly reason, by no logical means, Yvie felt compelled to do exactly that.

“Also, Silky keeps this shit on her desk that I hate.” Yvie brushed her hair back. “Like she’s got this calendar of these hot firemen and their dalmations. And like, not to be gay, but I don’t get men and their dogs.”

Scarlet peered up at Yvie while pouring the steamed milk over the espresso. Yvie broke her gaze, suddenly much more interested in flipping her phone over in her hands.

“I’m more of a cat lady myself,” Scarlet replied easily, returning her attention to putting a lid on Yvie’s drink, scribbling something else on the side of it and sliding it over to her. Scarlet placed her elbows on the counter, leaning in on her hands, coming in closer.

“Same.” Yvie took her drink, sticking a latte saver in it. “And she’s got a picture of Mr. Fuzznut on her desk—”

“Who’s Mr. Fuzznut?” Scarlet could barely get it out without laughing.

“Her dog. He’s a weiner dog. In the picture he’s wearing a wizard’s hat.” Yvie pulled up the picture and slid her phone over.

“Ugh.” Scarlet pushed it right back. She let her index finger rest against her cheek. “Why is she that way?”

“Beats me. I just listen to her talk about that dog and her men all—”

“Excuse me, miss?” A man in a suit called over from the register, the vein in his neck clearly throbbing from having to wait more than five minutes. He shouldn’t have even bothered with excuse me. “Can you take my order?”

Scarlet tilted her head, staring blankly before snapping back into her usual cheer.

“I gotta go anyway.” Yvie hitched her purse up her shoulder, readjusting the tuck of her silk button down into her gray trousers. “Big case and all,” she said, trailing off.

“Of course. I’m sure it’ll—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Yvie patted the counter before taking off, leaving Scarlet to tend to this customer, who did not care for waiting now six minutes to order his coffee and told Scarlet just as much as Yvie left, in what had to be a demeaningly measured tone.

Yvie noticed a touch of feathering Sharpie poking out from under the coffee sleeve, which was peculiar, as Scarlet wrote ‘Yvie’ on the cup and checked all the proper boxes like usual, but this marking seemed new. Maybe she did something different to her coffee and had to check a different box, like adding or replacing something would help Yvie’s constant state of exhaustion and stress, like Scarlet the barista knew best. Usually knowing best referred to her ability to select muffins, as she picked through the muffins with her tongs to find Yvie what she assured was the ‘best muffin.’ ”It’s the one with the most blueberries, of course,” Scarlet once explained with a cartoonish wink as she stuck it into a bakery bag.

Yvie took a swig of the now cooled coffee. Perfect, as always.

She slid the sleeve down and her lips tugged into a smile. It said good luck!! In her same loopy handwriting. And she connected the exclamation points to make a smiley face. Under the sleeve just for her.

Yvie took pause, considering that Scarlet really thought to put it under the sleeve instead of out in the open where she could easily see it. Maybe she did that because she knew Yvie would see it anyway. But then she would have just said something, no? Maybe it was under the sleeve so it wouldn’t look weird in court, this coffee cup with messages. She knew if Silky saw it, she’d have a field day — even though Yvie’s girlfriend literally worked feet away from them — spinning some story about Yvie’s secret barista admirer. Maybe Scarlet was just smart.

It was possible that Scarlet the barista knew best.

***

It was the morning of Halloween and Yvie’s thoughts were rampant and ecstatic. Namely, she was contemplating whether or not she should waste her good witch costume on Silky’s party and how rude it would be if she claimed food poisoning at the last minute, just to stay in and gobble fun-sized Snickers while watching Carrie.

As she approached the counter, she saw Scarlet all giddy, her little clip-on witch’s hat flopping its pom-pom tip, her cream sweater adorned with sequined black cats catching the light as she shimmied around.

“Happy Halloween, Yvie,” Scarlet said with a little clap before pressing down on the counter, sharing as though it were a well worn secret. “It’s my favorite holiday. I love it.”

It surprised her a bit, hearing that Scarlet loved Halloween, though she seemed just as adamant as she did about the holiday, and looked far more festive than Yvie, who could only muster the festivity of an all black pantsuit. She didn’t look like one to enjoy the spooky season — Yvie could more easily picture her in a soft, pale pink sweater and jeans, stomping her boots around in leaves and enjoying spiced cider from an earthenware mug than reveling in the blood and gore of a slasher flick.

Though it was a good surprise, a new image of Scarlet in the fall time for her to comb over at her leisure.

“It’s mine too,” Yvie replied. “Do you have any plans for Halloween?”

Scarlet broke into a smirk, hand over her heart, laying in the slight twang of her accent. “Oh Yvie, what are you asking me?”

Yvie stopped dead, blood lying still in her body. She fiddled with her jacket. “I… I wasn’t…”

“I’m just teasing, silly.” She brushed it off. “I gotta get my costume together and then my roommate, Pearl and I, we throw this big party. So we’ll have people over. I’m going as a devil.” She stuck two pointed fingers behind her head and giggled.

Yvie laughed right back. It was a little absurd, thinking of Scarlet, with all her gentleness and joy, posing as the devil, in some sleek red thing, probably trying her absolute hardest to look cold and mean, though couldn’t possibly have a cold, mean bone in her body.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Scarlet startled her out of her thoughts, leaning in closer, Yvie following her lead. “Don’t tell my manager, but I invented a new Halloween drink.”

“Oh?” Yvie didn’t know if she was more taken aback by the proposition of a new drink order, her willingness to accept it, or Scarlet’s closeness and how the fine hairs of her body stood at attention with every word.

“Do you want to try it? It’s super cute.”

Of course it was super cute.

“It’s also a little unauthorized.” She quoted with her fingers. “Not as unauthorized as the first drink I tried to make, but still.”

Yvie pulled away slightly, her face willing itself to twist, but finding that she couldn’t, not with Scarlet already reaching for a cold cup from the stack next to her. And Yvie was not a fan of cold coffee, no not really, especially in late October, especially when it was barely over 30 degrees outside and she was in the same jacket she’d been wearing since the much warmer beginning of fall. Not with Scarlet already uncapping her Sharpie, preemptively doodling a pumpkin on the side of the cup, finishing it off with a curly stem sprouting from the top, just waiting to write ‘Yvie’ and seal the deal.

So Yvie nodded and Scarlet rang her up for $5.04 and Yvie scanned her app and stepped off to the side, watching Scarlet take off, throwing one last glance over her shoulder at the back room before pumping some liquid into the cup and adding a bit of milk, pouring the mixture into the blender pitcher, and adding thick orange sauce to it.

Yvie did not know or particularly like the idea of the blender. Or the thick orange sauce. She didn’t know how she was supposed to walk into the office with some kind of blended drink and be respected as an orator and a woman of law. Nonetheless, she trusted the decision, gaze trained on Scarlet, who added some more liquid and a scoop of ice and maybe something else into the blender, allowing it to pulverize the ice while she coated the side of the cup in a dripping, deep brown sauce, which pooled at the bottom.

She was concentrated and swift, almost holding her breath as she poured the orange slush into the cup, careful not to mess up her design, smile tense as she topped it with whipped cream and a smattering of chocolate shavings that she found under the counter.

“Here it is!” Scarlet placed the drink in front of her, using her elegant fingers to highlight each component, as though she were selling the drink to her on a home shopping network. “It’s a pumpkin spice frap with mocha sauce on the sides of the cup, whip, and chocolate shavings.”

Yvie studied it for a moment. It was a very cute drink.

Scarlet must have noticed Yvie’s quizzical look. “It’s Halloween because it’s orange and black and also it has pumpkin.”

Yvie nodded, as though that answered some questions she had yet to form about the drink.

“Try it.” Scarlet inched the drink forward. “I wanna see if you love it.”

So she took a sip, the thick slurry like lead paint on her tongue. The pumpkin was combative with the chocolate, if she were putting it nicely. She swallowed, still finding the aftertaste of spice in the corners of her mouth, between her teeth. It was horrific—definitely a Halloween drink.

But Scarlet was leaning on the counter, looking at her expectantly with her head resting in her balled fists, little witch hat flopping as she stirred while waiting for Yvie’s response. Usually, Yvie would have no problem bursting someone’s bubble; really, she did it for a living, and humility aside, she was quite good at it. But Scarlet looked so proud of herself and was so clearly excited over the drink, as much of a monstrosity it was.

“It’s the cutest drink.” Yvie settled on, immediately rewarded by Scarlet bouncing around the prep area behind her, doing some kind of little dance that looked partially like a shimmy and partially like a medical emergency before coming back to the counter.

“See? Aren’t you glad I convinced you to get it?” It wasn’t a question, it was just Scarlet excited to receive the compliment, and Yvie was happy to give it.

“I am,” Yvie reassured her, slipping a sleeve over the drink to keep her hands warm from the frozen drink. And she was. She couldn’t bring herself to miss her latte, not when Scarlet was so pleased like this. She certainly couldn’t bring herself to remember her daily muffin, now absent from her hands.

And with that she left the store, absently taking another sip, immediately regretting the all-out assault she brought upon her taste buds for the second time that morning. She passed countless trash cans on the way into work, but on principle, couldn’t throw out Scarlet’s unauthorized special Halloween drink, even if it definitely qualified as a war crime, in her legal opinion. It would be far worse to throw out this piece of Scarlet’s joy.

***

“Good morning, Yvie.” Scarlet began putting in her usual order—now that Halloween was over and Scarlet hadn’t had the time to come up with a comparably cute Thanksgiving drink—upon seeing Yvie enter the store.

However cheery Scarlet was, which was very, as per usual, she was incorrect in her assessment. It was not a good morning, and it likely would not be for a while, no matter how convincing Scarlet’s wholesome, toothy smile and strawberry red sweater were. She was not going to have a good morning and that was final.

“Actually, no muffin today.”

Scarlet stood stiff as a board, grasping a muffin between her tongs, looking Yvie up and down. She was probably scanning over her to see if she was hurt, dying, hit her head — anything that would account for this sudden change in routine. All Scarlet could find would be a sad, brokenhearted lawyer requesting only a triple tall latte.

Scarlet finally stuck the muffin back into the case, her face still all screwed up like a lemon in a juicer, probably deep in contemplation.

“Why don’t you want the muffin?” She returned to the register, making no moves to take it off the tab. “You’ve wanted a muffin every day for like a month and a half.”

It was likely closer to two months, if Yvie really thought it through, thought back to when she started seeing Scarlet in the morning, when she thought back to the shock of her honeyed voice and her leopard print cardigan. It was exactly nine months and four days if she thought back to when she started getting a muffin every day.

“Well, I don’t want it anymore.” She could feel herself growing tighter, unable to fathom her stomach becoming any more tightly wound, any smaller than it had been since last night.

Scarlet frowned. Fair. Yvie knew she was being harsh. “I’ll give it to you for free if you’d like.”

“No.” Yvie sighed, and allowed her thoughts to form sentences, gifting them to Scarlet, hoping to ease her tension.

“The muffin was for my girlfriend.” Yvie shuffled her feet, back and forth over either side of the grout between the tiles. She stared at her hands. “And now I don’t have one of those, so I’m not going to get a muffin.”

She finally looked up again, only to find Scarlet’s flat lipped smile contrasting with her classic red lipstick. Only to find Scarlet’s downcast eyes, all blue and murky. Only to find Scarlet’s outstretched hand, laying on the counter, palm upwards, waiting for Yvie’s to join it, which she so thoughtlessly did.

Her palm was warm, so obviously softened by some kind of lotion, punctuated only by a few thin, plain stacked rings on her fourth finger. She curled her fingers around Yvie’s half smoothly, abruptly, and they just crested over the edge, Scarlet’s pale fingers with their short, blunt nails. And her thumb. How it rubbed the back of her hand. How it washed over her knuckles as though it could pull tension out of her. It could. Scarlet could.

They stood this way for a moment, maybe more, with Yvie transfixed on their joined hands. And though she did not look up at Scarlet, though she could not tear herself away from the gentle palm under her own, she was sure Scarlet was looking at her the whole time, hoping against hope that she’d look up to meet her gaze. Yvie slipped her hand away.

Scarlet nodded, the slightest dip of her sharp chin, and rang her up again.

“I’m sorry.” It was weighted. It lay between them. Yvie didn’t want to pick it up. “That has to really hurt.”

It did. And it was the best way Scarlet could have said it really. It did hurt. It was a dull ache between her ribs, something wet and scalding in her throat. It hurt. So, she nodded.

“Would you like something from the bakery case? No extra charge.” Her voice was much lower now, as though they were words that needed to be spoken in the dark rather than a proposition about scheming her workplace out of one baked good.

“Just the coffee.”

But Scarlet was adamant. She already stood in front of the case with tongs in her hand again.

“No really. On the house. Pick whatever you want,” she reassured, waving the tongs about to highlight the selection of pastries.

“Scar—”

“—And on God, you are not going to get a blueberry muffin.” She now pointed at Yvie, clamping her tongs a couple times, like a lobster snapping its claws. “That’s like the sad, drunk texting your ex of baked good selection and I can’t let you do that.”

Yvie laughed. She felt it warming her throat as Scarlet’s silly assertiveness made way for a return to her usual joy. That little smile, the crinkling of her eyes; she had to be pleased with herself.

“No, really, I’ll pay for it.” She ceded all too easily, and upon further thought, far more willfully than she typically would, and for no apparent reason. She could analyze over and over, trying to figure out what did her in, if it was something about the joke Scarlet made, the tongs, the soft lights above both of them, breaking through the continual darkness outside, or maybe it was about Scarlet’s hand in hers and how her fingers ached for that touch again.

“Nope,” Scarlet said with a pop. “Just pick something.”

“Okay, a slice of that lemon cake.” Scarlet had the makings of a smirk spreading across her lips as she reached for a bag. “But Scarlet, please let me pay for it. I want to pay for it.”

Scarlet placed the bag on the counter, quickly uncapping her Sharpie and writing “Yvie” on the bag, making a smiley face out of the curve of the “Y”

“Yvonne,” Scarlet admonished, setting her Sharpie down, catching her attention, refusing to allow her to draw away. “I’m not taking your sad, just dumped money. You’re just gonna take this free lemon cake.” She slid the bag over, practically pushing it against her hand.

So Yvie paid for her coffee, and as Scarlet turned away to place her cup on the line, Yvie reached into her purse, pulled out a fist full of crumpled ones and stuffed them in the tip jar. And as Scarlet caught her red-handed, Yvie pointed down at the jar and then at Scarlet, with a chuckle, and Scarlet rolled her eyes.

She wasn’t just going to accept a completely free slice of lemon cake without Scarlet getting something out of it. She didn’t need lemon cake charity, though she’d be lying if she said Scarlet’s insistence on cheering her up with the free lemon cake wasn’t highly endearing and somewhat helpful.

Yvie stepped to the side with her bag, watching as Scarlet made a little drawing on the side of her cup before sliding a sleeve over her Sharpie work and making the drink as usual, which intrigued her.

Upon receiving her drink, the typical “Yvie” with the smiley face, all the proper boxes checked, she slid the sleeve down only to find a little drawing of two crocodiles standing upright with their splayed out feet and dragging tails. The first had a little speech bubble, complementing the other’s purse, while the other held up its purse and said “Thanks, it’s my ex!” It was stupid, a stupid joke with the cute little drawings, all crosshatched to show scales. But today, Yvie laughed at those dumb little crocodiles in such a hearty way, it almost felt as though she was clearing out her throat, finally unclenching her jaw.

“Wow.” She drew Scarlet’s attention, even as she was making another customer’s drink. “That’s actually really good.”

“Thanks,” she called over her shoulder. “Maybe if I can’t catch my big break in acting, I’ll try to make it in latte jokes.”

Of course that’s what Scarlet was after in life. Surely she could feign cheeriness at any sight, could have known that reaching out to her and taking her hand this morning was the right thing to do. And yet none of it seemed artificial of her. There was nothing method about it, surely.

Yvie stopped herself from thinking about Scarlet becoming a star, accepting a Golden Globe in some shimmering, heavenly draped gown.

She shrugged. “I think you could.”

“Well, if my audition for corpse on SVU falls through, I’ll really consider it.”

The chuckle chased Yvie as she left the store, enjoying the little cartoon on her cup. Scarlet would continue with the jokes and drawings for weeks, until Yvie found herself struck with a new joy, walking the last couple blocks to work, watching the day break over Manhattan, sure this was exactly what Scarlet saw in this place.

***

Yvie now ordered “the usual,” as Scarlet had begun referring to her triple tall latte without blueberry muffin she purchased every day for $5.08 as “the usual.” And Scarlet paired this phrase, and Yvie’s growing affinity for this phrase, her affinity for having someone who consistently knew what she wanted, with her usual, all encompassing grin, from the moment she spotted Yvie entering the store, her head shooting up at the opening of the door at six a.m. This grin, which had a brightness rivaling only the sunlight bouncing off the reflective skyline and filtering through the storefront windows—which she deeply missed and would trade the late November haze for any day, continued as Scarlet picked through the bagels, rearranging them with her tongs.

Yvie was quite enjoying this new routine with Scarlet.

Today, Yvie sat off to the side of the counter, perched on a metal stool, phone abandoned due to the miraculous sight of Scarlet’s concentrated face as she made Yvie’s latte. The bridge of her nose formed a couple wrinkles, three little canyons on its pointed form. Her eyebrows, unruly as ever, were tightly pulled together as her eyes became slivers. And her lips. Her bottom lip, bare and pink, chapped from the cold, crushed between her teeth. All this was shadowed by the little pieces of hair that fell free from her ponytail and now hung limply in front of her face. She held the cup up, inches from the counter while her left hand worked up and down, wavering the pitcher in slight, rapid movements, pouring out the milk with care.

“Here, look Yvie.” Scarlet pushed the cup forward. “Isn’t it beautiful.”

Scarlet marveled at her own work and Yvie felt prompted to pull away and do the same. It was quite beautiful, this rounded thing that almost looked ribbed with the precise movements Scarlet made to produce it. It also almost looked like a vagina, though she wasn’t going to say that. She only nodded because it did look beautiful.

“It’s a tulip,” Scarlet explained. “Or at least that’s what it’s called.”

Okay, so same difference.

Scarlet scrubbed a hand through her piecey hair, letting the strands fall back in front of her face, not bothering to secure them in her gold scrunchie.

But before those hairs fell forward again, Yvie noticed a teasing smear of brown across Scarlet’s forehead, glistening and decadent, far darker than the golden brown of her hair, especially in this light.

“Yvie?” Scarlet tried again, her look puzzled, and rightfully so—Yvie knew she was staring, though for how long, she wasn’t sure.

“Oh, uh…” Her voice staggered before she straightened up, regaining composure. “You have a bit of… a little something on your face.” She pointed up at Scarlet’s forehead, circling her finger around the general area as Scarlet’s eyes went wide.

“Oops, thanks.” She swiped her arm across her forehead, only smearing it further. She raised her brows, peering up at Yvie. “Did I get it?”

It was now only a thin film, it’s edge beading over her right eyebrow. She shook her head adamantly, endeared by Scarlet’s pout in response, and pulled a napkin from the dispenser.

“Here.” She edged closer to Scarlet, motioning with her hand for Scarlet to follow her lead, drawing her closer. “Let me get it.”

She didn’t know what made her say it, but whatever it was, it made her feel like her veins were filled with champagne, popping feverishly at every movement, circulating evenly within her. She glanced down at the napkin, looking up only to find Scarlet closer than before, held up by her left hand splayed on the counter, her arm straight, locked, and her eyes soft, unquestioning. And now that she said it and she was this close and she had the napkin in her hand, she willed herself not to tremble as she brushed Scarlet’s stray hairs from her forehead, holding them back with her overextended pinky, swiping the napkin across the liquid—what looked like chocolate sauce—resting her wrist against the curve of her full, perpetually pink cheek.

She patted the napkin gently, though she knew it wasn’t clearing off more of the syrup, if for nothing but an arguably weak justification for why she was studying Scarlet like this. She dabbed and noticed the smattering of freckles across Scarlet’s nose, lingering, wandering off across her cheeks. The stray hairs under the arch of her brow, just dark at their tips, not visible at any further distance.

She’d been staring too long. She knew this, though Scarlet made no move to indicate this. In fact, her eyes were closed and she somehow forced herself forward, as though she needed to be closer than before. So, she folded the napkin to a clean edge and gave it one last pull across her forehead before setting it on the counter.

“It’s all gone,” Yvie whispered. She couldn’t muster anything louder. Especially not with how Scarlet’s eyes finally opened again at Yvie’s voice.

Scarlet glanced down at her hands for a moment, her giggle like pennies splashing into a wishing-well breaking the cozy silence, before looking back up at Yvie.

“Thanks.” It was warm and sincere, broken only by Scarlet noticing Yvie’s coffee, still without a lid, the tulip wilting into mere spirals of faint white.

“That’s a hazard,” she muttered, pressing a lid over her creation and pushing it back to Yvie.

She was close enough that Yvie could smell a faint floral perfume on Scarlet’s neck and wrists, close enough that Yvie couldn’t bear to think about how fitting it was, how it all made sense with the green wrap shirt she wore, all sage and vital, dotted with splays of white flowers, without the burgeoning warmth in her core showing itself across her cheeks.

Scarlet frowned a bit before pushing back against the counter. “Well, there you go, Yvie.”

Yvie nodded, slipping a sleeve on the coffee and heading out, gripping the cup tightly as she left the store and headed toward the office. Today, she was thankful for the chilling morning air, ensuring she’d be free of this excessive warmth by the time she arrived at work.

***

The store was crowded for the first time Yvie could remember. As she stood in line, she tried to figure out how there could possibly be a crowd, just today, when at six a.m., it was usually only her and Scarlet, occasionally some other business person or man who just finished an early morning run. She could count on one hand the times there were more than five people in the store when she was there.

But today there were far more than five. Yvie tried not to let this bother her, though if she had to rationalize two people in front of her in line, she also had to rationalize that while she could see Scarlet at the register, her hair held back by a red bandana, her voice strident, bringing forth a mounting warmth in Yvie’s core from a what felt like mile away, she wouldn’t really get time to talk to Scarlet. But it was silly to ponder such things, especially when her only real goal was to get her latte.

Maybe there was a convention or some larger company was having a conference. She fidgeted with the belt on her black wool coat before stuffing her hands into its pockets, trying to warm them. It had to be something the store was planning for, as Scarlet was only taking orders while two other baristas filled those orders behind the counter.

It didn’t matter. She was here to get her latte and head to work.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what she’d miss by not having time with Scarlet this morning, if Scarlet would have to save some new wild story or additional details about shopping for the perfect Christmas present for her roommate, Pearl, who was the type of person who went on about how she didn’t need anything, though Scarlet knew she’d be upset if she didn’t receive a nice gift, so Scarlet took to prodding her over what she wanted, which wasn’t terribly fruitful, ending with the realization that the best gift she could get Pearl was tickets to Atlanta to visit her girlfriend, Violet, though she knew she couldn’t afford them. And then she added that she knew Pearl got her this beautiful, buttery soft red leather wallet she’d been eyeing from Coach for months, which she only knew about because she was ‘a bit of a rascal’ and ‘spotted the bag under Pearl’s bed while looking for her other winter boot because Pearl never returns shoes when she borrows them.’

Which is to say that Yvie would be very disappointed not having something like flights from JFK to ATL to look up during her lunch break.

Not that it mattered or she had to be particularly concerned about Scarlet’s musings about maybe getting Pearl a pair of her own snow boots or possibly just some money stuffed into a festive card if she really couldn’t figure out something good.

“You didn’t mark that right,” the man in front of her said bitingly, pressed up against the counter, pointing directly at Scarlet, finger inches away from her chest.

Scarlet stood paralyzed before spinning the cup around, gripping it a tad too tightly. She read it off, though she waivered, her voice staggered as she looked over her markings. “Grande three pumps vanilla, three pumps caramel soy latte?”

“Two,” he gritted out fiercely. “Two pumps of caramel.”

“Okay.” Scarlet nodded and rang him up. “$6.05 please.” She stared down at the register, drawing in open-mouthed breaths.

“Write it down because you’re not going to remember it.” His voice was scorching. Highly unnecessary. Yvie found her fists tight in her coat pockets. Attentive. Vigilant.

“I’ll remember, sir,” Scarlet muttered, voice small. Body small. She still held the cup and her Sharpie in her hand, frozen.

“I’ll write it myself. Fucking incompetent,” he fumed, a furious whisper he thought could only be heard by him and Scarlet, reaching over the counter to grab the cup.

Yvie saw the mounting fury building behind her eyes, scorching her chest. And before properly surveying the man lunging forward, the line growing impatient over this man’s fit, she saw Scarlet flinch, swore she heard her breath hitch, cutting through the din of the store, and roughly drew the man’s arm back, grasping at a fist full of his jacket.

“How dare you believe you have the right to insult her, let alone touch her” Yvie spoke fiercely, pulling the man roughly to face her, to meet her gaze as she looked down on him, at least an inch taller than the man in her heels. “Do you believe it’s in your right to attempt assault upon her?”

The man looked shaken, making no moves to free his arm from Yvie’s grasp. “Well, I was—”

“That’s not an answer,” she whipped back, feeling the store fall silent, save for the click of Scarlet’s Sharpie hitting the tiled floor.

“I was just going to write it. It’s not assault to—”

“You were going to grab something from her hands after an escalating exchange of language on your part. Assault is defined as an intentional act by one person that creates an apprehension in another of an imminent harmful or offensive contact. That is what you attempted.” She saw the smirk wash from his face as she recited the textbook definition of attempted assault. Practiced. Authoritative. Highly believable, and really she should be, having used it nearly daily. “Now, you are going to apologize to her for your attempted assault and hope she’s kind enough to make your ridiculous coffee. Do you understand me?”

The man nodded, still making no move to face Scarlet, his eyes blank, still wide.

“Use your words.”

“Yes.”

She came up close, lowered her voice to just above a breath, ghost quiet. “You’re just a little bitch yelling at a barista over a little bitch drink. Do you understand me?”

He nodded and Yvie released him and gave him a shove to face forward, allowing him to deliver his apology.

Scarlet still stood still, staring off past the man, mechanically accepting his cash and sliding his cup off to the side, surely still terrified. She preened over her piecey hair, tucking it and letting it fall, tucking it again as she waited for him to move away from the register to wait for his drink. What she wouldn’t do to comfort her, to bring her in close, to wrap herself around Scarlet.

As Yvie came up to the counter, she noticed Scarlet’s flush deepened as she stole glances at Yvie before pulling her focus back to tugging a tall cup from the stack.

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you or something,” Yvie said, pulling up her app to pay. “It just wasn’t right how he was treating you.” Yvie took a deep breath, willing her blood to quit its boiling at the thought of that man in his suit and gray coat.

“No it’s…” Scarlet trailed off, rubbing her fingers with her thumb, steadying her breaths, trailing her eyes upward, over Yvie. “Fine.”

Yvie let it go, not wanting to press her further. Scarlet rang Yvie up for her usual order, chewing at her lip, accidentally knocking the empty cup over with her frantic movements. And whenever she caught Yvie’s gaze for a split second, she drew away like a wounded animal, looking down at her hands.

Yvie could take one, hold it in hers as Scarlet had done for her weeks ago, though she might be far too stimulated for touch. Instead she simply paid and added a hefty tip for Scarlet, if for nothing but to make up for that man’s behaviors.

As she moved off to the side to wait for her drink, she caught Scarlet following her moments, having to snap back into focus to help her next customer.

Yvie stood next to that man, who stood shuffling his feet, stiffening at her presence. Good, Yvie thought. If he makes one more move, I’ll have his balls rolling around in my Michael Kors. On Scarlet’s behalf, of course.

***

“Yvie Yvie Yvie Yvie Yvie.” Scarlet bounced a bit in her spot, calling out her name incessantly from the moment Yvie exited the slowly falling flurries outside and entered the warmth of the store. She repeated her name, pulling her ever closer with only words before Yvie could bother to shed her scarf, so that the warmth of the store wouldn’t overwhelm her senses.

“Well, good morning, Scarlet.” Yvie chuckled at the woman’s excitement, placing her phone on the counter, unbuttoning her coat and unwinding her scarf. Somehow it was always a good morning for Scarlet, and though Yvie knew correlation did not necessitate causation, it generally meant she had a better morning as well.

“We got the holiday cups. Look.” She gestured toward them exaggeratedly, throwing her whole body into the movement, nearly knocking herself over. And Yvie was going to look, of course, though she wasn’t typically one to get excited over holiday Starbucks cups.

Silky usually got excited over the cups and would get angry when she got a repeat within the first week or so. She ranted on and on for almost an hour in 2015 when they only had the plain red cups, as they ‘removed all festivity from Christmas, which could be considered culturally unsafe as defined within human rights law,’ which was not even the slightest bit true and made Yvie spend a bit of every day that December combing through all the choices that brought her to this desk in this law firm in New York.

“I always like to rank the cups when we get them in,” Scarlet explained. “That way when people are rude or have children who are rude and shout about the amount of whipped cream they get, as though a cup can fit infinite amounts of whipped cream, I can give them the bad cup.”

Yvie tilted her head at Scarlet cloyingly.

“Yes, I have been yelled at by children. And, no, I do not like it.”

“Right…” Yvie drew out as Scarlet’s frustration washed from her face, replaced with that same smile Yvie saw nearly every day, consistently took comfort in. The comfort of the toothy smile and the way her lips pulled back and her high, full cheeks, all pillowy over her sharpened cheek bones. She could run through the litany of Scarlet’s features by memory by now and she was sure they would never cease to bring her comfort.

She held up the one with thin green and white stripes, pulling it close to try to make out the letters between the stripes before holding it out for Yvie to analyze. She gave it a passing glance.

“It’s fine.” Yvie shrugged. She wasn’t one for games. But she was one for judging things, which made her a fan of Scarlet’s idea of a game.

Scarlet put it at the end of the counter. “You’re right, like okay, still artful but not explicitly holiday-y.”

She pulled another green and white striped cup out before retrieving a new design. This one was red and white striped, like a candy cane with ‘Starbucks’ written all over it. Again, she concentrated on the print, squeezing the cup a bit, as though to test the give of the coated paper, as though all the cups weren’t the same material.

“6.5”

“Okay, but how holiday-y is it?” Yvie retorted. “Is that not a pivotal measure of holiday cup goodness?”

Scarlet lowered herself to a whisper, inching the cup closer to Yvie’s face, right until it was nearly touching her still frosty nose, a hair’s width from its tip. She leaned over the counter. “I don’t want to say this Yvie, but…” She poked Yvie with the rim of the cup, sparking something warm and electric inside her. “Is it possibly too festive? And therefore too festive to be holiday-y?”

Yvie drew back with a gasp, clutching her chest. “Miss Scarlet!”

“I know.” She pouted, playing into the idea that her language was vile, septically disgusting.

“The blasphemy!”

“I know!”

It was silly, a silly game. And Yvie couldn’t remember the last time she played a purposeless game like this. Maybe when the M train was all backed up from god only knows what a month ago and she passed the time playing sudoku on her phone. But even that was numbers and patterns and some kind of mental gymnastics. Here, it was just saying whether the two liked the colors and patterns. It almost felt like playing as children.

And as much as she could rationalize Scarlet needing this kind of fun in her menial job, especially with how she explained to Yvie that it was ‘so typical New York of her to make coffee until she got cast’ and how she likes to pass the time behind the counter making up characters to go with the people she waited on. Yvie probably needed this kind of fun too.

“I see we’re doing this Merry Coffee thing, which is fun…” Scarlet trailed off, squinting at it. “Not that I’ve got important say here but I remember Brooke telling me about the time when they had just the plain red cups and oof.” Scarlet let out grunt with a quirk to her lips.

“It was apparently a hell shift. It was my first day and we were unpacking the holiday cups and she was on edge about them being Christmas enough for ‘Mothers of two-point-five kids and their husbands to not throw hot coffee at her’ like they did the year before. And then I was like ‘are they gonna throw coffee at me?’ and she looked me up and down and said absolutely.”

Scarlet threw her hair over her shoulder. “And they have.”

Yvie nodded, running through the math in her head, the idea of Scarlet covered in scalding coffee occupying only a second. If Scarlet started after that whole red cup, war on Christmas thing, then she had been here for years. Literal years. Yvie couldn’t figure what she had to be doing all these years to have never seen her, never taken note of her. She was sure if Scarlet was there the whole time, for years, Yvie would have noticed, no?

Especially with how notable Yvie found her. Yes, that was what she would stick with. Her little cropped fuzzy sweater and her high waisted jeans, the ponytail and pink speckled acrylic hoop earrings. Notable.

“I used to work nights only,” Scarlet added, turning the coffee cup about, as though she could read Yvie’s mind. “Actually, nights and weekends.”

“Oh.” Yvie felt completely slack, heat prickling at her cheeks though Scarlet was still studying the cup. Like she’d been found out. Like Scarlet had some kind of intuition for when she was on someone’s mind. Like Yvie had to be careful of something. “I’m always just here at six.”

“I’ve noticed.” A lilting exhale.

“I’m not sure how to make coffee merry…” She trailed off, placing the cup to the side and deciding that she’d “try her damndest to make all coffee merry.”

She paused as the spotted the last one, with green polka dots on the red background, mouth open in a little O as she held it up to Yvie, the side of her hand brushed against the collar of her silk blouse, the touch perfect and chaste and yet Yvie found herself dumbfounded by the closeness of Scarlet’s to her chest, even with so many degrees between them. “Oh this one is perfect. It’s the exact same color.”

Yvie glanced down, fully unaware of what she was wearing. She usually just got up and threw something together from her closet, sure she didn’t indulge in enough variation for anything to clash with anything else.

But it was a perfect match between the red of her blouse and the red of the cup.

“Huh.” Yvie couldn’t pull enough words together, especially with how Scarlet lingered, though they already matched up the reds.

But she didn’t move and Scarlet didn’t move, so they lingered on like this for a moment, up until Scarlet tore herself away to dig through tall cups to find this exact design.

“I just think it’d be perfect for you to have everything all matchy.” Scarlet finally retrieved it and rang her up. “Like, it’ll be a fashion moment, for sure.”

Yvie didn’t bother fighting against Scarlet’s excitement anymore. Instead she watched on as she marked up the cup and got to making the latte, pressing her hip against the counter, feeling the padding of her winter coat sink inward, finding herself staring at Scarlet and her meticulous movements, but not bothering to correct her gaze.

“You know, usually I hate when people order extra shots in their lattes.”

“Oh, really.” Yvie’s lips curled at their ends. “You hate it?”

“Well…” Scarlet pondered. “I surely don’t like it.”

“Scarlet, is this your way of trying to get me to try some new Christmas drink you’ve come up with?”

“No.” She steamed the milk before ceding to Yvie’s suspicions. “That’s still in its prototype stages. It’s just so hard to make things really green, you know?”

Yvie could only imagine what kind of flavor combination was giving Scarlet such difficulty with making it green, shuttering at the returning thought of Scarlet’s Halloween drink, the thought alone turning her stomach.

“Yes, I do know.”

“See, Pearl told me that it needs more food coloring and less peppermint and caramel, but I’m just starting to think ‘making things green is hard’ might just be a fact of life.”

“Well, when it’s here and green, I’ll try it.” Yvie said, somewhat hoping it would never become green enough for her to try, somewhat hoping it would, just so she could see Scarlet that excited again. It was cute how much someone loved the holidays, enough to make a drink for their own workplace. “You know, to save you from making all those extra shots.”

Scarlet waved her off before pouring the milk, wavering just so, espresso rippling to create a leaf.

“Wow,” Scarlet whispered to herself, setting the pitcher down. “God, I’m good.”

Yvie came in closer to look at it. And it was exquisite. It looked effortless. Scarlet covered it with a lid.

“I’m not supposed to tell you this, but this is my favorite latte leaf in my favorite cup and you’re my favorite customer.” Scarlet pushed the coffee across the counter before tending to another customer, now waiting at the register.

She took the latte into her hands, relishing the warmth still so apparent through the cardboard sleeve, so cozy in her hands as she prepared to face the elements one more, though as she glanced back out the window, the snow seemed to have slowed down in the time she was talking with Scarlet.

She turned over the conversation once more, staring off, half interestedly watching some city workers wrap the scraggly little trees that lined the sidewalk, shooting up from their gravel filled grates, in Christmas lights.

Scarlet had been here a long time. At least three years. Three years of her menial coffee job. Three years of children yelling about whipped cream and making extra shots and business men with no manners and watching coworkers like Brooke finally get their big break, a break she’d been waiting her whole life for, hoping endlessly that she’d get called back for some minor role and that she could spin it into a career.

Yvie craned her head back toward Scarlet, who counted change at her register, handing the man a few loose bills and a handful of coins.

It had been years, and that woman still had the nerve to get excited about cups and holidays. She had the nerve to have favorite latte leafs and customers, and tell them about it. The nerve to believe they cared as much about her as she did about them.

And Yvie did. She was sure of it now. There was no way not to care about a woman with such a divine combination of grit and tenderness.

As Yvie left the store, she caught Scarlet mouthing to her “not my favorite” while giving a snappy tilt of the head to the man who just paid for his coffee, her grin snarky.

Yvie was sure Scarlet was her favorite barista.

***

“Did you know that the mermaid on the latte stick is called Melusina. Well, it’s the mermaid that’s everywhere, but it’s also on the latte stick, you know?”

Yvie, now sat on the edge of the counter—after Scarlet assured her over and over that it was fine, no one was going to see her, and if her manager did see and yelled about it, Scarlet would wipe off exactly where her butt was, should her butt not be clean enough for Starbucks standards—stopped fiddling with the Christmas mug filled with those little green sticks.

“No, I…” Yvie pulled one out and studied it, rubbing her thumb over the plastic embossing. “How do you know that?”

Scarlet shrugged, pouring an espresso shot into Yvie’s cup, which this time was a green one, as Yvie insisted she didn’t need Scarlet wasting cups looking for one that matched Yvie’s ‘vibe,’ before Scarlet reasoned the green one did in fact match her vibe if she closed one eye and looked at her at a forty-five degree angle. Yvie supposed this was how vibes were checked nowadays.

“I don’t. I was totally just lying to you.” Scarlet glanced up at Yvie, flashing that mischievous look at her before adding another shot. “If you say anything with enough confidence, you can make anyone believe you. Even a lawyer extraordinaire like yourself.”

Yvie chuckled, shifting around on the counter, accidentally kicking her briefcase resting on the ground over on its side. “Gosh, I must be losing my touch.”

“I sure hope not, or else you’re never gonna be a woman of the law in this here town again.” Scarlet leaned forward across the counter, slipping into a thick southern accent with ease, words dripping like molasses. Yvie played with the splash stick, staring down at her lap to hide how the heat prickled in her chest. Scarlet was very talented.

“Nope, I must be losing it. If one little Lettie can lie to me and get away with it, imagine how many bad guys can?” Yvie faked a sniffle and a quivering lip. “If my firm finds out, I’m surely done for. They’d fire me on the spot, surely.”

Scarlet scoffed. “I hope not. I got a feeling I’d like you less when you’re not in that whole lawyer-pantsuit-heels getup you got going on.”

Yvie then felt very conscious of her clothing, of every pinstripe on her charcoal gray pants, of the white, silky blouse, of Scarlet’s eyes clearly scanning her clothing at the same time she was. She wrung her hands together.

“I’m kidding. Gosh.” Scarlet shoved at her shoulder. “I’d like you in anything, nothing, all the inbetween.”

Before Yvie could process, Scarlet ran into her next sentence. “Besides, not that I know how to make it as an actress, but I wouldn’t give up my lawyer job to follow that spastic lip quiver, wherever you think it’s going.”

She slapped a lid on the cup and haphazardly pushed it across the way to Yvie, then moving to fix her hair. “Here’s your latte, Yvie, Ms. Lawyer Extraordinaire.”

“Please, I’m sure you know enough about how to make it as an actress.” Yvie accepted the drink, fiddling with the sleeve on her cup. She made no move to lift herself from the counter, pick up her briefcase, and go about her day. “I know you have it in you. I’m so sure everyone’s gonna see it soon enough. I believe it.”

And she did. Yvie didn’t expend energy lying, gassing people up, stumbling around fragile feelings. She never had the time for it and knew she probably never would. They were new words to her, assuring someone that their superficially outlandish dreams weren’t actually outlandish, but they felt correct to say. They felt like the most honest sentence she could say to Scarlet as the barista fiddled with her hair, trying to fit it into a suitable bun with a pout struck across her lips.

Scarlet huffed. “You believed me when I said the mermaid was called Melusina and then you believed me when I said I was lying.”

“What does that have to do with anything, Scarlet?”

Scarlet took the splash stick from her hands as Yvie looked up, following her touch, only to find Scarlet with her hair down and draped over her shoulders, those brown curls haloed by a golden friz, resting against the deep plum of her knit sweater. She cursed her body for acting as though she never saw a woman’s hair before, for picturing how it would feel as she grazed it, how Scarlet could just melt at Yvie’s fingers against her scalp.

She would curse her mouth later for how it opened, how her lips parted at the thought.

“I’m just saying, you’ll believe anything I say, even if it’s just me being delusional and really thinking I’m going to make it.” Scarlet gave the splash stick back. “Also it really is called Melusina and you should actually believe that.”

She placed her latte back down on the counter. “Scarlet, I really do think—”

But she was cut off by her fumbling hands as she tried to stick the splash stick into her latte without holding the cup firmly, tipping it over with her course movements, scrambling to stand it upright as the latte spilled out.

“Fuck,” Yvie groaned, trying to pull a fistful of napkins out of the dispenser.

“Hey, it’s fine” Scarlet reached over to steady her hand. She took a cloth to the mess. “I’ll just make you another.”

“No really, you don’t have to. I spilled it and there’s probably still a lot left and I don’t want to trouble you.”

Yvie tried to take the cup but Scarlet was quicker.

“No really. I want to.” Scarlet walked back over to the register and pulled out another cup. “And besides, if I don’t remake it, I’m gonna spend all day thinking about you how you don’t have your latte and I’m gonna be sad over it.”

Yvie couldn’t argue for Scarlet being sad all day, especially if what could prevent that sadness was her getting to remake the latte. So she nodded, though she considered if Scarlet did think about her before deciding not to bother herself any longer with following such a silly train of thought.

Scarlet handed her the new latte after sticking a splash stick in herself. “Because now I know you can’t handle the Melusina splash stick,” she teased.

“I’m gonna handle the Melusina splash stick tomorrow.”

“Yeah you sure are. And I’m gonna get cast.” Scarlet rolled her eyes and flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder.

Yvie picked up her briefcase and turned to leave, tossing “You’ll see. It’ll happen.” over her shoulder as she walked out, surely not referring to the silly little splash stick.

Upon taking a good look at Melusina, she now saw Scarlet wrote Yvie’s name with what had to be a heart. She could spend all day convincing herself otherwise, but that was a heart and the end of her name, small and filled in with black Sharpie. And she was very sure she was going to spend all day thinking about that.

***

It was all wet. The clouds broke ever more, leaving the street slick and oily under lamps and strung up lights outside little bistros, against the roving reds and purples filtering through the window of the nightclub Yvie passed before crossing the street, shouldering people aside, hoping to get inside somewhere, hoping to charge her phone, call a cab, and forget this whole night had even happened.

She pulled her trench coat tighter, cursing the flimsy fabric in the January chill. She hadn’t thought to dress warmer, walking down a now well worn path in her unsensible heels and smart black dress, feeling her feet soaking through as she dodged sidewalk grates.

She was only thankful for the crowds and the downpour to hide her tears, to smear her makeup further, to allow her night—or what should have been her night of getting dinner with that girl from finance, maybe a few drinks afterward — blur into the collective night of Manhattan, filtering out of anyone’s care or consciousness but her own.

She came past those same mirrored windows, tearing her gaze away when she saw her hair stuck to her forehead, how she shivered and looked so small in her coat. She kept walking until she landed on the Starbucks, the one she knew so thoroughly, knowing that it was a tad past closing time, but, God, she hoped the doors would open at her needy tug.

They didn’t. It was locked. Barely past 10 p.m. and it was already locked.

Fuck. God fuck. She just wanted to charge her phone a bit, hail a cab, and maybe get in from the cold for a moment. But she shouldn’t have bothered in the first place. Or at the very least, she shouldn’t have waited for hours for her to show up, sipping water from a sweating tulip glass, obsessively checking her phone for a text, a call, anything, deleting old emails to pass the time between unanswered, frantic calls, until she was asked to give up her table, battery hovering around five percent, swallowing to keep her lip from quivering, unable to swallow back her hot tears the minute she left the restaurant. Fucking stupid.

“Yvie?”

She looked up, meeting Scarlet’s concerned face, head tilted as she fiddled with the key to the door, unlocking it, pushing it open, and pulling Yvie inside by the arm.

“What happened? You—” Scarlet looked her up and down from an arm’s length. Yes, it had to be bad.

“I just gotta charge… Can I charge my phone here?” Yvie paused. “Since when do you work nights?”

Scarlet didn’t answer. Instead, she wrapped an arm around her waist and lead Yvie over to the couch — this well worn cognac leather thing with a couple rips down the side, sat in front of the window — and lowered her down, resting her hands on Yvie’s shoulders, fiddling with the lapel of her coat before smoothing her shoulders.

“You stay here and I’ll be right back, okay?” She waited for Yvie to nod before she scurried off behind the counter.

“Can I charge my phone?” Yvie called back, feeling her voice waiver. It was even more apparent in the empty store, nothing more than two people and the sound of hot liquid hitting a paper cup, lifting her head to see Scarlet tearing open a tea bag and shoving it down into the water with a wooden stick.

Scarlet jogged on back to the sofa, swearing every time the water sloshed over the edge of the cup, and placed it down on the table before sitting next to Yvie on the couch. “Sorry, yeah I work closing on Saturdays and yeah of course you can. I have a charger somewhere, I just thought you’d like something to warm you up first. I didn’t know how you took your tea though so I—.

As Scarlet rambled, Yvie found herself growing all the more worked up, as though her throat were swelling and her chest had this raging, prickling burn until she spilled over again, until she felt fat, hot tears running down her face, until she heard Scarlet mutter “oh no, Yves,” until she felt the soft, warm, faded cotton of Scarlet’s striped long sleeve shirt against her cheek and Scarlet’s arms wrapped around her waist, fingers interwoven and resting on her back, anchoring her down.

She let out a heaving sob, but tried to pull away. It was pathetic. She was acting pathetic. But Scarlet wouldn’t let her go, just pulled her in again, shushing her as she cried.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” Scarlet’s voice was smooth, soft, with the texture of a cello’s vibrato. “What’s wrong, Yvie?”

“She didn’t show up.” Yvie mumbled against Scarlet’s shirt, sniffling. She was probably staining Scarlet’s shirt with her damn mascara. “She was supposed to show up and she didn’t.”

“What happened?” Scarlet pressed her cheek against Yvie’s wet face, nearly speaking into her hair. “Who didn’t show up?”

“My date. She worked in finance. She was a friend of Silky’s friend. She just…” Yvie pulled herself back, tearing the heels of her hands across her eyes. “I waited hours and she never showed up and she never said why and I…” Yvie felt smaller now, sinking into her coat. She felt like a smashed porcelain doll, all shards where her body should have been.

“Why didn’t she show up?” Yvie asked, much quieter now, like the words were cursed. They did haunt her though. Why didn’t she show up? “I just want to know why.”

“Hey,” Scarlet soothed and took Yvie’s hands, now clenched, and smoothed them out, holding them in her own, resting their clasped hands in her lap.

“Well, Yvie,” Scarlet began as Yvie looked down at her lap. “It could have been traffic. Or maybe a rogue taxi driver took her to Long Island by what had to have been a mistake or maybe some evil plot because, like, it’s Long Island. Or maybe her cat died? Does she even have a cat? Maybe she got stuck at work late? Does she work Saturdays? Or maybe her phone died too.” Scarlet gave her hands a squeeze. “You know, two people can have a dead phone at the same time. My phone’s probably dead right now.”

Yvie giggled lowly.

“But probably she got stuck in Long Island and she’s suffering double right now because she missed a date with you, and you know…it’s Long Island.” She laughed to herself and Yvie couldn’t help but join in, falling forward, shoulders shaking.

“It’s the Florida of New York,” Yvie added meekly.

“Please, it’s the Tampa, Florida of New York.” Scarlet laughed again at her own joke. “I don’t know if that’s worse. I don’t know a lot about Florida, but it sounds worse. I feel like shit happens in Tampa.”

Yvie couldn’t help but join her, couldn’t help but look up to capture the image of Scarlet’s joy in her mind’s eye, let it wash over her, let it wash over her thoughts, only allowing the pressing, increasingly present thought of Scarlet and how she wouldn’t have wanted to be here with anyone else, how thankful she was that she answered the door, how she couldn’t picture enjoying her date more than she enjoyed Scarlet.

And she was staring at her lips, Scarlet’s lips, with their ChapSticked sheen, as she spoke. And her hands were in Scarlet’s. Oh, how she did that thing with her thumb, as though she could ease all of Yvie’s pain with a gentle massage to the knuckle, as though that was where the hurt was, just like she did when she’d just been dumped, months ago. She couldn’t have remembered how it calmed her, that metronomic, even touch, how it eased her hurt with its ceaselessness. And yet, if anyone would remember, it was Scarlet.

It was always Scarlet, wasn’t it? Why was she fucking around with some other date, some woman who worked in finance, when the best part of her day was sitting right in front of her, holding her hands, rambling on about how Florida alligators probably got to Long Island via underground sewer channels that spanned the entire east coast.

“Scarlet?” Yvie pulled a hand out of Scarlet’s grasp to rest it on her leg, taking Scarlet out of her speech.

She snapped down to stare at her hand before meeting Yvie’s gaze again, failing miserably to hide the blush that had spread across her cheeks, right up to the tip of her sculpted nose, illuminated by the string lighted trees and their honeyed light filtering through the window and the flush of the lamps flanking the couch.

“Yeah?”

Yvie swallowed. “May I…” She shook her head a tad. “Fuck, I—”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Scarlet said, rubbing Yvie’s shoulder, water still beading on the sleeve of her jacket. She rested her hand on her forearm. “We don’t have to talk about tonight anymore. It’s all fine, Yvie.”

“No, it’s just.” Yvie pushed her hair away, leaving her fingers caught in her still dripping hair, heavy sigh escaping her parted lips. She locked eyes with Scarlet. “You make every day better. You make all my days better. Every morning I start with you is better and every day after is better. Even rotten, horrible days are better. And just… I just want more of that. I want more of you.”

“Scarlet.” She pulled her hand out of her hair and placed it over her and Scarlet’s interlocked hands, wrapping herself around them. “Can I kiss you?”

Scarlet pressed her lips together, closing her eyes and exhaling into a smile. She nodded eagerly, so Yvie brought her hand to cradle Scarlet’s face, fingers grazing her jaw, thumb swiping across her cheek. Scarlet’s eyes roamed, first to their hands, still connected, still in Scarlet’s lap, then around the store and through the window, then back to Yvie. Yvie was sure she was looking directly at her now.

“What are you looking at?” Yvie ended with a hum, leaning in closer. Their legs brushed together.

Scarlet’s free hand shifted from Yvie’s arm to rest on her hip, teasing at the knit fabric of her dress. “I’m just taking it all in, is all.” She halted her movement, tilting her head back down to look at her lap. “Just… I’ve been here before, wanting you to kiss me for a while. And now it’s real.”

Yvie now rubbed over Scarlet’s knuckles with her thumb, watching her chin tilt up to release a breathy giggle, like rings of smoke floating into the air. “It’s real, Scar.”

With that, she captured Scaret’s open lips with hers, feeling Scarlet’s hand inch upward to rest on her waist as she deepened the kiss, feeling Scarlet’s hair brush against her neck, feeling her nose against her own, feeling Scarlet’s fingers stretch in their interlocked hands before gripping tighter in an attempt to pull her closer, like she was hers. And she was.

They parted, foreheads still touching, fingers still intertwined. Yvie pressed her lips against Scarlet’s once more.

“I—” Scarlet began, eyes still closed for a moment, breathing still deep and calm, fingers pressed so ardently into Yvie’s waist.

“I want to be with you,” Yvie cut her off, letting her hand fall from Scarlet’s cheek to play with a tendril of Scarlet’s hair, fitting it between her thumb and index finger.

Scarlet mashed her lips together before responding softly, her voice plush and full. “I want that too. I want to be with you too.”

Upon hearing that, upon processing that Scarlet wanted her as well, that she was wanted, the severe elation of being wanted after being so aggressively unwanted moments ago, how her slick coat and soaked hair reminded her as much, she broke their hands apart and grabbed Scarlet roughly by her hips, pulling her into her lap and kissed her again and again and again, kissed until it all felt well-worn and new in the same breath, until all Yvie wanted to do was fit her chin on Scarlet’s shoulder and revel in the closeness she’d wanted for so long in the exact spot she’d wanted it.

They sat together, the hours passing, thin as gossamer, fractured only by their words and the smattering of rainfall outside, far too intimate in the empty room to be anything but whispered, if for nothing but the reassurance that they were theirs and only theirs, openly, finally, and ceaselessly.

#rpdr fanfiction #scarlet envy #yvie oddly #brooke lynn hytes #silky nutmeg ganache #scyvie #fluff #angst #lesbian au #coffee shop au #starbucks au #daybreak over manhattan #one shot #phryne #concrit welcome #submission #s11

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justforbooks · 4 years

Photo

A Wake for New York’s Last Pirate Bookseller

Whisky, wine and memories as friends mourned Michael Seidenberg — and also Brazenhead, a secret bookstore he ran out of his Manhattan apartment.

On the Upper East Side of Manhattan, a somber procession of New Yorkers walked into an apartment building and rang a buzzer to attend the wake of a bookseller named Michael Seidenberg. Up some stairs and down a corridor, the din of a gathering poured from a door, and they entered a small apartment lined with long libraries and heaps of paperbacks that houses Mr. Seidenberg’s clandestine secondhand bookstore, Brazenhead. Wading into the crowd, they hugged old friends and wiped away tears.

They were there to mourn Mr. Seidenberg, who died on July 8 2019 at 64, but the gathering was also a dirge for the poetic notion of New York that he represented. His secret bookstore became a haven for book lovers who knew its address, and it was famed for its blurry salons that lasted until daybreak.

Mr. Seidenberg, who was missing a front tooth and wore disheveled unbuttoned shirts, was a romantic, bard like personality who smoked a pipe and could not bear selling books he was fond of. To the Brazenhead devout, he was the cherished conductor of a bookish universe that formed nightly within the walls of his apartment.

As his friends gathered in the sweltering apartment, leaning up against bookshelves and nursing stiff drinks, they exchanged memories of a man who they said had created a literary sanctuary unlike any other.

“I used to fall asleep in the stacks near the Philip K. Dick novels, and when I woke up at 4 or 5 in the morning Michael and I would just talk about life,” said Alex Brook Lynn, 37, a journalist. “We once discussed what a conversation between James Cagney and John Cassavetes would have sounded like.”

“One of the great joys of living in New York has been bringing people to Brazenhead,” said Isaac Butler, 40, a critic who is writing a book about the history of method acting. “The experience only got richer when you passed it on. Brazenhead was the fantasy of New York you came here to get, but it was only here. The myth of New York still existed in this place with this man.”

A bell was occasionally rung to silence the crowd, and guests offered remembrances. One of them was the novelist Jonathan Lethem, who worked for Mr. Seidenberg as a teenager in Brooklyn, accepting books as payment, and later wrote him into his novels.

“I walked into Michael’s Atlantic Avenue shop in 1978,” Mr. Lethem said. “I kind of just decided it was going to be my life to be Michael’s right hand for as long as I could be, and it changed my life in a lot of different ways. I think I might be Patient Zero.” Then he looked to the crowd and added, “You all self-selected to be part of this tribe.”

The wake carried into the night. Bob Dylan played from a speaker. On a stoop outside, two women sat drinking wine as they exchanged stories about Mr. Seidenberg. The writer Luc Sante, a longtime Brazenhead patron, bought a book before going home (a first edition hardcover copy of Don Carpenter’s 1981 novel, “Turnaround”).

“I loved Michael deeply,” Mr. Sante said. “He was a universal soul. A connector of people. A pirate bookseller. He also believed in books as a social glue, and there’s not much of that left now.”

Mr. Seidenberg’s path to becoming a literary hero was an unlikely one. He opened Brazenhead Books in Brooklyn in the late 1970s. Shortly after, he moved his store to the Upper East Side but eventually lost his lease. Unable to afford another storefront, he relocated his heaps of books into the apartment he was living in down the block and, as he plied his trade selling paperbacks on city streets over the next decade, the heaps grew into mountainous piles. In 2007, he pursued the radical idea of operating a bookstore out of his rent-controlled apartment.

“I didn’t want to sell online; that’s repulsive to me,” Mr. Seidenberg once said in an interview. “So then I thought to do this. I thought, I’ll make a space where people can come to see my books. I’ll make it into a bookstore, but it’ll be in an apartment. That was that.”

“Secondhand bookshops have been banished from the city,” he reflected at another time. “There’s no place for them. It’s a losing battle. We’ve lost. I just want to do as much as I can.”

The bookshop’s address was passed along through word of mouth, and discovering Brazenhead became a rite of passage for young literary New Yorkers. On a typical night, guests sipped Famous Grouse whisky from plastic cups as Mr. Seidenberg held court and recommended books, while marijuana smoke leaked out from a discreet room containing Brazenhead’s first-edition collection.

But by 2014, Brazenhead’s address was too well known, and Mr. Seidenberg was served an eviction notice that summer. Its final months resembled a farewell tour, and the apartment throbbed nightly with visitors eager to experience the secret literary landmark.

“By the end there were a lot of hangers-on who were there for booze and not for books,” Mr. Seidenberg said at the time. “The inner-circle people weren’t happy those last days.”

The following year, however, Mr. Seidenberg quietly reopened Brazenhead in another apartment on the Upper East Side, which is where it resides today, and he continued operating it by appointment only. The cause of his death was heart failure.

At the wake, Brazenhead’s future seemed uncertain. “I would say Brazenhead is indefinitely closed,” said Gracie Bialecki, 28, Mr. Seidenberg’s longtime assistant. “Because Brazenhead was Michael. It was his bookstore, and now he’s gone.”

As midnight approached, the gathering became intimate. People browsed the stacks quietly. Others lounged around discussing politics. In the kitchen, cluttered with empty liquor bottles, someone sang and played the guitar. J.T. Price, a writer, noticed a book sitting out of place on a shelf. “The last time I saw Michael I told him I wanted this book,” he said. “He knew I wanted it. He must have put this aside for me.”

The bell rang again and the apartment fell silent. Hugo Perez, a filmmaker, took the floor and paid tribute to Mr. Seidenberg. Then, he raised his glass, and so did everyone else.

“We few, we happy few, we band of Brazenhead,” he said. “We toast to Michael. Brazenhead forever. Long live Brazenhead.”

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #Michael Seidenberg #Brazenhead Books #IN MEMORIAM

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 15: Midnight Manhattan]

A/N: Hi y’all! Thank you so much for your patience and support. I think it’ll be worth it...this chapter has something you’ve been waiting for. Only three more chapters left after this one! 💜

Chapter summary: A family visit turns awkward, Chrissie loses her cool, Roger and Y/N have a difficult conversation, John tells the truth.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, babies, miscarriage, cute kids, drama, angst, more drama, more angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen @allauraleigh@deakydeacy

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

They say losing a child will destroy a marriage, and you’re sure that’s often true; but it didn’t destroy yours.

Roger is the only one who can truly understand—who can feel that same aching and eternal, ravening absence in his bones—because he’s the only one who lost her too. He mourns with you, he stays awake through long nights with you, and when the future seems too oppressively bleak to imagine he drags you back into the light with tired daybreak smiles exchanged over mugs of tea and songs plucked on his acoustic guitar by the roaring fireplace, stories and jokes, walks through the green trellises of Hyde Park and the marble halls of the British Museum filled with ancient treasures stolen from Egypt and India and the Yucatan Peninsula, Italy and Greece, leaving craters of hollow memory littered across the planet like the imprint of the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.

Together you bury her ashes in the garden behind the Surrey house. John brings you a pot of white calla lilies, and when the weather warms you plant them beside the small black stone carved with two names you never speak: Joan Aurora. Together you watch the blossoms grow up and grow old and wither back into the earth like everything does when the clock runs out, when the universe claims back the debt of life we borrow thinking that we own it. And through it all Roger is so persistently kind and patient and present that you’re willing to try for another pregnancy, despite the odds stacked against you like moving boxes, despite the crushing heartache that another loss would entail; despite your fearful, growing suspicion that in both casinos and the genetic lottery, the house always wins.

It never happens again, and you reach a sort of peace with this; but it’s a peace that makes you feel small and immaterial, like when you think too much about how vast the universe really is, like when you wake up restless before the dawn and wander out onto the cracked cobblestones in the garden as the sun burns the darkness off the world from east to west, watching the stars as they vanish in a sky bloodied with another world’s light.

A year passes, and then another, and then another; and every February 15th John sends you a new pot of white calla lilies to plant in the garden where other people’s children play.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Look, look, look!” Laszlo frenetically waves a crayon illustration in front of your face. On his head is the hat you knitted for him, green and featuring a large white L and with sprigs of fluffy brown hair like John’s peeking out around the edges. “I can draw like Daddy!”

It’s November 24th, 1981, and Queen is in Montreal. The band is playing two sold-out shows, one tonight and one tomorrow, and Brian and John have flown in their families for one last visit to tide their wives and children over until the touring break at Christmas. Laszlo is six years old now, Anna nearly five, Lena three, Antoni—fast asleep and presumably dreaming of such complexities as Hershey’s chocolate bars and Care Bear plushies—two; and there have been no additional Deacon children, a fact which seems to be the source of some disharmony between John and Veronica. What Laszlo has drawn with his rainbow of Crayolas most closely resembles a very chubby banana, but with black spots like a Dalmatian’s.

“Oh my goodness, you’re a young Picasso!” you exclaim. “It’s amazing! It’s a...it’s a...a...” Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up. “It’s a...giraffe...?”

“Yeah!” Laszlo confirms, grinning.

Oh thank god.

“Very impressive,” John tells you. “I would have guessed pineapple with leprosy.”

“It’s not a leopard, Daddy,” Laszlo says seriously.

“Yes of course, I didn’t say leopard, I said leprosy, which is entirely different—”

“It’s not a leopard!” Laszlo insists.

“You heard the kid, Deaks,” Roger says, winking. “No leopards. Come over here, kiddo, let me see the nice giraffe...oh yes, it is so obviously a giraffe, you can tell by the expertly placed spots...”

“You’re so good with them,” Veronica marvels, perhaps not quite approvingly, noting how Antoni is dozing peacefully against your chest, a red hat stitched with a massive A snug over his jumble of auburn hair. “He never sleeps for anyone. Not even me.”

“Being comfortable to nap on is one of my many talents.”

“It’s true,” Roger notes, smiling, combing through the knots in his brittle bleached hair.

“No, no, no, don’t try to be modest, you’ve always been fantastically good at caring for people. I remember Brian was half dead when you brought him home from that hospital in Boston.” Chrissie is sitting on the floor of the dressing room with Anna and Lena, helping to facilitate a glamorous wedding for Barbie and Ken. Teddy and Evelyn, both four years old and with massive mops of dark ringlets, are scribbling on coloring book pages of screeching dinosaurs and plunging prehistoric comets above tangles of jungle treetops.

“Hmm,” Veronica agrees lukewarmly. “You’ll be a wonderful mother to your own one day.”

You wince, bite your lower lip, peer down at Antoni’s pacific little face. His eyes, when they’re open, are a greyish blue like John’s. Chrissie kicks Veronica’s ankle and glares at her. Brian glances over from where he’s tuning his Red Special, one rangy leg propped up on a chair.

“Not so sure that’s in the cards,” you demur.

“Keep praying, dear,” Veronica offers. “The Lord will provide in his own time.”

You blink at her. She stares pityingly back with infuriating, weepy eyes. Everyone is suddenly very quiet, except for Freddie; he starts humming Another One Bites The Dust and taps his white Adidas sneakers in rhythm.

“What uniquely helpful advice,” you reply.

“Well, surely one doesn’t need biological children to be fulfilled in life,” Roger tells Veronica lightly, like it’s a warning.

She looks thunderstruck, like this is such a novel concept, like Roger just shared with her the secret to time travel or immortal life. “Perhaps not, but you know...it’s so terribly important for most women.”

“How feminist,” Chrissie quips, lighting a cigarette, flicking the ashes away irritably.

John leans into Veronica. “Stop it,” you can just barely hear him say.

“It’s interesting you would bring up timing, Veronica,” you observe. “We were all so discrete about yours.”

Freddie snorts, tries to pretend it was a sneeze, smooths his moustache as he studies himself in the mirror.

“I’m just trying to help, love,” Veronica claims innocently. “All this can’t be good for you, this ceaseless globetrotting. Almost never waking up in the same place twice. The stress of it!”

“What do you want her to do?” Roger snaps. “Sit at home nine or ten months out of the year and, what, scrub the windows until I come back? Take up watercolor painting? Knit the world’s largest quilt?”

“I’m just saying that less physical and emotional strain might help with the situation.”

“Because you’re a freaking doctor, right?” Roger flares. Chrissie kicks Veronica again.

“People should spend more time close to home,” she continues, undaunted. “There’s nothing more important than family. Look at me, I should have another on the way by now, but the band’s schedule is simply murderous...”

“Trying for a football team?” you inquire. And in the same moment you realize: This isn’t about me at all. This is about her and John.

Freddie is still humming, modelling his Superman tank top and tight white jeans in the mirror, cinching and re-cinching his belt, sliding a red sweatband unto one wrist. The kids—all except the unconscious Antoni—are giggling and pushing each other around on the slippery linoleum floor, seemingly oblivious. John whispers something to Veronica, his face dark and furious.

“John should be home more,” she bursts out. “For me, for the children—”

Roger scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For christ’s sake, lady, he’s not your bloody lapdog!”

“You don’t really need him,” she protests, almost pleads. “He’s just the bassist, he thought this would be a hobby to fill his time on weekends when he was in school, he didn’t sign up to live this way and Queen could find another bassist and you don’t need him—”

“We do need him! He’s not just some bassist! He’s a genius and he’s irreplaceable and there’s absolutely no Queen without him, we swore to it, I’d leave if he ever did!”

“You did what?!” Brian exclaims. Freddie hums louder, stomping his sneakers to the beat, mock-boxing with his reflection in the mirror. John raises his eyebrows at Roger as if he had assumed Rog wouldn’t remember that, assumed he had never really meant it. Roger, flushed, fumbles with his lighter and finally lights a cigarette on his third attempt.

Antoni stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and Chrissie swoops in to take her turn holding him. She bounces him on her hip as she sashays around the dressing room, casting fierce scowls alternately at Veronica and John and Roger.

“You don’t understand,” Veronica hurls at Roger, lashing out like a cornered animal, her voice raw and splintering. “You’ve never sacrificed anything. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of just falls into your lap. No heartache. No consequences. You don’t know what it’s like to be one of the people who get burned.”

“You don’t know anything about me—!”

“Look, I get it,” you tell Veronica. “You want John to yourself. Anyone would. You want a normal life. But that’s the tradeoff when you love someone brilliant, isn’t it? You have to learn how to share them with the world. Because the world is so much better off with them in it.”

Veronica glowers, venomous and spiteful. She’s wearing makeup tonight, quite heavy makeup; she’s started doing that with increasing frequency. “I have no intention of sharing a husband the way you’ve had to.”

Roger stands, stalks to Veronica, towers over her, blows smoke into her stunned face. “Ma’am,” he says quietly, so the children won’t hear. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Okay, darlings!” Freddie flits over, pulls Roger away, fluffs his hair and straightens his black smock-like shirt as Roger glares around Fred’s shoulder at Veronica. “Fabulous. You look like a ten-year-old about to make a papier-mâché vase for his mum in art class. I adore it. Off you go.” He pushes open the door to the hallway and shoves Roger through it.

Roger nods for you to follow him, and you do.

John frowns as you pass him. I’m so sorry, that expression says.

You shake your head in reply. Not your fault.

Roger slips his arm around your waist as you disappear into the hallway with him.

“That fucking miserable, judgmental, delusional, dogmatic bitch—”

“Shhhhh.” You cup his feverish cheek with your left hand, weighty with the ruby ring he gave you four years ago in New Orleans, and yank the white bandana out of his back pocket with your right. Then you knot it around his neck, smiling. “There. Now you look a little more rock and roll.”

“You’re not mad?” he asks in disbelief. “How are you not mad?”

“She’s clearly very unhappy. I feel sorry for her.” You tug on the bandana gently, fondly. You can hear Chrissie chastising Veronica behind the closed door of the dressing room. “Don’t let it ruin your show.”

“No, I would never.” But his eyes are still distant, unsettled, anxious in a way that is rare for him. “You are a freakishly good person, you know that?”

“I try. Don’t forget to smile so I can get some good pictures.”

“Oh, I’ll smile plenty. Just like this.” A grin splits through his face, and the Roger you know and love is back: bright, triumphant, flashing the daggerish points of his canine teeth. Then he draws you into him and kisses you, his rough hands in your hair, his lips smiling against yours. “Love of my life,” he whispers, rather pensively.

He shakes out his right arm—the one with the jagged scar along the soft vulnerable underside, the one he broke in a stairwell in Yokohama in the spring of 1975—and stretches the hand a few times. And you find yourself wondering, as you always do when he seems distracted like he does now, before he starts staying out late into the night, before he starts coming home drunk or high or not at all: Is he getting bad again? Is he?

I would never have to worry about that if I had married someone like John.

You fling that thought, that inconvenient and perpetual thought, back into the shadows where it came from; like a pebble tossed into the misted tree line of a forest, like a shell pitched into the sea.

“Rog, are you—?”

“I’m fine,” he cuts you off like a blade.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s someone screaming out in the hallway.

You reel out of bed in the darkness, step into your slippers, yank on your fuzzy white robe. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:11 a.m. Roger and Brian had stayed for one more round of drinks at the club when you and Chrissie left to go back to the hotel, Chrissie to relieve her nanny from kid duty, you to quiet a budding headache. You note—with a vague, drowsy sort of dread—that Roger is not in the bed beside you, his hair a disheveled blond mess peeking from beneath the covers, snoring softly, his calloused hands outstretched towards yours. Beyond the door there are earsplitting clashes of broken glass, thumps and pounding footsteps, people shouting. And now you can recognize Chrissie’s voice, shrieking and wrathful: “Now you’ve done it, now you’ve really done it, you’re going to fucking kill her!”

You throw open the door to see Roger crouched against the hallway wall, covering his head with his hands; he is surrounded by shards of glass, tiny hotel shampoo and mouthwash bottles, Bibles ripped from nightstand drawers. He’s dripping with what smells like a combination of every kind of alcohol you’ve ever tasted, and maybe some you haven’t as well.

“I wish she’d never fucking met you!” Chrissie screams, launching a bottle of Grey Goose from the minibar in her room at Roger. It explodes against the wall just above his head, and glass and vodka rain down on him. Brian is unsuccessfully attempting to coax Chrissie back into their room as she ignores him. “I wish she’d never stepped off that fucking plane because the day she agreed to come to London with you was the worst day of her life!”

“Will you stop?!” Roger yells. “Jesus christ, Chris!”

“She saved you,” Chrissie hisses, landing an elbow into Brian’s gut and sending him flying backwards. “She saved your life and this is how you repay her, you disgusting degenerate bastard!”

A bottle of Captain Morgan hits the wall and detonates two inches from Roger’s face.

“What’s going on?!” you shout at Chrissie, your arms crossed over your chest.

A few rooms down the hallway, a door opens and Freddie wanders out in a pink kimono. After a moment, John and Veronica appear from their own room in their pajamas, rubbing bleary eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep so I phoned my mum and guess what’s on the cover of the News Of The World this week.” Chrissie points at Roger. “Go on. Tell her. Tell her what you did.”

He knows; he doesn’t say anything, but he knows. You can see that he does. It’s lurking in the shallow cerulean pools of his glistening eyes like a shadow, like a ghost.

“What did you do?” John asks him, mystified.

Roger doesn’t answer. He’s looking at you, at Chrissie, back to you. It isn’t often that Roger is fearful, acutely and bone-rattlingly afraid; but he is now.

“Fine, you don’t want to own up to it? I’ll do it. I’ll tell her, you coward.” Chrissie spins to you. “Dominique Beyrand is seven months pregnant.”

I’m surrounded by goddamn mothers. “Okay. Good for her.”

Chrissie waits for it to hit you. And then it does.

Oh. Oh.

“Bleeding christ,” you hear Freddie sigh, rubbing his forehead. Veronica covers her gaping mouth with one pale hand, and she doesn’t look smug or vindicated or condemnatory; she looks terrified. John is watching you, you can see him on the periphery of your vision; you are dimly aware of him edging closer as you gaze at Roger, your eyes wide and blurring with tears, your throat burning.

You can’t understand it, can’t imagine it, and then suddenly you can: his fingers threading through her glossy black hair, his lips skating over her neck, promises whispered through nightscape phone calls, haphazard lies whispered to you; reckless, small-boned, doe-eyed children with Dom’s olive skin and Roger’s sharp little canine teeth.

This is the part where I wake up. This is the part where it turns out to be just a hellacious dream.

But you don’t wake up, because this is real.

“Oh,” you exhale, brainlessly, helplessly.

Roger doesn’t sputter some desperate apology, he doesn’t beg you to forgive him. He stares at you with huge, starry blue eyes, booze dripping from his hair, surrender etched into the concave slump of his back and shoulders.

You ask him, already knowing the answer: “It’s not just a fling, is it?”

“No,” he replies miserably. “I thought it was, but it isn’t.”

You nod, those first hot tears spilling down your cheeks. “Okay,” you concede, your words brittle and fracturing. “I’ll file as soon as we get back to London.” File for divorce. File this entire misadventure away in my mind as a horrific and juvenile mistake. Shred the good memories into oblivion so I can’t remember how alive he once made me feel.

That seems to bother Roger, jolts him into urgency. The white bandana is still tied around his neck. “You don’t have to do that—”

“Are you fucking joking?” you pitch at him. “Are you not done humiliating me yet? Am I not ruined enough? Do I somehow still look remotely whole to you?”

John’s hand closes around your wrist. “Don’t,” he tells you gently.

Roger begins: “I never wanted to hurt—”

“But you did,” you seethe, tears slithering down your face. It’s sinking in now, it’s becoming real, it’s materializing from years of gnawing distrust into fact. They were all right about him. They were always right. John’s arms circle you, holding you back as you struggle against him. “You fucking did and I forgave you like an idiot just so you could prove to me over and over and over again how exceptionally little you cared.”

“That’s not true—!”

“You’ve done enough!” Chrissie roars at him. Brian wrestles a bottle of Don Julio out of her grasp. “You deplorable slut, can’t you see that you’ve done enough?!”

Freddie approaches Roger, dusts the glinting flecks of glass out of his hair, wrenches him staggering to his feet.

“Come on,” John murmurs, towing you towards your room. Veronica is tracking him with blazing eyes. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go ahead, Roger!” you shout as John drags you away, as Roger is corralled into Freddie’s room. “Get clean for her, get clean for her children, tell her she’s the love of your life and marry her and give her a ring but don’t forget to remind her that none of it means a single fucking thing—!”

John stumbles with you into your hotel room. He slams the door behind him, and the world goes deathly quiet. You reel aimlessly, collapse onto the edge of the bed, dazed, staring at the bland landscape paintings on the wall, ticking down the mental list of things you’ll need to get from the Surrey house: photographs, paperwork, John’s sketches, the conch shell from Ostia.

What about the calla lilies? What about her grave?

And there’s another list as well, whether you want there to be or not; a list of things you’ll never feel again.

His teeth grazing my knuckles, his palms cradling my face, his raspy voice as he writes songs on quiet nights, the way he loved our daughter, the way he sets souls alight like wildfire.

John just stands in the middle of the hotel room, heaving in ragged breaths, his hands on his waist. And for a long time, neither of you speak at all.

“Do you want me to stay?” John says finally.

“You can’t,” you reply, thinking of Veronica and the children.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No. I’m fine. I want to be alone.”

He comes to you, lifts your chin with one careful hand, touches his forehead to yours before he leaves. “You are never going to be alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear the key clatter in the lock, and your hotel room door creaks open. You’re laying on the floor after Queen’s second show in Montreal, staring blankly up at the ceiling, counting the black dots in the tiles like stars, imagining constellations of monsters and heroes and doomed love.

John appears above you, his brow furrowed. He shuttled all of Roger’s things to Freddie’s room after you packed them up this morning, then he took Roger’s key. “What are you doing?”

“Fantasizing about my own death.”

He checks his watch. “Will you be done in twelve minutes?”

“What happens in twelve minutes?”

“We have to leave for the afterparty on a yacht.”

You groan, sitting upright, rubbing your sore and sleepless eyes with the heels of your hands. “I can’t do it, John. I don’t have it in me tonight. I can’t mingle with all of those obnoxious music industry people. ‘Yes, hi, hello, yes it’s true, I am the sad barren soon-to-be-ex-wife, oh what a charming nineteen-year-old model mistress you have on your arm there, I too was once young and desirable and disastrously stupid.’”

He smiles. “You’re still somewhat desirable.”

“Thanks.” You reach up, take his hands, let him help you to your feet.

“You realize if you don’t go I’m going to have to hide in the corner and compulsively eat miniature quiches all by myself.”

“Your enchanting wife isn’t attending?”

“She wanted to stay with the children. Also, she hates me.”

You chuckle. “She doesn’t hate you. She passionately does not hate you, which is the problem.”

“So you’ll come with me.”

You mull this over. “Can I get so drunk I forget I exist?”

“Sure. If you promise to stay near me and away from the water.”

“Yes, I suppose that you, as a convicted felon, would be high on the list of suspects if I was to go overboard.”

“Losing you would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. Who would I call to post my bail?”

You laugh as you beam up at him, knot your fingertips through his hair, see your silhouette reflected in his greyish eyes that today remind you of storm clouds, of torrential autumn rain, of thunder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to your torturous yacht party.”

“Aww, what a tragedy, being forced to enjoy all the trappings of stardom” John teases, and then you can see the regret wrinkle across his face; because people don’t joke about things like tragedies around you anymore.

“It’s a hard life,” you agree. “But it feels a little easier when you’re around.”

You slip into a dark blue dress and heels and your bomber jacket that doesn’t match at all. John meets you in the hallway in a black suit. You share a limo with Brian and Chrissie, who chatter nervously about anything they can think of that doesn’t involve Roger or marriage or children or love. Bri points out constellations through the open moonroof as frigid Canadian air pours in and rattles your dangling diamond earrings, whips through your hair. John smooths the runaway strands, rests his arm across the back of your seat, smiles in a tranquil sort of way and actually appears to pay attention as Brian narrates the stories of the stars and their celestial families: Pegasus, Aquarius, Pisces, tiny Triangulum, the lightning strike zigzag of Lacerta, Perseus.

“You look gorgeous,” Chrissie tells you, and she seems to mean it.

“Thank you,” you reply politely. “If only I was also French and fertile.”

The yacht is docked on the bank of the Saint Lawrence River, an island of roaring laughter and music and twinkling strands of lights in an ocean of night. John leads you onboard, waves at the photographers who douse you in flashbulb luminescence, stands with you by the railing at the stern of the vessel as it pulls out into the river. Periodically some palpably accomplished stranger will appear, shake John’s hand, start asking him about You’re My Best Friend or Another One Bites The Dust or Under Pressure; but mostly the two of you are left alone. You drain flute after flute of pink champagne as John nurses his Manhattans, debating the merits of the various appetizers; you—ever the proud Bostonian—are partial to the bite-sized lobster rolls, while John prefers the Swedish meatballs speared on puzzlingly tropical toothpick umbrellas.

Roger is on the yacht too of course, and every once in a while you catch a glimpse of his blond hair or his blush-colored polka dot suit, hear his voice carried on the cold November wind; and you ignore this as much as you can. Twice he starts migrating towards you, and you and John pretend not to notice, dart through the crowds to the other side of the boat, your hand clasped in John’s as he weaves relatively anonymously through ballgowns and suits and reporters’ microphones. And he peeks back at you, grinning, and says: “I bet you’re thrilled no one knows who I am tonight.”

Chrissie steals you away briefly to keep her company when Brian gets snared into an excruciatingly dull interview about Queen’s next album; and when Brian comes to collect her, John greets you with a fresh glass of champagne in one hand and his fourth Manhattan in the other.

“You better make sure you don’t go overboard, Mr. Deacon,” you say, taking the champagne flute and resting your forearms on the yacht’s railing as waves break against the hull. Freshwater mist peppers your cheeks, your collarbones, the backs of your hands. Through the speakers pluck the opening notes of Hotel California. “Oh god. This song.”

“Fond memories?” John asks with a smirk. “That whole night is a blur to me.”

“It makes me think of sharks for some reason. And the Olympics.”

“It makes me feel...” He considers this. “Overwhelmed with self-loathing.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re the least loathable person I’ve ever met.” You sip your champagne, gaze out into the moonlit currents that run from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean, to the shores of every place you’ve ever called your own. “How long did Dante live in exile from Florence?”

“Twenty years.”

You whistle. “That’s a long time to be away from home.” The fingers of your left hand clutch the railing, which is gold and sturdy and stingingly cold. “I feel a little like him sometimes. Except as you get older, home starts to feel less like places and more like people.” You twist off your ruby ring, glance down at it fleetingly, and toss it out into the glistening black waters of the Saint Lawrence River.

John looks over at you. “It’s really over, isn’t it?”

You nod slowly, mournfully. “Yeah. It’s really over.”

“And how are we feeling about that?”

“Relieved. Petrified. Exhausted. Mostly I’m just sad.”

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “For everything.”

“Why? None of it was your fault.” You sigh, shake your head, peer out into the river, into the night sky, into the stars. “Maybe this is a good thing, you know? A blessing in disguise or whatever. I can move on knowing I did everything I could to salvage the marriage. I can be free. No more waiting up at night for someone who isn’t coming home. No more searching through pockets and suitcases for white powder or used needles. No more News Of The World headlines.”

John is still staring at you.

“What?” you ask, smiling warily.

He downs the rest of his Manhattan, twirls the glass as the ice cubes clink against each other. Finally, he says: “I could have given you a very different kind of life.”

Your lips, slick with gloss and tingling with sharp carbonation from the champagne, part to ask John what he means; but then you know. Your voice is a quivering, astonished whisper. “It was about me. You’re My Best Friend.”

“Yeah, it was. And most of the others were too.”

It was about me. All those years ago, that song was about me. And it still is.

“John...”

“I watched you fall in love with Roger, watched him fall in love with you. Watched this agonizing fucking dance that you do...he can’t give you what you want, you can’t be happy with less...and I just kept waiting to wake up one day and not want you anymore. And it never happened.” He laughs, briefly, bitterly. “I mean, for christ’s sake, I refused to propose to the mother of my child until I was sure you’d stay with Roger because I thought...I thought...you know, maybe. Maybe one day you’d change your mind. And I wanted to be there if you did.”

You gaze at him, soaking him in, unambiguously aware that there is no part of you that is afraid, no part of you that is shuddering or surrendering or apprehensive; there is no instinctive chorus begging you not to fall in love with him. There’s no sensation of falling at all. It feels like you’re somewhere you’ve never left.

“I know that next to someone like Roger Taylor I don’t look like much,” John confesses. “That I don’t feel like much. That I don’t light anything up the way he does. And if you can’t imagine a future with someone who isn’t him, someone who isn’t like him...then I completely accept that. But you’re always going to feel like home to me.”

You’re My Best Friend. You And I. Spread Your Wings. In Only Seven Days. Need Your Loving Tonight.

They were all about me. They were always about me.

“John...”

You don’t know what to say. You know exactly what to say.

From the crowd, a man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and holding a Cuban cigar bellows for John. He whirls, offers a shy wave, trots over to say hello. But as they discuss concerts and albums and tours, John’s eyes meet yours through the sea of strangers and cigarette smoke, through the shifting shadows cast by flickering incandescence and moonshine.

And you watch him as the constellations and all their stars rage above, the same stars that in the time of Dante sailors read to point them home.

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crescentmoon223 · 4 years

Text

Thanks so much for the tag, @sarie-fairy! ❤️

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! choose your 8 (ish) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome work!

1. Never Tear Us Apart - This is the follow-up to my full length Stella/Scully fic, Two Worlds Collide, and I just had so much fun revisiting my two favorite ladies and writing their wedding. I’m really proud of it ❤️

2. When This is Over - Another s/s fic. I wanted to explore how they would handle being quarantined at home together during the pandemic, and this turned out to be one of the steamiest (and most viewed) fics I’ve written.

3. Underneath Your Skin - MSR. I wrote this totally on a whim after rewatching Dreamland, and I just really wanted to write a fic where Mulder and Scully swap bodies, but instead of focusing on the case, I wanted to explore the awkward realities of being inside each other’s bodies. I had so much fun writing it, and it’s been one of my most viewed fics!

4. International Arrival - This one started with a prompt asking if I would write Scully delivering a baby, and I was like...what if Jean Milburn went into labor on a train under the English Channel, and Scully is the only doctor on board to deliver the baby? It was my first time writing Jean, and I really enjoyed it!

5. Don’t Turn on the Light - MSR. I wrote this for the @xfilesfanficexchange Smut Exchange, and I basically stranded Mulder and Scully on a deserted island with flowering trees that will poison them at daybreak. Stranded is one of my favorite tropes, and I had so much fun writing this (also - obviously - it’s pretty smutty too haha)

6. The Realm of Extreme Possibility - MSR. This was my first case file, written for the @xfilesfanficexchange Case File exchange, and I really enjoyed trying something new and also exploring Scully’s semi-canon psychic abilities, this time through deja vu, which leads her to a crime scene that she seems to share an unexplained connection to.

And since this prompt is for all kinds of works, not just fic, I have to include the two books that I published this year, because I am incredibly proud of both of them.

7. Don’t Cry for Me - This is an opposites attract romance between a bubbly kitten rescuer and a frosty television host, and it’s one of my favorite books that I’ve ever written. It’s also the first book in a new f/f romance series set in Manhattan that is really a labor of love for me ❤️

8. It’s in Her Kiss - A f/f rivals-to-lovers romance set in the world of Broadway. Two actresses in competition for the same role, oh and there’s a stage kiss that feels a little too real...

Tagging anyone who wants to play! :)

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narcoleptic-drag-queen · 4 years

Note

Hi hun! Could I request 35+M for scyvie? Thanks! 🌞

i literally just read ‘daybreak over manhattan’ and then i ran to go write this for you because that fic was truly miraculous. i would DIE for you. also, this is absolutely not me pushing my paleontologist/jurassic park scyvie dream on yall. not at all

35 - “I’m not being nice because I want to sleep with you, but I definitely do want to sleep with you.”

M - In Vino Veritas

Yvie, as a rule, does not hang out with work friends outside of work.

College professors aren’t a lot of fun to go out with. ‘Going out’ means sitting at a bar, getting drunk on whiskey and cocktails, and whining about students and grading and research. Yvie would rather sit at home with her cat and leftover takeout - watching The Shining for the millionth time will always be more entertaining than Nina’s students violating her late policy.

Scarlet, though - Scarlet’s different.

Scarlet is new to the university, a recent graduate from a doctoral program somewhere on the Pacific Coast. Yvie hadn’t bothered to investigate any further than that, too engrossed in trying to get the grant she wants for her dig proposal and dealing with students that don’t seem to understand that, but she’d appreciated the beaming smiles she got in the mornings, passing by one of Scarlet’s classrooms on her way to her office.

It was that same smile that convinced her to break her rule, Scarlet clearly expecting Yvie to agree to her invitation for drinks and already grinning in anticipation. Yvie was not going to be the one that made it fall. And besides - maybe Scarlet’s a little more fun than the others. She is from California, after all.

After around five consecutive weekends out with this woman, Yvie thinks she can safely say that she was right. Scarlet is so fun. She’s also maybe the best person Yvie’s ever met, but that’s an issue for a later date.

“Girl, what is that?” Yvie cackles, as the bartender slides Scarlet another deep purple shot. A ‘purple nurple’, is what the bartender called it. “Your fifth one?”

“Sixth!” Scarlet hoots, and her voice is a little slurred. Her nose is flushed pink. Yvie has the sudden urge to kiss it, and the thought is suddenly sobering, her own three purple nurples running a little less warm in her veins. “And don’t call me ‘girl’.’

Yvie laughs at her, shaking off the feeling. She’s just drunk. Developing feelings for someone this quickly - no. She’s definitely just drunk. “Why not?”

“Because I graduated,” Scarlet explains, raising her eyebrows drunkenly, and Yvie thinks she might be the only person she knows who can make her own eyebrows look toasted. “With honors. I’m a woman now, Yves.”

Yvie pretends her heart doesn’t flutter at the nickname, instead snorting at the way Scarlet is trying to look at her severely. “Yeah, of course,” she says, smiling to show she’s teasing. “The true mark of womanhood: a dissertation on the pack instinct of Hadrosaurids.”

“Parasaurolophus cyrtocristatus,” Scarlet corrects, not even stumbling across the eleven syllables, and Yvie raises her hands up in surrender.

“Of course,” she says, and Scarlet gives a short nod. She then downs her purple nurple, and when she looks back at Yvie, her teeth are a little purple. She looks adorable.

“I bet you graduated with honors,” she says, and Yvie raises her eyebrows. “You’re so smart.”

“Am I?” Yvie jokes, but Scarlet doesn’t laugh, instead widening her eyes earnestly. She leans forward, grabbing Yvie's arm gently. Yvie’s heartbeat picks up as she looks back at Scarlet, fighting the blush that wants to creep into her cheeks.

“You’re so smart,” Scarlet tells her, eyes stern. “And so talented. And so wonderful.”

“I haven’t even had my own dig yet,” Yvie laughs, and she’s certain that her face is bright red. She’s giggling, a little, which is horrifying. Yvie shouldn’t be giggling around her brand new coworker, no matter how hot and sweet and funny she is.

“You’re about to!” Scarlet exclaims, squeezing Yvie’s arm a little tighter and shaking her, a little. “You’re going to get that grant, because you’re the best and you know what you’re doing! And then you’re going to find so many velociraptors that you won’t even know what to do with them all!”

Scarlet is drunk. She is so, so drunk, drunker than Yvie, but that doesn’t stop Yvie from leaning a little closer, from letting it go to her head, a little. And maybe to other places. “Flattery isn’t going to get me to sleep with you,” she jokes, grinning. “I’m more of a third date kind of woman.”

Scarlet makes a shocked expression so exaggerated that Yvie almost thinks it’s fake. “No!” Scarlet says, and Yvie’s heart drops into her stomach. “No, Yvie! I’m not being nice because I want to sleep with you,” she leans in even closer, waggling her eyebrows, “but I definitely do want to sleep with you.”

Yvie’s mouth goes dry. “Why, then?” she asks faintly, because she doesn’t know how to interpret the relief rushing through her, as well as the anxiety.

Scarlet shakes her head. “Because you’re so pretty,” she slurs, and Yvie is reminded of just how hammered she is. “And nice. And hot. And perfect.”

“I’m a little less than perfect,” Yvie says, laughing awkwardly.

“Well, you’re perfect to me. You’re marriage material.”

Yvie stands up so suddenly her stool nearly falls over, her face burning and her heart stammering in her chest. “Alright!” she says abruptly, taking Scarlet’s hand and pulling her off of her stool. “We should get you home before you get alcohol poisoning.”

“Really?” Scarlet pouts, and Yvie wants to tell her no. Wants to sit at the bar and flirt back and maybe make out with her in the alleyway. But she’s a little too sober and a little too professional, so she says yes, and drags Scarlet outside to call a cab.

Scarlet snuggles her in the back of the taxi the entire way to her apartment. Yvie doesn’t know what’s she’s done to make God so upset with her, but it must have been truly horrible.

Scarlet continues to cling to her as when she walks her back up to her apartment. Yvie pretends not to be enjoying it, instead managing to maintain a relatively straight face when she leads Scarlet back to where her bedroom is, after some guesswork. She lets Scarlet fall onto the bed, ready to yank off the little heels she’s wearing, bring her a glass of water, and call it a night, but Scarlet clearly has other plans.

She yanks Yvie into bed with her, her hands curled around Yvie’s wrists, and Yvie lands on top of her with an oof. There’s a long pause in which they just stare at each other, Yvie shocked and Scarlet smug, before Scarlet leans her head back with a sigh.

“This is nice,” she says, pleased, and Yvie pushes herself off of her and back into the floor, her ears burning.

“Scarlet, I’m going to just--”

Scarlet sits back up, propping herself onto her elbows. She looks hurt, and Yvie’s heart skips a beat. “Can’t you stay?” she asks. “Please?”

Yvie looks at her for a long time, debating. She and Scarlet have grown close in the last month, laughing and bonding over a different drink each outing, so this shouldn’t be weird. She should be able to stay over at Scarlet’s without a second thought, pleased to have a new friend, especially in the sea of dullness that mainly occupies her social circle.

On the other hand: there’s no way Yvie will survive sleeping in the same bed as Scarlet without spontaneously combusting.

“Please?” Scarlet repeats, sticking her lip out a little, and Yvie is tempted to call her a brat. She would, if the circumstances were a little different. Instead, she relents with a sigh.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll take the couch.”

Scarlet’s bright grin makes it worth it.

Yvie can only hope that it’s still worth it in the morning, when Scarlet is sober and less touchy-feely.

Yvie can only hope that this wasn’t her only shot.

#i will be leaving a proper review on daybreak later but i had to do this immediately #scyvie #writing #prompts #ask game #also not proofread

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littlemisswolfie · 4 years

Text

Bittersweet, Irresistible, a Crawling Beast

AO3

When Penny Jackson woke up after she caused Mount St. Helens to explode, the first thing she saw, other than the clear blue sky and the foliage from the trees above her, was a girl. The girl had a sweet voice and she took care of Penny, cleaning her off and feeding her nectar, and her singing made her pain go away. That was how Penny knew she wasn’t a normal mortal.

“Who--” Penny’s voice choked off, her throat too sore to speak. She struggled to sit up.

The girl’s gentle hands pressed into Penny’s shoulders to lie her back down. “Shh, brave one. Rest and heal. No harm will come to you here. I am Calypso.”

And Penny went back to sleep.

The cave Penny woke in next was beautiful, so beautiful she wouldn’t have even called it a cave if it were possible to call it anything else. Silk curtains made haphazard rooms, including the one that housed the softest bed Penny had ever laid on, and she spied a loom, a harp, and several dried herbs. The herbs in specific reminded Penny of her mom, back in New York. She could have named them all.

Then Penny smelled the beef stew, and her stomach growled.

She sat up in the bed and gave herself a quick examination to make sure she wasn’t horribly scarred. Her arms actually looked a lot better than she was expecting. They were a little thinner than the last time she looked at them, but the tawny skin was unmarred. She checked the pocket of her white drawstring pants to make sure her sword, Riptide, was still there, along with the Stygian ice dog whistle. The second part wasn’t as reassuring as the first. She’d had Riptide since she was twelve. It was almost like a comfort item for her; it was a weapon, sure, but it was one of the only constants in her ever-dangerous life.

With a great amount of difficulty, Penny stood. The floor was cold under her bare feet, but she forgot to complain about it when she came face to face with a bronze mirror and was able to take in her appearance.

She looked awful. She’d lost weight she hadn’t really had in the first place, and her black hair, which used to reach down to her hips, was charred and singed at uneven angles, and her green eyes were lined with dark bags.

Penny turned away from the mirror and went outside, towards the sunlight.

The girl, Calypso, stood on the beach of a lake, and she turned to Penny when she heard her. “Well,” she said, “the sleeper finally awakes.”

“Who is Annabeth?” Calypso asked later, after she fed Penny some more nectar and convinced her to bathe. Her hair was still abysmal, but she decided to wait until she had access to a pair of scissors to try to take care of that.

Annabeth. “My best friend,” Penny said. “We were together when--” She gestured vaguely to the sky, where Calypso said she’d fallen from. They were on the mythical island of Ogygia, where some heroes came to heal. Time was strange on the island, Penny had found. She had no idea how much time had passed since she first woke up. She hoped it hadn’t been too long. “I have to get back to her.”

“Just to her?”

A flush spread across Penny’s cheeks. “Well, not just her. To Grover and Tyson. To camp. They need me.”

Calypso reached out with one of her gentle hands to cup Penny’s cheek. “You need to rest. You won’t be of any use to them until you’re healed.”

And Penny fell back to sleep.

Penny woke up to the night. Just as she had last time she woke up, she made her way outside, to where Calypso was waiting, watching the stars in the sky. Penny’s head tilted up as well, searching for and seeing the constellations Annabeth had taught her. Annabeth taught Penny almost everything she found useful in life; Ancient Greek, the stories of their people, how to fight, how to avoid fights. Annabeth was brilliant like that.

“Penny, what do you see?”

Her eyes turned back to the beautiful girl next to her. And she was beautiful. Penny was pretty sure she could say that with relative safety, since she’d met the goddess of love last winter.

She helped Calypso plant the moonlace in her garden because she couldn’t remember what else she was doing. “It can only be planted at night,” Calypso said.

“What does it do?” Penny asked.

“It lives. It gives light. It provides beauty.” Calypso shrugged. “Does it need to do anything else?”

“I guess not.”

Calypso sat back on her feet. “I love my garden,” she said to Penny, gazing out over the evidence of her hard work.

And so Penny talked about her mom, and the garden she always wanted. She talked about the apartment they lived in in Manhattan, and the one they’d lived in before, in El Barrio, with Smelly Gabe and his sleazy friends who didn’t think anything was wrong with staring at a little girl. And, in turn, Calypso told Penny about her punishment.

“Are you healed yet, my brave one? Do you think you’ll be ready to leave soon?”

Penny had no answer.

The more time Penny spent on the island, the more she found herself staring at Calypso.

It was a little strange, if she was being honest. She remembered the stories Annabeth told her about Calypso, and about the heroes sent to her for her to fall in love with. She’d always felt bad for Calypso, who’d done nothing wrong but was punished anyway, but she couldn’t understand why she was sent here in the first place.

Because male heroes came to Calypso. Because those were the heroes Calypso fell in love with.

The closer Penny tried to get to Calypso, the more she pulled away.

Hephaestus came to the island to tell Penny everyone thought she was dead.

Well, first he told her Annabeth got home safe, which was a relief. Penny didn’t know what she would do if Annabeth was hurt somewhere because she was stuck on this island. Then he mentioned the everyone-thinks-you’re-dead thing.

“You didn’t tell them I was alright?” Penny asked.

“It wasn’t mine to say,” Hephaestus said. “I had to make sure you were coming back before I told anyone where you were.”

“Of course I’m coming back!” Penny said, burning hot. Why wouldn’t she come back to the only home she’s ever known? To her only friends, to her family, to the place she first felt like she belonged?

Hephaestus pulled a metal disk out of his pocket and showed her a news clip of Mount St. Helens erupting. The newscaster said the governor ordered an evacuation and that all traffic within a hundred miles is shut down.

“I didn’t do that,” Penny said. “I couldn’t have. I’m not powerful enough.”

Hephaestus gave her a dry look. “You’re the daughter of the Earthshaker, girl. You don’t know your own strength.”

“What do I do?”

“You’ve met my wife, right?” Penny nodded. “Then you know to be careful with love. It will twist you all around. Now,” he said, drawing up to a fuller height, “if you do decide to leave this island, I promised you an answer to your quest. Will you leave?”

Penny wanted to say yes. But she hesitated.

Hephaestus must have seen the reluctance in her face. “Don’t decide yet. Wait until daybreak. Daybreak is a good time for decisions.”

“He ordered you to leave,” Calypso guessed when Penny returned to her.

“He gave me a choice,” Penny corrected.

“I promised I wouldn’t offer.”

“Offer what?”

“For you to stay.”

“Forever?”

“You would be immortal on this island,” Calypso said instead of answering. “You would never have to fight again. You could escape your prophecy.”

Penny stared. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

It was tempting. So, so tempting. Living with this prophecy over her head for the past few years was exhausting. She had to be constantly on the lookout for monsters or axe-crazy demigods. But… “My friends.”

Calypso nodded, like she expected Penny’s refusal. She took Penny’s hand. “When the gods first sent you to me,” she said, voice soft, like she didn’t actually want Penny to hear her, “I was confused. They’ve never sent a woman to me before. But they’re tricky like that, aren’t they? They knew I would fall in love with you anyway.”

Heat flared in Penny’s face. “Me?”

Calypso laughed, but it was humorless. “Yes, you.”

“But I’m… I’m a girl. And I’m just me.”

Calypso rolled her eyes. “Men weren’t the only ones who enjoyed the company of their own gender in the ancient times, my brave one. Many of us were of Sappho’s ilk, as well.”

Penny recognized the name “Sappho.” Annabeth liked to read her poetry sometimes, but she never let Penny read any. Her face went all red anytime she asked. “Sappho?”

“A poet,” Calypso explained. “One of the best. Homer was ‘The Poet.’ Sappho was ‘The Poetess.’ She was well known for her love of women.” Her hand cupped Penny’s cheek again. “And being ‘just you’ is more than enough for someone to love you, Penny Jackson.” Then she pulled away. “You could stay.”

“I can’t,” Penny said. Her mind was still reeling. Was she one of ‘Sappho’s ilk,’ like Calypso thought she was? She thought about Annabeth, beautiful Annabeth, with her blonde hair and fiery gray eyes and wicked mind, and she thought that, yeah, maybe she was.

Maybe she liked Annabeth.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Penny continued, more sure of herself now, “but I have to get home. I’m the only one who can help my friends.”

The sun started to peek over the horizon. Daybreak is a good time for decisions.

Calypso nodded and, bending over at the waist, plucked a sprig of moonlace from her garden. She tucked it into the pocket of Penny’s Camp Half-Blood shirt, brushing over her chest with light fingers in a way that made Penny blush. “Plant me a garden in Manhattan?” she asked.

“Of course,” Penny said. If she couldn’t stay with Calypso and ease her loneliness, this was the least she could do.

“Then come with me to the beach, my hero,” Calypso said, tears burning in her eyes. “Let us get you home.”

Hours later, Penny’s raft washed up on the shore of Camp Half-Blood. The camp seemed deserted, which was disquieting, so she tiptoed her way to the amphitheater, where she could see smoke rising into the air.

And she stumbled into her own funeral.

No one looked as she came up to the back of the crowd. They probably thought she was just another camper without looking, and they were all focused ahead, where Annabeth was holding a green silk cloth with a trident to the fire. Penny’s burial shroud. Her eyes were puffy, like she’d been crying, but she managed to say, “She was probably the bravest friend I’ve ever had. She…” Then, her eyes latched on to Penny, and her face went blood red. “She’s right there!”

Campers turned and swarmed her, hugging her and clapping her on the shoulder, but nothing felt right until Annabeth barrelled towards her and hugged her so tight her newly-healed ribs groaned in protest. Penny thought of Calypso, of Sappho, of Annabeth here, and she knew, instinctually, that this was it for her. Annabeth was it.

Even if she didn’t feel the same way Penny felt about her, she would never love someone the same way she loved Annabeth. Nothing would ever change that.

Thank you, Calypso, she thought, imagining the lonely girl on her island with her garden and her lake. I’ll never forget you.

And she hugged Annabeth back.

#percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #battle of the labyrinth #botl #percabeth #fem!percy jackson #annabeth chase #calypso #my writing #my post #mine

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thestuckylibrary · 5 years

Text

Mods’ Reads: January 2020

Here’s the list of everything the Mods have read this past month!

Mod Blue

Sine Tactu by justanotherStonyfan (complete | 22,586 | M)

“Want me to help with this?” Steve says quietly, head about level with James’ stomach as he stares up at him, fingers reaching up for James’ fly, but James shakes his head.

“No,” he says, wets his lips - Steve is all skin and muscle and he’s totally naked and he’s right here and- “no, I’m.” He swallows hard. “I’m not getting naked. This is about you.”

Part 29 of Honey Honey

Propius by justanotherStonyfan (oneshot | 6,178 | E)

Steve comes home kicking snow off his shoes, although a lot of it’s gray colored, and he’s shivering. Despite that, his cheeks are bright with the cold and his smile is bright with affection, camera in hand.

“Hi!” he says on a breath, shoulders hunched to keep the cold air out of his collar, and James smiles, crosses the conversion to reach him, and grabs the trailing ends of Steve’s scarf to draw him down for a kiss hello. “Mh.”

James wrinkles his nose as Steve’s nose presses into his cheek.

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” he says, and Steve laughs softly.

“Yeah,” he says “That’s why I came back inside.”

Part 30 of Honey Honey

I Believe In Something More by cydonic (complete | 74,304 | M)

In April of 2014, two very important things happen: The Winter Soldier is prepped for a mission as part of Project Insight which never ends up happening, and Steve Rogers finds out his mother is dying.

In October of 2018, Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers meet in the Sculpture Garden at UCLA. Bucky has spent the ensuing years building a life for himself, learning that he likes to study in the sunshine and build friendships with people who just think of him as ‘that nice guy who’s really smart’, not what he used to be. Steve has tried to make it in Brooklyn, but everything reminds him of Sarah. He needs a change of scenery, and following his childhood best friend Sam Wilson over to California seems to be the way to do it.

Rare Is This Love (Keep It Covered) by histoires_eternelles, musette22 (complete | 66,773 | E)

It's 2014. Captain America has been out of the ice for three years and is trudging along, saving the world and trying to get used to living in the future. Steve thinks he knows how the rest of his life is going to pan out – a life of duty, which he chose when he signed up to be Erskine’s science experiment. But then, he meets Bucky Barnes: the out-of-this-world-gorgeous mechanic and war vet, who turns Steve’s life upside down and makes him question everything he thought he knew. Slowly, Steve comes to realize there is more to life than duty and punching Nazis. Just one problem though: how on earth does a 96-year-old virgin who only just realized he may not be entirely straight make the transition from crush to relationship? Cue healthy amounts of self-doubt, awkward flirting, pretty blushing, existential crises, emotional growth, and maybe, possibly, a sexual awakening.

darling heart, i loved you from the start (but that's no excuse for the state i'm in) by voxofthevoid (oneshot | 19,725 | T)

“I thought you’d make a terrible Nazi but turns out you’d make a terrifying one instead.”

The year is 2012. Loki has vanished with the Tesseract, and Manhattan is a blazing wreck. A very tired Steve Rogers goes home and meets another very tired Steve Rogers.

Or, the one where Steve saves the mind stone for last and decides to fuck the timeline beyond all recognition, which regrettably involves crawling delicately up Hydra's asshole and less regrettably involves showering a very confused Bucky Barnes with affection.

Kissin' by the mistletoe (Love came to stay) by obsessivereader (oneshot | 4,949 | E)

“I told you,” Steve wheezes, as he tries to catch his breath. “Didn’t I fucking tell you we'd fall if you didn't quit pushing?”

He’d laugh if he had any air left in his lungs. Instead, all he can do is stare up at Bucky as the sound of his carefree laugh winds its way around Steve’s heart. He barely even registers the cold seeping in through his jacket and jeans as he lies in the snow, attention catching instead on the snowflake clinging to Bucky’s lashes. Were Bucky’s eyes always that luminous? The crinkles around his eyes so endearing? Were his lips always that pink?

Bucky’s laugh dies away at Steve’s continued silence. A strange expression settles on his face, like he’s looking into the face of a stranger for the first time, studying and cataloging Steve’s features one by one—eyes, nose, mouth.

Based on this tweet, which has, sadly, been deleted: FUFJFJ ITS SNOWING A LOT IN NY RN AND IM WALKING HOME AND THESE GUYS ARE LIKE PUSHING EACH OTHER IN THE STREET AND ONE GUY GOES “YOU ASSHOLE STOP PUSHING ME IM GONNA FALL” AND THE OTHER GUY WAS LIKE “.... For Me?” and the other guy was like bro... no fuck you” AND THEY BOTH FELL

Part 2 of Happy Steve Bingo!

thot through the heart (and you're to blame) by Deisderium (complete | 9,899 | E)

"You look like shit," Steve says, and that breaks the spell a little because fuck you, Steve, he looks good. Steve's nostrils flare. "Is that—is that blood on your mouth?"

Oh, fuck. Bucky needs to work on not being a sloppy eater. He wipes his mouth hastily, and without thinking, licks his hand clean. Steve stares.

In which Bucky is a baby vampire, a disaster, out to have a good time, and hopelessly in love with his roomate; and in which Steve has a few secrets of his own.

Part 1 of food for thot

Scratched Ragged and Rubbed Raw by cheesethesecond (oneshot | 3,788 | T)

“How are you gonna sleep tonight,” Bucky asked, letting his head fall back against the wall and closing his eyes, “knowing that a guy who tried to kill you is sleeping in the next room?”

“Like a baby,” Steve said.

This Lonely Hour Before Daybreak by cheesethesecond (oneshot | 2,912 | T)

Steve knew there would be good days and bad days. That’s how this sort of thing worked.

Except sometimes, the bad days go like this.

Something Great by dragongirlG (oneshot | 1,485 | G)

The Soldier knows he is not Bucky Barnes, but he still seeks out Steve Rogers after the helicarriers fall, inexplicably craving Rogers' affection. Rogers gives it. (Basically, the Winter Soldier wants a hug. Steve gives him that and a little more.)

Based on a prompt from withinmelove: I have a love for Winter Soldier as his own person so Winter Soldier and Steve cuddling is my prompt! Maybe WS is touch starved and is really eager to be affectionate with Steve who is happy to be close and tender with him.

The Right Partner* by LeeHan (oneshot | 41,651 | E) *graphic violence

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” Bucky said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “but I believe I was promised a mocha.”

When he turned to look at Steve there was laughter in his eyes and a touch of heat in his smile.

Dating a civilian was always risky. Luckily, Bucky seemed like a nice, genuine guy and Steve knew he could gently reject him with the smallest shrug and that Bucky would accept his decision easily. It was the smart thing to do.

“Don’t forget the croissant.”

—

Steve meets a beautiful man with a bright laugh on a sunny day in Italy. Captain America meets the elusive Winter Soldier moments later.

Date Bucky Barnes. Defeat the Winter Soldier. Bring down Hydra. How hard could it be?

Pedantic Affectations by fannishlove, relenafanel (complete | 15,858 | M)

Steve Rogers: khaki pants and ugly tweed wearing art history professor specializing in historical queer art (by day). Is actually Captain America, vigilante and the bane of Detective Barnes’s existence (by night).

Detective Bucky Barnes: A very clever cop who suspects something is up with Steve. Is frustrated that Captain America exists and is dedicated to finding him because he loves a good puzzle.

So, how does Steve convince Bucky that he's too boring to be Captain America? Go on a date with him.

(Steve is kind of really, really bad at this secret identity thing)

The Comfort in Certainty by justanotherStonyfan (complete | 20,554 | E)

"You were right when you said we need to talk," Steve says softly ... "Is there anything you want to say first?"

... James can't stand the suspense. If it's going to happen, if he's going to do it, James wants that bandaid ripped off now.

"Is this a breakup talk?" he says, and his wishes his voice would be stronger but he’s almost glad that it’s not.

Steve takes a deep breath in through his nose.

Part 31 of Honey Honey

Honeypot by cleo4u2, xantissa (complete | 133,204 | E)

Preconditions: One Sasha Marozow - internationally renowned assassin for hire, known as the Winter Soldier, ex-Hydra operative freelancing for the last five years; One Steve Rogers, Captain America - recently defrosted national hero and Avenger; One assassination contract; One set-up known in the intelligence community as the “honeytrap”.

Expected Result: One Winter Soldier in custody, the name of his employer attained.

Actual result: Definitely not as expected.

Part 1 of Honeypot

Give Up the Ghost* by cleo4u2, xantissa (oneshot | 19,518 | E) *graphic violence

They were happy together and the year had been good for them. They thought nothing could tear them apart. They were wrong.

Part 2 of Honeypot

i'm a believer (got a fever running through my bones) by voxofthevoid (oneshot | 16,742 | E)

Everyone knows Captain America is an alpha. His tragic romance with Howard Stark is as popular a topic for movies and academic papers as his exploits in the war. Sure, Stark never said a word, and he clearly moved on, given that Tony Stark is currently alive. But even now, people like to gossip in hushed whispers about how sad it is that Howard Stark passed away a mere two years before they found the good Captain in the ice.

Bucky gets it, alright? Alpha/omega is the norm. Matches sanctioned by god or whatever bullshit your conservative Christian sect of the day likes to ramble about. It’s the twenty-first century, and the world still runs on a maddening policy of straight until proven otherwise. Thing is, Bucky has most certainly proven otherwise and has been doing so since he was a wee alpha panting after some knothead or the other because being queer didn’t magically make him any less stupid than your average horny teenager.

Bucky’s an alpha, Bucky likes alphas, and he’d love nothing more than to climb Steve Rogers like a goddamn monkey bar.

- Steve meets Bucky on a flaming helicarrier. It’s not the most romantic first meeting, what with the Nazis and the bullet wounds, but they make it work.

the jackpot question by biblionerd07 (series, ongoing | 16,126 | G-T)

Steve needs a ride home for Christmas. Bucky needs a passenger.

Winter Gorgon* by Quarra (complete | 74,067 | E) *graphic violence

For as long as Steve could remember, all he ever wanted to do was what was right. So when he hears about his father's old regiment being held as POW's by the Nazis, he's determined to put what Doctor Erskine gave him to good use and goes AWOL to rescue them.

But the 107th isn't all he finds there. Deep in the labs is a very unusual prisoner; one with snakes in his hair and a mask nailed to his face. Despite the man's monstrous visage, Steve can't in good conscience leave him to the enemy. That one act of mercy will change his life, the course of the war, and even the future of the world.

#mod picks

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racetracked · 5 years

Text

Ease

I see a fair amount of Albert pining after Race who is with Spot, which is all fine and dandy, but I thought I’d switch it around for this one. Here’s Spot falling for Manhattan’s resident ray of light. Unedited so be forgiving.

Warnings: skip this one if unrequited love isn’t your thing, otherwise no

Ships: unrequited!Sprace, Ralbert (mentioned)

Word Count: 798

________

Spot smiled a private grin as he approached Sheepshead, happy to see a familiar head of blond curls hawking papers outside the track. Despite his tough exterior, Spot had grown rather fond of the Manhattan newsie, and though they weren’t exactly friends, the two had fallen into a companionable acquaintanceship over time.

“Hey, Race, how’s the headline?” he called, strolling up to greet him properly with a spit-shake and a clap on the back.

“Could be better, but you know what they say. Headlines don’t sell papes—”

“Newsies sell papes, yeah, yeah.” Spot couldn’t help but admire Race’s persistently sunny disposition, especially when he was finding himself more and more run down lately trying to keep order in Brooklyn.

Chatting with Race had become his only reprieve from carrying the banner and looking after the kids at the lodge. Truthfully, it was nice to talk to someone so far from it all, though Race no doubt had more than his share to deal with on the other side of the river. Somehow, Race made everything seem easier.

“So, Conlon, how can I help you?” The blond said with a decisive twinkle in his eye. God, those eyes, Spot could never get tired of those eyes, almost translucent blue and so honest and unguarded that Spot’s heart ached to meet his gaze with the same sort of open trust.

“No help, just . . . tell me something.” Spot could listen to Race talk until the sun went down, savoring the carefree optimism that seemed to spill from his lips. Race didn’t have it easy. No newsie did, and Spot knew that, but Race looked at the dull concrete streets like they shone when all Spot had ever seen was gray.

“Tell you something?” Race chuckled and propped himself against the exterior of a building. “‘Bout what?”

“You. Manhattan.” Spot answered before his brain could get the best of him. “Seems like I hardly know you.”

“Well,” Race paused, seemingly lost in thought, “My mom died when I was eight, and my dad was an ass, so I ran away. Ended up meeting Jack after almost a month of roughing it on the streets, and he brought me to the lodging house, showed me the ropes and whatnot. Uhhhh, I like playing cards, but the boys won’t put up bets anymore ‘cause I always win. What else? I mean, Manhattan, what can I say? It’s home. The boys are a family; hell, you know how it is. Sometimes there’s fighting and shit, but at the end of the day, we got each other’s backs. I remember this one time Albert showed up with a black eye and two cracked ribs, and let me tell you, I ain’t seen Jack boiling mad like that before or since. Course, I wanted to go with him to work over the guys who did it, but well, it was better for me to stay and keep old Albert company. He won’t admit to it too much, but he can’t be all brave and solitary all the time. He needs taking care of too. Kinda like you, really.” Race emerged from his reverie then to fix Spot with an odd look. “You got anyone looking after you, Spot?”

“You,” He wanted to say, but the word stuck in his throat. “Not, uhhh, not really.”

“That’s a damn shame then. Don’t know what I’d do without Albert fussing over me all the time. It makes things easy, y’know? Knowing someone’s there, that they’re keeping this candle burning for you in their heart and you’re doing the same for them.” When Spot met Race’s eyes, it was clear as daybreak, love, shining out for all to see, and Spot swore his heart thudded to a sudden stop in his chest to see Race looking at him like that. At him, yes, but not for him.

“So you and Albert are—”

“Together, yes.” Race’s voice sounded like music saying those words, as far as could be from Spot’s tight, timid question.

“Good, that’s good. I’m glad you have someone then.” Spot jolted upright then, afraid to release tears he didn’t know were inside him.“I should be getting back, gotta make sure the little ones get to bed and all.”

“Yeah, didn’t even realize it was getting dark.” Race said, stretching his back and letting out a yawn. Spot almost turned to leave, but Race caught him by the shoulder. “Hey, Spot? You’ll find someone. I know you will.”

Spot smiled almost mournfully, eyes shining under the streetlight, and he just shrugged, “Maybe.” Spot left then, not daring to look back at the blond standing there in the dim glow. Instead he trudged on, lamenting that love could make things so easy for Race and so much harder for himself.

#newsies #newsies fic #sprace #ralbert #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #this is my sort of peace offering

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vernonfielding · 5 years

Text

Life Writes Its Own Stories

Chapter 8! (And on AO3, of course.)

I came back from my trip a day early, so here we go again. I should be back to posting a chapter every other day from now to the end.

Amy woke to a face full of sunshine.

She squinted her eyes closed and groaned, burying her face in her pillow. Several thoughts came to her, one right after another: Her pillow smelled weird, her pillow felt weird, and she had not once in the three years she’d lived in her apartment woken up with the sun in her face. Amy blinked her eyes open and rolled onto her back, and the night washed over her again, every lovely bit of it. She smiled up at the ceiling over Jake’s bed and then turned and smiled at the man himself.

He was asleep, curled up on his side facing her. His hair was a fluffy mess. One hand was tucked under his pillow, the other folded into a loose fist. Amy remembered falling asleep with his arm around her waist, holding her to him, but they must have separated in the night and now she was happy to indulge in watching over him.

She’d noticed from the moment they met that he was attractive, but over all of their shared meals and late-night outings, she’d never really taken stock of him: his full lips, his sharply defined cheekbones that were so often disguised by a smile or laugh, the dimple in his chin and the single, perfect curl that dipped over his forehead. His face, normally so expressive, was smooth in sleep and she thought about tracing the line of his brow, the ridge of his nose, the curve of his jaw. She thought about kissing his eyelids and waking him up.

When Jake had kissed her that first time a few days ago, she’d been momentarily overpowered by a physical attraction to him – and that was all she had thought it was, a gut-deep desire for a man who was undeniably hot. So she’d pushed him away, because kissing (that would likely to lead to much more than kissing) was absolutely not okay between reporters and their sources. Intimacy of any sort led to bias and poor decision making; it turned journalism into a trade industry.

Amy’s guilt and shame had been so profound that night that she swore she’d been marked in some way, as though even strangers would see her failure written on her face. It occurred to her that they had practically been dating for weeks -- that even before he kissed her, before she kissed him back, she had crossed a line. She felt awful for herself, for having betrayed her own moral code, and she felt awful for Jake, whom she had obviously misled.

So it was a gift that the next several days flew by in a crush of anxiety and exhilaration as she finally put her article to bed. She had no time to dwell on her personal mistakes when she was arguing over headlines with Terry and Charles and writing and rewriting every photo caption and fact-checking every detail, from the numbers in her bar charts to the hyperlinks and hashtags they would use on social media. On Saturday she convinced Charles to print out page proofs so she could do one last edit of the printed version of her story, and she suggested word choice and grammar revisions until finally, when they were on the verge of what was sure to be an embarrassing slap-fight over an Oxford comma, Charles shoved her out the front doors and told her she needed to relax and let someone wash her hair.

“I have just the person in mind,” he called after her, as Amy stomped down the block.

She’d slept fitfully that night, waking up just about every hour to check her phone. At daybreak, a post from the Bulletin Twitter account went out. Her favorite brother sent her a congratulatory email that Amy read over a breakfast of plain toast because she couldn’t stomach anything else. By noon, the story was viral (at least locally – it was never going to make The Daily Show, Amy kept reminding herself).

When the mayor announced on Twitter that he was personally looking into the jail situation and linked to Amy’s story, she was stunned and elated. And she was blindsided by a wave of sadness: She missed Jake.

She missed his smile and the way his eyes went soft when she was talking about something personal. She missed the way he tugged at his hair when he was looking over the documents she’d asked him to read for her. She missed his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves and the way his one eyebrow quirked when he laughed.

She even missed the gummy worms he consumed by the handful when they were meeting at a bar and he got snacky while translating penal codes, and she missed the ketchup and orange soda stains on her documents, and she missed having to rearrange all of her papers when she got home because he never paid attention to her tabs.

She just missed him. And she missed sharing this success with him.

Later in the day, when Gina had texted that the newsroom was getting drinks and it was definitely not because of her story but because they were all bored, Amy had been sitting at her laptop with a dozen tabs open on her browser for essays on journalism ethics and dating sources. She’d joined them for drinks because it seemed pathetic not to, and she’d been honestly touched by their support. But she’d also been miserable, because all she could think was that she’d messed up everything. Her life was amazing, and she’d screwed it all up.

Then Jake had texted. Just seeing his dumb code name appear on her screen had made her heart leap into her throat, and she’d known then that she couldn’t let him go. She had to at least see him, and try.

Now, she really did have it all. And lying in his bed, with the sun in her face and the smell of him in her (his) pillow, she felt content to just be. So she stared at him for a while, until the sun had shifted enough that it was blocked by the partly drawn curtains, and it dawned on her – so to speak – that she couldn’t remember if she’d set her alarm and she had no idea what time it was. She panicked for just a moment and quickly rolled over, hand slapping on the bedside table for her phone. She squinted at it – her contact lenses felt glued to her eyeballs – and sighed when she saw that she was only five minutes past her alarm.

Of course, she was going to need to go home and shower before going into work, and she’d wanted to go in early so she could check in with Terry and Holt before heading to Manhattan for the NPR interview, and she obviously hadn’t laid out her clothes the night before or set the timer on her coffeemaker.

Amy glanced at her phone again and did some quick math and decided that if she skipped coffee and didn’t wash her hair – it was just radio, it wasn’t like she had to look great – and planned her outfit on the way to her apartment then she could save six minutes, which still wasn’t ideal but she could make it work.

But then she glanced back at Jake, and the sudden pulse of affection for him pushed everything else aside. She could be a little late. She kissed his forehead, just beneath the curl, and each of his eyelids, and she covered his hand with her own as he blinked his eyes open and smiled back at her.

+++

Amy ended up texting Terry to tell him she was going straight into the city for her interview and he said that was fine. She didn’t get into the newsroom until noon, and by then she was famished and caffeine-deprived and still practically vibrating with joy. Her story had been a huge success and she had kissed the man she really, really liked and she’d had sex – three times! – the night before. The fact that they hadn’t fallen asleep until nearly 3 a.m. – because: three times – wasn’t a problem. Amy felt like she might never need to sleep again.

She spent the day working on a follow-up story around the mayor’s plan to investigate the jail recordings. She also fielded several unpleasant phone calls from the head of the corrections department and his deputies, until one of them demanded a full retraction and she finally had to pass them on to Terry and Holt to deal with, which was fine by her. They both had her back, and she’d never doubted they would, but it was still nice to be supported. So nice, actually, that by the end of the day, as Terry was editing her story, she started feeling guilty again.

“I have to tell you something,” Amy said, or rather blurted, when Terry had finished editing. It was 6 p.m. and it had been a pretty slow day so the newsroom was mostly cleared out; only Hitchcock was left, and he had his head pillowed on his arms at his desk and was snoring.

“Terry doesn’t love the sound of that,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “Oh man, are you quitting? You’re going to the Times already? I thought we’d get at least another year out of you.”

“No!” Amy said, then, “Wait, what? You think I’ll be at the Times in a year?”

“Uh-”

“Wow.” Amy tried to think of a more appropriate response. “That’s- wow.”

She sort of spaced out for a moment, until Terry cleared his throat and said, “You had something to tell me?”

“Oh, right. I did.” Amy shook herself out of her Times fantasy and reminded herself of the task at hand. Immediately, nerves made her stomach flutter and her palms sweat.

She’d considered waiting a while to tell her bosses about Jake, just long enough for them to actually start dating and see where things were headed. But that was her fear speaking, and she knew she had to do what was right. She swallowed hard, working up the courage to tell Terry. She really liked her job, and she was pretty sure they weren’t going to fire her but they were almost definitely going to make her change beats, which was going to be disappointing. But she had to be up front with them.

“Santiago-”

“I’m boinking my source!”

It came out as a sort of squeak-yell and Amy was glad no one else was around to hear her.

“Um, I mean, I’m dating him. Well, I guess not technically dating yet, but sleeping with him. You know, like-” She mashed her hands together in a movement that definitely didn’t connote sex, unless it was really bad sex.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got it,” Terry said, sounding both perplexed and slightly amused. “Well, this is...something that we need to talk to Holt about.”

Terry stood up and peered around her at Holt’s office.

“Now?” Amy felt suddenly like she might faint.

“It’s as good a time as any,” Terry said. He gently took Amy’s elbow and steered her across the newsroom. “He’s thrilled with your article and the response it’s gotten.”

“He is?” Amy said, pride pushing aside her nerves for a moment. “I mean, I knew he was pleased, but thrilled? Did he say that? Or are you just inferring? Because if he said that-”

“I can just tell,” Terry said. He paused outside Holt’s open office door. “Just be honest with him. And don’t say ‘boinking.’”

“Roger that.”

Terry tapped on the door before leading Amy inside. He asked if Holt was busy, and Holt said, “I’m always busy,” but he put down his pencil and invited them to sit.

Somehow, Amy pulled herself together. She explained, calmly, that she had developed feelings for someone who used to be a source, and that they had decided to start dating. She said that she had already informed him that she would no longer be able to use him as a source, and that if he told her anything newsworthy she would pass it on to one of her colleagues. She expressed that she wanted to keep covering the police beat, but she would understand if they didn’t trust her in that position anymore, and she would happily accept any new assignment they offered. When she was done, she folded her hands in her lap and squared her shoulders and forced herself not to think about what would happen if they fired her.

“I see,” Holt said, with no inflection that Amy could discern. “Well, it would seem as though you’ve taken the necessary precautions and insulated yourself from potential bias as well as possible. I see no reason you cannot remain on the police beat, for now. But note, I will be paying close attention, as will Terry, and if one of us believes you are compromised we will take action.”

Amy blinked, stunned that she was going to be allowed to keep covering cops. She smiled and nodded sharply, then stood up and stuck out her hand. Holt looked at her outstretched hand for a moment and then smiled a little and shook it. His grip was firm, and so was hers.

“I promise I won’t let you down, sir,” Amy said.

She turned and strode out of his office. She was just outside the door when she heard Holt say, “She knows she doesn’t have to call me ‘sir,’ right?”

“I don’t think so,” said Terry.

+++

Jake was pleased for Amy that her conversation about dating a cop had gone over so well with her bosses. It clearly helped ease her mind to have their blessing – or at least their not-firing – and that was great, he wanted her to be as relaxed and stress-free and not-guilty as possible when it came to being with him.

But there was no universe in which he was planning to similarly come out to the Vulture, or just about anyone else in the NYPD. He’d probably tell Rosa at some point – maybe, eventually; most likely after she figured it out on her own and forced it out of him – and it wasn’t like he expected to sneak around with Amy for the foreseeable future. He just would rather keep it between them (and Amy’s bosses) for the moment.

He was still in awe that there even was a them.

Jake knew he didn’t have much of a tolerance for wide-swinging emotions. In fact, his grasp on his own emotional health was at times staggeringly bad. He did a decent job keeping his feelings under control day to day – denial and compartmentalization were his go-to coping mechanisms and he excelled at both (thanks, Roger Peralta) – but when strong emotions hit, they hit hard.

Once, during a department-mandated therapy session after a lengthy undercover stint, a counselor had told Jake that he’d benefit from developing a toolbox of decompressing strategies for when things got rough. For some reason Jake had found the suggestion hilarious, imagining a literal toolbox filled with hammers and wrenches and pliers. When he’d mentioned it to Rosa, she’d said that bashing things with tools was exactly what she did when she was angry – that or glass-blowing – and Jake had actually bought a toolbox online that day. It was currently collecting dust in the back of his sneaker closet.

So yeah, he wasn’t great with emotions. And the past few days had involved a dizzying array of them. After the depressing lows that had followed their first kiss, the pure elation of their second kiss had been almost overwhelming. Jake had felt lighter and happier the next day than he could ever remember. He’d also felt exhausted, though it was a satisfied, dreamy, peaceful kind of fatigue.

They’d seen each other again that night, and every night after for the rest of the week, and though they’d had sex they hadn’t actually slept together again. They’d ordered takeout and turned on a movie and basically made out (and more) on his or her sofa until one of them yawned and they agreed it was late and they both had to get up early. It was kind of perfect.

Amy was kind of perfect.

But by Friday Jake had decided they needed a proper date, and so he chose a restaurant and made a reservation and texted Amy that he’d pick her up at 7. Then he and Rosa got called to a dead body, and a suspect in an unrelated robbery case they’d been working for two weeks had literally tripped over their crime scene, and by 6 Jake was covered in blood and subway muck and still had a report to finish. He texted Amy to tell her he’d meet her at the restaurant.

Which was how he arrived at their first official date almost half an hour late, hair still damp from the shower, fumbling the knot of his necktie as he pushed through the crowded foyer to the host station.

“What happened to your face?” Amy said, when he got to her side.

“What?”

Amy brushed her fingers over her own cheek and Jake did the same, wincing when he touched the small cut. “Oh, that.”

The host came then and glared a lot, but he took them to a table despite Jake’s tardiness. It was an intimate restaurant, quiet and dark with small tables clustered close together. The host handed them menus with a sneer that Jake had to believe was not in the employee handbook.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jake said, once they were seated.

Amy smiled back at him and shrugged. “I get the feeling it’s something I’m going to get used to.”

“You look nice,” he said. “I like the dress.”

“It’s not a dress, it’s a skirt and blouse,” Amy said, and then grimaced. “But, thank you. You look nice too. I’ve never seen you in a tie before.”

Jake ducked his head and ran a hand self-consciously over the wrinkled necktie. He’d only had time for about a two-minute shower at the precinct before coming straight to the restaurant. He was just lucky he always kept a spare tie and a semi-clean shirt shoved in the back of his desk for emergency court dates.

“So what happened today?” Amy gestured again to his face.

“It’s actually an insane story.”

“Wait!” Amy said, holding up a hand. “Like, the kind of insane I’d want to write an article about? Or insane like, your job is disgusting and/or hilarious but not fit for print?”

“Definitely the latter,” Jake said.

“Go on, then.” Amy leaned toward him, resting her chin in her hand.

“So Rosa and I got called to a dead body on the subway tracks near Bergen. But when we get there, the dead body’s actually a dog, and it’s been turned inside-out. Like, nose to tail. And the smell-”

Jake paused because Amy was shooting him a wide-eyed warning glare and darting her eyes back and forth. He looked to either side and saw that their dining neighbors were staring at him with looks of utter horror. The woman to his left set her utensils on the table and shoved her plate away.

“Uh, I’ll tell you the rest later,” Jake said.

“I think that would be best.”

They exchanged embarrassed smiles, and Jake said, “Well, what about you? How was your day?”

“Pretty good, actually,” Amy said. “It’s nice being back on the regular police beat after all that time on the jail story. Like today, I got to do this story on a severed head-”

“Oh! The one they found in the fish tank?”

“Yes!” Amy said. “You know about that case? It’s so crazy.”

“So crazy!” Jake said. “You should see the photos.”

Jake was reaching for his cell phone in his jacket pocket when he spotted the same lady on his left staring at him with murder in her eyes. He glanced back at Amy, who was getting the same death glare from a different diner.

“Maybe later,” Amy said weakly.

They turned to their menus then, each fairly mortified. After they’d ordered, Jake grasped for a more appropriate topic, and finally asked Amy to tell him more about some of her coworkers.

“I’m always going on about the Vulture,” he said. “What’s your boss like?”

“Oh god, nothing like Pembroke,” Amy said. “Terry, he’s my regular editor, he’s really gentle and supportive but he knows how to get the best out of you. And Holt is incredible. He’s so smart and ethical and detail-oriented, and he has impeccable news judgment. He’s the most impressive man I’ve ever met.”

“So, what you’re saying is I should be jealous of your editor.” Jake smirked at her.

Amy turned red and said, “No! He’s great but he’s not- I mean, I love Holt, but I’m not in love with him.”

Jake fully laughed, and it occurred to him that his maybe-girlfriend was not exactly suave and that he maybe found that adorable.

Amy waited out his laughter with only a mild look of annoyance, then asked Jake to tell her more about Rosa. “Police partnerships must be so intense. I bet you know everything about each other.”

“I know her first and last name and that she lives somewhere in Brooklyn,” Jake said. He hesitated and thought that over. “Probably.”

“Oh,” Amy said, face falling. The waiter arrived then with their dinner salads, and Amy leaned toward him and said, in a low voice, “Jake, are we bad at this?”

He didn’t respond right away. Things were undeniably weird. And he supposed some of that was to be expected, given that they’d always had a kind of invisible barrier between them when they’d met in public – a professional line they couldn’t cross. He snapped his fingers then, startling Amy into dropping her fork.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “I think things were easy before because we were always surrounded by all your notes and binders, and they were like, I don’t know, a fortress keeping out the weird.”

“Okay,” Amy said, slowly. “So you need me to bring binders next time? Because I can do that.”

“No,” Jake said, shaking his head. “Not binders – liquor.”

“What?”

“Conversation grease,” he said, lifting a hand to get their waiter’s attention. “Four shots of-” He glanced at Amy, who shrugged. “Your medium-est shelf whiskey.”

+++

They stumbled back to Amy’s place from the restaurant, both of them a pleasant sort of tipsy that was warm and giggly and affectionate, Jake’s arm slung around Amy’s shoulders, her fingers tucked into the back of his belt. When she let them inside, Jake backed her into the wall beside her front door and kissed her, clumsy and teasing. She fisted his tie in one hand to pull him closer and felt him smile against her lips.

“You,” she said, tipping her head back to speak, “are an amazing detective.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I know,” he said, “but maybe be more specific?”

“The way you figured out why things were weird and then fixed it,” Amy said, and she cupped a hand over the back of his neck and pulled him toward her again, lips brushing against his. “That was brilliant.”

“Dear lord, you are good at this,” Jake said.

Then they stopped talking for a while. Jake took her hand and led them back to her bedroom, where he gently pushed her onto the bed and sprawled out beside her, and they undressed each other slowly and had sex on top of the bedspread, their bodies illuminated by the light coming from the hallway and the streetlamps outside her windows. After, Jake pulled the quilt she kept folded at the end of the bed up over them, and they laid facing each other, arms tucked under their heads.

“You never told me where you got this,” Amy said, brushing her fingertips against the shallow cut on his cheek.

He wrapped his hand around hers and kissed her fingers, one at a time, before answering.

“This robbery suspect Rosa and I had been looking for, he showed up at the dog-body crime scene, like out of nowhere. I think he was just going to get the train. He freaked out when he saw us and took off down the subway tracks, we pursued, and when I took him down we sort of scuffled and I guess he got in a hit or two.” Jake shrugged. “I didn’t even know he’d hit me until we got back on the platform and Rosa said something. I was way more focused on the fact that I was covered in subway slime.”

Amy shuddered at the thought. “I hope you’re up to date on your vaccines. I bet you can get diseases you’ve never even heard of from subway slime.”

“Or, if you want to look on the bright side, maybe I could become a slime monster. Oh! Like the Swamp Thing, only the Subway Thing.” Jake paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “That’d be so dope.”

“Didn’t you ever think it was lame that the Swamp Thing was just a ‘thing,’” Amy said. “Like, they couldn’t come up with a better description?”

“I had never thought that before, but I love the way your mind works,” Jake said. Amy smiled, and he smiled back and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

They grew quiet, and Jake traced patterns across her shoulder and down her arm with his fingers, whorls and lines that made her shiver. Amy studied his face and marveled at the closeness they seemed to have developed, despite knowing not a lot about one another.

Amy had been in relationships, two or three serious ones, but they’d always just fizzled out, whatever small spark that got them started snuffed at the smallest huff of irritation. What Amy felt for Jake, after only knowing him for a few weeks, already seemed more vibrant, more durable.

“Did I ever tell you my dad was a cop?” Amy said, soft in the darkness.

Jake’s fingers paused on her skin, and he laid his palm flat on her shoulder instead. “No, you’ve never mentioned him.”

“He retired a few years ago. Victor Santiago.”

Jake’s eyes went wide, and his hand squeezed around her bicep. “Captain Victor Santiago? He’s your dad?”

Amy beamed and nodded. “You know him?”

“I know of him. He’s a legend, Amy,” Jake said. “Oh wait, wow, so Manny and Jesus are your brothers?”

“They’re cops too, yes,” Amy said. “And Tony.”

“Yeah, Tony. He’s kind of a dick.” Jake grimaced. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. He is a dick.”

Jake chuckled, and shook his head slowly. “Wow, I can’t believe you’re one of those Santiagos. It never even occurred to me.”

“I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” Amy said.

Jake caught her eye, and he moved his hand to the back of her head and pulled her toward him, his mouth close enough that she could feel his warm breath on her lips.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

Amy kissed him, hard enough to leave him breathless. “Later,” she said, and rolled on top of him.

CHAPTER 9

#b99 fic #peraltiago #jake and amy au #newspaper au #life writes its own stories

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phrynewrites · 5 years

Photo

Daybreak over Manhattan

“Scarlet was quite endearing, and something she could get used to every day, she decided, walking past the window on her way to work, stealing another glance at Scarlet, only to find her waving goodbye, her fingers fluttering away.”

Look out for my new scyvie fic—a classic coffee shop au— tonight on AQ. Or, read now on AO3.

#rpdr fanfiction #scarlet envy #yvie oddly #brooke lynn hytes #silky nutmeg ganache #scyvie #coffee shop au #starbucks au #phryne #phrynewrites #phryneff #daybreak over manhattan #concrit welcome #ao3 link #one shot #lesbian au

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artificialqueens · 5 years

Text

Queue

drawing new lines, chapter one

Somebody I Can Miss (Katianna) ~ Mistress

Daybreak over Manhattan (Scyvie) - Phryne

Meteor (Bitney/Galactica AU) - TheDane/Veronica [AO3]

#queue

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canaryrecords · 6 years

Link

Very little is known about Virginia Magidou. Her name appears on no public records that I have been able to locate, and I have assumed for years that it is a stage name. The Greek music and dance expert Joseph Graziosi has suggested that her last name is, in fact, Μαγκιδης, a name not uncommon in the Marmara region of north-western Turkey. We know that she sang on about 28 Greek-language sides and 2 Turkish sides for the Metropolitan and Kaliphon labels (as well as a few sides on a related label named for her) in New York City in the mid-1940s, accompanied by violinist Nicola Doneff .(b. 1891, Dichin, Bulgaria), guitarist George Katsaros (b. 1888 Amorgos, Greece; d. 1997, Tarpon Springs, Florida), accordionist John Gianaros (b. 1904 on a boat en route to Pireus, Greece; d. 1998, Tarpon Springs, Florida) , oudist Marko Melkon (b. 1895, Smyrna, Turkey ; d. 1963 in New York), clarinetist Coastas Gadinis (b. 1890, Macedonia), kanunist Garbis Bakirgian (b. 1884; d. 1969, San Fernando, California), and others of the social circle . She appeared as an accompanying vocalist on a few other sides by Tasos Eleftheriadis. From the few photos that we have of her, and the circumstantial evidence of her peer group, we can guess that she was born roughly 1890-1900. The majority of the information that we have about her comes from a seven-minute segment of the three and a half hours of interviews that Steve Frangos conducted with John Gianaros on November 17,1986 (available on the Florida Memory state archives site at: www.floridamemory.com/items/show/236618 ). In that interview, Gianaros gives a number of interesting memories of Virginia Magidou, of whom he is clearly deeply fond as a person and for whom he has deep respect as a performer, saying emphatically, “she was the best singer in New York! She was the top singer. in Turkish.” Gianaros says that she lived on 8th Avenue in Manhattan between 28th and 29th Streets (less than a block from the Port Said club where Nick Doneff, Mary Vartanian, Marko Melkon, etc. often played). He says she often performed with the Greek singer and record producer Koula Antonopoulos. He says that Magidou’s father was Armenian and mother was Greek, that she sang not only in Turkish and Greek but also Armenian and Bulgarian, and that she was married twice – first to a Cypriot sailor named Tony (he gives no last name.) and later to an unnamed American. Asked if she was still alive at the time (in 1986), Gianaros asserts that she was but that she was blind, offering an anecdote on her recording habits as the cause of her blindness: "I’ll tell you how she got blind. Any time it was to go into the studio for her to sing, he [the studio owner, an Austrian violinist] use to bring a gallon ouzo. Now the men who was in the machine there and his wife, they started laughing. […] Because Virginia, if she didn’t drink the half gallon, she couldn’t sing. She have to drink a half-gallon and then to start singing! They used to tell her, 'Virginia, did you leave anything for us?' She say, 'I left you half-gallon,' and she would start singing. That’s right! Half-gallon! And that thing was going six, seven times a year." Ouzo is produced at an alcohol content level of about 50%, although it is often drunk watered. If she drank it unwatered, it would be roughly the equivalent of drinking about a quart of bourbon or a gallon of wine. That level of drinking could certainly have lead over time to macular degeneration. It may well also have gone some way toward explaining why a singer who was held in such high regard recorded so little, particularly during the 1920s when her contemporaries Koula Antonopoulos, Marika Papagika, and Amalia Bakas were all recording prolifically. Asked by Frangos about her character, Gianaros raved: “She was the best humor person! She… how can I tell you? If she knew it that you need help, she could put up her pantalones and sell it to give you the money. That kind of person.” “Mortissa Gennetheka” (originally recorded by Rosa Eskenazi, translation by Bobby Damore) Aaach, I was born a tough chick, I’ll die a tough chick Because I didn’t find more beauty to make of this life. I like the tough life, and if I’m lucky I’ll be rich. In this lying world, I’ll live even tougher. Chrous: Bring santouris and violins, ouzo to get drunk. This false world, I just want to party in it. Aaach, I would like to have a man who feels, a tough guy, or gangster. To be the love of the crazy guys who are a little troublesome, That’s how I like the men who feel, and if I’m lucky I’ll love one. In a tough guy’s lips, my eyes will close. "Tsiapkina Amerikana” (translation by Geroge Sempepos) I spend the night straight through daybreak with the American chick She's stolen my mind, that super-fine beautiful lady Chorus: Stop already, with your frustrating carrying on with the cabbies Stop already carrying on with the good-looking sailors. You mess with the cabbies who come down from Athens You also mess with all the young guys who come down to drink retsina My Amerikana tsakpina, come to your senses And don't force me to become a murderer in your neighborhood!

#rebetika #Greek #immigrant #78rpm #78 rpm

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 7 years

Text

Safe with me (5)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Descriptions of stalking. People being shitty to Bucky Barnes (fight me).

A/N: My knowledge of trial procedure is based on reruns of Law and Order, so I’m probably taking some liberties. Just go with it. Canonically, Senator Stern does not have a first name, so I made one up. Also, Bucky wears suits like Harvey Specter, that’s simple fact. This chapter is more serious, and someone else gets protective.

SORRY FRIENDS, TAGS FOR THE STORY ARE CLOSED.

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

Shaky hands flip open a little blue bottle, and he pulls out a small yellow pill. Setting it on the tip of his tongue, he closes his eyes as it dissolves. His body reacts quickly to the drug, a feeling of melting wax dripped across his skin, splotches of burning heat followed by velvety ice. The ‘oblivion’ is a tangible object as it pours over him, rushing from the tips of his fingers to his ends of his toes.

Ready, ready, ready. Ready to comply.

He opens his eyes and picks up the paper, folding it into a perfect rectangle.

He has a letter to deliver.

*****

Lost in thought, you stare out the window, contemplating the steady fall of rain. The city was a watercolor painting against the night sky, a canvas smeared with blurry oranges and yellows, the sharp angles of skyscrapers reduced to soft black smudges. Lightning flashed and flickered, illuminating the dark apartment, and the crash of thunder follows instantaneously. It reverberates through the bones of Manhattan, steel and metal and concrete, rattling your thoughts. Your brain nudges you again, remembering yesterday's conversation.

*****

Jack is waiting next to your desk when you return from lunch, an expectant look on his face. Wordlessly, he hands over three thick files.

"All the back-up was emailed as well, but I know you like hard copies. I want short summaries posted to the 'Political Fast Facts' section every evening, and a feature-length story for the Sunday edition. Send everything direct to me for edit and review."

Pinching your bottom lip, you nod briskly. He notices the dismal expression.

"Did you try talking to him?"

"I did."

"Then I take it he won't budge?"

"No. He won't."

"It's his decision, you know that. He's a professional. He won't let his personal feelings get in the way."

*****

Hugging the steaming cup of pre-dawn coffee close to your chest, the heat of the ceramic mug seeps through the thin fabric of your shirt, warming your skin. Taking a small sip, you glance back to the red notebook sitting open on the coffee table, the creamy white sheets blank. Yesterday's lunch conversation with him replays again, vividly fresh.

*****

Digging two sodas from a paper bag, Bucky hands you a diet Coke and sets his Dr. Pepper on the bench.

"I don't understand why you drink diet Coke, it's shit."

"Because I like the taste, asshat."

"It's gross."

"Your face is gross."

He grins and snaps the tab on his soda, continuing picking up his ongoing stream of instruction. "Fair enough. Anyway, I'll pick you up at 6:30, I want to miss the morning rush. Make sure you're ready."

Rubbing your finger along the edge of the soda can, you stay quiet. Knowing him for several weeks now, there hasn't been a single thing you've been afraid to say. Until now. He realizes something's wrong, and he goes still, waiting patiently for you to speak. Lifting nervous eyes to his face, you force the words out in a rush.

"Hey, so listen."

Bucky tenses immediately, setting down the soda can and shaking his head. "No."

"Bucky stop, just listen for a minute."

"No."

"You stubborn dick, can you just let me get this out? Just - just let me go into the trial alone. It's ridiculous for you to sit in that courtroom and re-live this shit," you argue heatedly. "It's okay, alright? I'll be okay. You can wait right outside the door, less than 20 feet away. Just because you're not sitting with me, doesn't mean you're not doing your job. It's okay Bucky, really. I don't mind."

"No."

At the defiant clench of his jaw, you want to stamp your feet. Nothing about this response is surprising, but you try one final time. "For the first time in my life, I'm not trying to be a pain in your ass Bucky, I swear. I just don't want to make you uncomfortable. That's all I'm saying."

Calm, unwavering determination burns in his eyes. "I knew this was part of the deal before I signed up. I did it anyway. I appreciate your concern, I really do. But you don't need to protect me, that's my job. I'm coming. Where you go, I go."

*****

Former Senator Garrison Stern's trial begins this morning, and the arrival comes with a startling awareness. Bucky is the most solid, reliable, comforting presence you've allowed in your life for years, and while the verbal battles that make up your daily exchange are entertaining, you would never, ever willingly hurt him.

It was bad enough that you were there, listening and re-living.

That he disagreed was no surprise. Bucky Barnes would take that crushing sense of duty and sacrifice to the grave.

*****

The rain mercifully ends at daybreak, sunlight filtering through the clouds in streaks of gold to chase away the gloom. Bucky texts his arrival at 6:25, so you gather your bag, zip your boots, and head down to face the day.

Walking into the damp morning air, you find him facing east, hands in his pockets as he watches the rising sun creep through the streets. When he turns to greet you, the sight momentarily stuns. Gone is the beat-up leather jacket and jeans, replaced with an impeccably tailored dark blue suit, French cuffs crisply white, a grey silk tie in a thick Windsor knot at his neck.

He looks completely, totally, and utterly unfair.

When you speak, the greeting comes out a squeak that sounds irritatingly breathless. "Good morning. You – clean up okay."

"Good morning," he responds, a smile curving his lips. "Was that my compliment for today?"

Precariously off balance, you slip into defensive mode while you recalibrate. "Yes. Did you need something more? Is that not good enough?"

"No, I don't think so. You're a writer, you have a big vocabulary. You can do better," he says seriously. Opening the backdoor to the black Mercedes parked at the curb, he motions you inside. You slide into the backseat with a huff, but not before pinching his arm in retaliation.

He shuts the door and laughs.

*****

The crowd is only beginning to gather when you arrive at the courthouse, allowing you to reach the top of the steep stairs with ease. Leaning against the white marble pillars, you dig through your bag for the envelope containing your two ID badges. Handing Bucky his plastic pass, you slip a white lanyard over your neck, adjusting the name-tag carefully. After all this time, it still gives you a little thrill seeing your name with 'New York Times, Journalist' printed below.

Bucky drops his around his neck without another thought and returns to scanning the bodies loitering on the steps. Giving his sleeve a small tug, he looks down and you point at the badge with raised eyebrows. "I had that one printed special for you, least you can do is say thanks."

He looks at you in confusion, before squinting down at the tag. It takes him a moment, but then he snorts.

Sergeant James Barnes

SHIELD, Winter Fucking Soldier

"You're an idiot," he chuckles.

"Um, you're fucking welcome," you answer in mock outrage.

His grin slowly fades into one of genuine sincerity. "Thank you. I mean it. Just what I needed today."

Giving him an encouraging smile, you turn to go inside. Squaring his shoulders, Bucky lifts his eyes to the sky, hesitating for the briefest pause. Collecting himself, he fixes his lips into his trademark sneer, adds a little 'murder strut pep' to his step, and follows you in.

Winter Fucking Soldier indeed.

*****

WEDNESDAY, DAY 1 Former Pennsylvania Senator Garrison Stern's trial began today, the last in a series of revolutionary court cases accusing three of the most influential and popular members of Congress with terrorism. Mr. Stern, who was exposed in the aftermath of SHIELD's global data release, faces an impressive number of crimes, the extravagance and cruelty of which was previously seen on the infamous list of crimes posthumously linked to Secretary Alexander Pierce. Pierce, who was shot dead during –

NYTimes Online; "Political Fast Facts: Garrison Stern's trial kicks off"

*****

Access to the trial was granted to only a handful of journalists and you're pleased with the invite. Bucky follows you into the courtroom, giving a grunt of disapproval when he finds the seating assignments. Ignoring the two allocated for you, he swaps the name cards with two seats near the exit and waits while you get settled, his eyes sweeping slowly through the courtroom.

You don't need to ask.

Door to the Judge's chambers directly behind the bench, prisoner holding cells to the right. Heavy wood tables for the Prosecution and Defense teams holding three people each, one exit at the rear. No windows.

Just in case.

Long minutes tick by as you let him think, spinning your pen anxiously between your fingers, before clearing your throat quietly. Bucky recognizes the request for attention and glances down inquiringly. Your eyes stay glued to the floor.

"The trial should be fast. Less than a week. There's so much evidence, this is really a formality."

He doesn't reply. When you finally meet his gaze, he gives a short nod, his face calm. With one final look around the room, he moves to sit carefully beside you, folding his hands in his lap and settling into an unnerving stillness.

Here is a fact. Stern was never involved with the Winter Soldier in the same way as Alexander Pierce. He was a tertiary commander, never given direct access to, or command of, the Soldier.

Here is another fact. Nuance is unimportant. Even in a limited capacity, he held control over the Soldier's fate, and with that simple fact, Bucky knows a fierce desire to see this end. Alexander Pierce's death came far too easy, so watching Garrison Stern slowly crack and crumble and bleed out his last bit of sanity? Well. That somewhat assuages the blinding desire for revenge.

When the teams file in, Bucky's fingers begin to twitch.

Stern looks like hell, and my god, does that make you happy. His suit hangs loose, curly brown hair thin and streaked with grey. Before he collapses in his assigned chair, he chances a glance to the gallery and you watch his eyes skip past you, before snapping back in surprise. When he spots Bucky at your side, he seems bemused by the connection, until the strangest look takes over his face.

And then his lawyer is whispering in his ear, forcing him into a chair, and he turns forward, hands clasped loosely on the wide table. A hush falls over the room, broken only by the sounds of terse whispers and rustling papers.

"All rise," the Bailiff's voice rings through the courtroom and your legs are moving automatically, lifting you to your feet as the Judge enters, Bucky rising stiffly at your side.

And so, it begins.

There's a clean white sheet of paper in front of the Judge, the neat rows of black print perfectly identical to the one in your hand. When she reads down the list of charges, you follow along, heart hammering when she hits two in particular.

"The Defendant is being charged with the following crimes: contempt of court; treason against the United States government; crimes against humanity, including the use of Weapons of Mass Destruction, forced disappearances of federal officials, torture, and unethical human experimentation; War Crimes including strategic bombing of civilian populations, and the capture and murder of hostages."

Absolute silence follows the Judge's statement, letting the audience absorb the drama of the words, and in mirror movements, you and Bucky look to each other. The heaviness of the days to come presses down already.

*****

THURSDAY, DAY 2 Every single member of the jury turned away in disgust when the photographs landed in their hands. Images of broken children, innocence in the face of Hydra's bloodlust and fanaticism, stood in stark relief to the look of utter boredom locked on Garrison Stern's face.

NYTimes Online; "Political Fast Facts: Kazakhstan and the lost seven"

*****

The Prosecutor selects a collection of photographs, sifting through as he walks deliberately to the jury box. Placing them into random hands, he waits to speak and is rewarded with a series of quiet gasps, as the men and women view the pictures.

"Two doctors were recruited at Mr. Stern's request, for research into the properties of Abraham Erskine's 'Super-Soldier Serum', most commonly known as serum successfully implemented in partnership with Captain Steven G. Rogers in 1943. Decrypted email correspondence shows Mr. Stern authorised the kidnapping of children in northern Kazakhstan for human experimentation and approved the wire-transfer of funds to the doctors hired to perform the procedure. The photographs in your hands show what was done to the children at Mr. Stern's request."

He stops again, lets the photos move through the jury's hands, before continuing.

"Statements were given by Sergeant James Barnes, who discovered the base and attempted to rescue the children, and by Dr. Bruce Banner, who later performed the autopsies. I'd like to read a summary of Sergeant Barnes' mission report as you look at these."

There's a twist in your stomach when he begins the familiar story. Each individual in the courtroom shifts in their seat, stealing a covert look at Bucky, who stares straight ahead, his expression blank. You only realise the impact when you see the light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

MISSION REPORT: Recon and extraction, former Hydra base in northern Kazakhstan Written by Sgt J.B. Barnes at request of N.J. Fury

After infiltrating the base, I found seven concrete cells on the lowest level. Inside were four dead bodies, each lying on their back, faces covered in dried blood, indicating they had been there for some time. Further in the base, I found an occupied laboratory, where three remaining children, two males and one female, were strapped to metal tables. Doctors were performing tests on them, specifically cutting open their arms and injecting green fluid under their skin.

After neutralising the threat, I carried the remaining three children from the base, but none survived. All three collapsed within ten minutes of leaving the facility; I attempted CPR, but was unable to revive any of them. Speaking later with Dr. Banner, he concluded the children died from a combination of asphyxiation and internal burns.

Bucky still sits unmoving next to you, betraying nothing.

If you live to be a hundred, you'll never forget this story. His mission report is a simple set of facts, devoid of the heart-breaking colour and emotion that filled his original words and you realise with a pang that he shared that version with you and you alone.

Intensive debates and discussions follow. Questions are posed, answers reluctantly given. Nerves are stretched taut when the Judge finally orders a midday recess. Notebooks pop when they snap shut, chairs squeak as occupants move, and the hum of muted voices rises.

This situation is so ridiculous. You hate that he has to sit here and listen to this garbage. Licking your lips, you search for something to say, but the words that come feel overcooked and inauthentic, and you cringe when they leave your lips.

"I'm so sorry Bucky, I know that must have been hard, I really don't mind if you wait outside – "

"No," Bucky mutters, stopping you with a frustrated shake of his head. "Don't, please. I mean it. I like it much better when you're fired up at me, I don't want pity."

"Fine," you scowl, anger at his obstinacy flaring white-hot. "Fine. Then how's this? You're being a stupid, pig-headed, god damn chucklefuck, and I'd really like to punch you in your stubborn teeth. Does that work?"

"Yeah," he sighs with relief, leaning back against the seat. "Yeah, that's perfect."

*****

Dusk is falling when you leave the courthouse. A group of reporters are congregating at the bottom of the steps, when they spy Bucky behind you. There's a sudden burst of shouting, and the group swarms, questions flying from every direction.

"Sergeant Barnes, will you take the stand as a witness?"

"Do you remember meeting with Mr. Stern while you were with Hydra?"

"How do you respond to those people saying you should be locked up as well?"

After everything he sat through today, everything he heard, everything he's dealt with, the last question goes too far. Feeling fighty as fuck, you whirl toward the voice in fury, but a hand locks tight on your arm.

"Don't," comes Bucky's voice, sharp and low in your ear. Looking up in disbelief, you want to demand why the hell not, when he answers in a flat voice. "It's never worth it."

You simply stare at him, wondering how he can let this shit roll off, because it's so fucking unfair, you can barely see straight. But he doesn't say a word. Instead, he wraps his right arm protectively around your shoulders, holds his silver hand ahead to clear a path, and pulls you along. His mouth is set in a grim line, ignoring every question flung his way.

You let yourself be pulled against the stream, moving swiftly. Until Bucky strangely stumbles.

He seems confused when he looks over his shoulder, eyes flickering across the mass of shouting voices. There are too many people, too loud, too close and the strange scent comes from nowhere. Bucky feels his lips pucker automatically when the tart, tangy flavor of lemons assails his senses.

He peers down, but you look back questioningly. The smell is so strong he can feel it in his chest, achingly familiar, there's something about it, something important? The idea dances through his brain, refusing to settle and let him consider it further. He rubs his forehead, trying to concentrate, but the scent and desire to investigate further are suddenly gone.

*****

FRIDAY, DAY 3 Apparently, adherence to the Geneva Convention falls outside the scope of Mr. Stern's conscience. During a heated discussion of the catastrophic Algerian Embassy attack that left seven American hostages dead, Mr. Stern's legal defence decided to chase the idea that those individuals murdered in cold-blood were captured as enemies of the state and, wait for it: had it coming.

NYTimes Online; "Political Fast Facts: Murderer is a five-letter word"

*****

More photographs are pulled from the Prosecutor's stack. The images elicit the same disgusted reaction from the jury, which he lets rumble on for a minute before he speaks.

"In August of that year, the US embassy in El Biar, Algeria, was raided and seven Americans taken hostage. Several terror organisations initially took credit, before it was later revealed that Hydra masterminded the takeover to remove prominent US diplomats from power. All seven officials were marched into the streets and summarily executed in broad daylight."

You can feel yourself begin to shiver, an unconscious tremble triggered by nerves and shitty memories that begin to build. Bucky doesn't say a word, but he slides his arm from his side and lays it across the back of the bench. He doesn't try to wrap an arm around you, doesn't try to give you his jacket, doesn't treat you like glass. He just leaves the option there.

And you take it. His body radiates heat, enough to eventually stem the wash of cold running through your veins, and with a small shift and a tilt of your knees, you feel his warmth envelop you.

He tries not to notice. Shifts his attention elsewhere, keeps his eyes trained intently on the arguments up front. He can feel you next to him, scribbling your unintelligible short-hand notes, rolling your shoulders now and again to fix your slouching posture. He finds himself tiptoeing closer to distraction, eagerly awaiting those tiny snippets of sound, ones that suddenly seem to fill the empty spaces in his head.

Quick, quiet, catches of breath. The scratch of a ballpoint pen. A gentle click of teeth tapping together. Sounds that are so much nicer than the horrors spilling at the front of the room.

In the next second, he chides himself harshly.

Distraction is the opposite of control. Bucky Barnes does not lose control.

*****

The courthouse empties quickly on Friday afternoon, and when you and Bucky leave the room, the main hallway is vacant.

"Can you wait here while I make a quick call?"

"No problem," you mumble, so engrossed in skimming your notes you barely hear him. Footsteps fade behind you as Bucky walks a short distance away, and you're left alone. You took pages and pages of notes, and ideas for how to shape the story are already buzzing in your head.

"Good evening," the greeting comes in front of you, a perfectly pleasant voice.

"Good ev –" you reply, glancing up from your notebook, the words dying on your tongue when you see the flushed red cheeks of the heavy-set man. Hatred shines bright in his eyes, rage curling his mouth into a thin-lipped sneer.

Meeting the furious eyes of Garrison Stern's son, you feel your heart skip. Summoning an equal measure of rage, you glare back in defiance. "Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

"Too bad little girl, I'm speaking and you'll fucking listen."

"I'm sorry, did you not understand? Let's try again. You can fuck right off, you arrogant prick."

He steps closer, his hulking presence invading your personal space, but you refuse to back down. "You mouthy little bitch, you really think they're letting you get away with any of this? They'll find you soon enough, you stupid whore –" he spits the words in your face, so close you can smell the wet heat of his breath, before he's suddenly backpedalling in panic, stumbling over his own feet.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Bucky breathes, tugging you behind him and shoving forward, his nose an inch from the man's suddenly pale face.

"N-nothing, it was nothing."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's what I thought." Bucky's voice drops, so soft the man strains to hear the words, but there's no mistaking the tone. Sheer fury vibrates clearly in each syllable. "It was nothing because that's exactly what you are, you piece of shit. Here's what happens next. You walk away right now and I won't break your fucking face. But, if you ever come near her again, if you try to touch her or speak to her or even look in her direction, I'll personally remove your spine through your throat, tie it around your neck, and choke the fucking life out of you. Are we god damn motherfucking clear?"

The man nearly swallows his tongue, blanching at the look on Bucky's face. "Sure, whatever you say."

"Apologize to her."

"Fuck you man – "

The smooth sound of whirring machinery hits your ears when Bucky's fist shoots forward, silver plated fingers tangling in the man's tie. He twists the striped silk tight, digging the fabric into his throat, cutting his air supply.

"Try again."

"Bucky," you murmur warningly. "It's okay, just let it go."

He ignores the request, his hand squeezing tighter and tighter, until the man coughs out a response. "Sorry, I'm sorry."

"Good," Bucky hisses, shoving him viciously. Without another glance, he places a steady hand at the small of your back and escorts you down the hallway, opening the front doors with a bang.

The ride back to your apartment is silent. Bucky falls completely still as he stares out the window, but his right hand rests on the seat between you, clenched in a fist so tight his knuckles shine brilliantly white against the black leather. Closing the small space, you brush your thumb over the ridges, a feather-light touch, until his fingers release and relax.

Staring out your own window, you miss the fleeting spark of longing when he glances to your profile.

*****

When the car rolls to a stop in front of your home, you don't leave straight away. Picking at your fingernails, you struggle to articulate your thoughts, an odd experience, given your usual ease. It feels stilted when you speak.

"Bucky. Thank you, for this week. It was – nice to have someone there, someone with me. It would have been fucking miserable to be alone the entire time."

"You don't have to thank me. I told you, it's my job."

"No," you say clearly, tilting your chin up to meet those cool blue eyes. "No, it's not just your job. You didn't have to come and you did. I'm saying thanks because I mean it."

He gives you a small smile. "Okay. You're welcome then."

Wrinkling your nose, you wave your hand, dismissing him. "Anyway, it's been a long few days and I'm emotionally exhausted and it feels weird to be so nice. Don't get used to it."

Bucky nods solemnly, curbing a grin when he hears the snappy sass return. "Understood."

*****

One of the best places to work in your apartment is the floor in front of your couch. Pulling on a threadbare Georgetown sweatshirt, you perch the laptop on the coffee table, spread the notes in a neat semi-circle, and place a bottle of wine close to hand. In a few short hours, you have a solid first draft completed, and email it to Jack with a flourish, adding multiple winky faces as the sign-off.

Despite the strain of the week, you feel strangely wired. The crash will come soon, you have enough experience to know that, but for now you take advantage of the extra energy and move through the apartment, folding laundry, wiping kitchen counters, straightening bookshelves. Once the place is acceptably clean, you wander back into the kitchen and pour the remaining contents of the wine bottle into a pint glass. Gathering the week-old pile of work and personal mail that's been steadily growing, you plop onto the couch and start sorting.

Magazine, bill, bill, magazine, letter, credit card application, dental reminder, bill, magazine.

Piling the bills into a thick stack, you toss the magazines onto the coffee table and pick up the letter. Flipping it over, you don't find a postmark, it looks hand-delivered. Assuming it's another reminder from your building about their 'singles mixer' events (which are just the fucking worst), you slip a thumb under the flap and peel it open.

Unfolding a heavy sheet of paper, the strange images are confusing at first, perplexingly disjointed and incomprehensible.

When the realisation hits, a choked sob rips from your throat.

I SAW YOU TODAY. I WAS WATCHING YOU BUT YOU WERE WATCHING HIM. WHY? THEY TOLD ME WHAT HE'S DOING AND WHAT HE WANTS FROM YOU AND IT'S WRONG. YOU NEED TO SEE IT. I WILL MAKE YOU SEE IT. I WILL MAKE YOU FUCKING SEE IT. HE CAN'T HAVE YOU, HE CAN NEVER HAVE YOU. YOU'RE MINE. YOU'RE MINE. YOU'RE MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.

There is no signature, only a dark red splatter at the bottom. The paper falls from your fingers, drifting quietly to the floor.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

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