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girlanachronsim · 5 years ago

Text

Inhumed

Pairing: Jonathan Teatime/Ofc

Word count: 9,353

Read it on AO3 instead!

Summary: In which Jonathan Teatime discovers that if a hit doesn’t align with his particular interests, he can find ways to make it go away.

"I need to have her inhumed."

"Yes sir."

"You do understand the task, don't you?"

"Yes sir."

"Inhuming a woman. A young one, at that."

"Yes sir."

Lord Downey paused, pressing his fingers to his temples. His best men had refused his orders on ‘moral’ grounds. Moral, he grumbled to himself, when has the assassination business ever been ‘moral’. Which meant that he was now sitting across from this lunatic, the one member of the Guild depraved enough to take on such a task. He never put himself in Teatime's company willingly, and wanted to be rid of him as soon as possible.

"The price will be fair, of course."

"I trust you, sir."

"Well. On with it, then." Downey grumbled, handing him over a few sheets of yellowed parchment detailing her name, age and address. Among those sheets was a small pencil sketch of her face to ensure that he inhumed the right woman.

The young woman on the page didn't seem to faze Teatime and he stared at the sketch for a few moments as if lost in thought.

"Why does someone want her dead?" He asked abruptly.

"The client didn't specify." Downey grunted. "Can I entrust you with this, Teatime?"

"Of course, sir."

Teatime stood suddenly, his head still buried in the papers as he left the room. Downey shook his head, slumping back into his chair. Meeting with Teatime always left a sour taste in his mouth and this instance wasn't any different. At least he could trust him to do the job.

Violet Talbot stood over the boiling kettle, the piercing whistle sending her sailing back into reality. She had been feeling particularly vague recently; her parents had gone out for the day, but she struggled to think clearly even when they were around. So, she was making tea in an attempt to centre herself.

She settled with her tea on the kitchen table, picking up the pages of her newest manuscript. It was finished but there was something wrong with it, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She didn't want to send it off to her publisher until she discovered what wasn't right about it. She scanned the pages, trying to pick up on anything absent, but halfway through the second page a wave of dizziness shot through her. Violet held her fingertips to her temple, trying to keep her focus on her words.

Tipping back the last dregs of her tea, her head hurt again, the sharp stab in her brain more acute this time. She scolded herself for not sleeping enough that night and rose from the table to make her way towards her bedroom. This was just a stint of nausea, she told herself, a product of an overworked and tired brain. She'd seen plenty of women suffer from it before, collapsing in ballrooms and dinner tables because of it. But on the way to the bedroom she stumbled, hardly able to walk in a straight line thanks to the splitting headache. She gripped onto the nearest surface, her knuckles going white as the room span around her and she felt her consciousness slipping away. She fell to the floor and heard her head crack against the wood as her vision swam and blurred. The last thing she saw before she passed out were a pair of black, polished shoes. Then everything went black.

Violet came to slowly, her head still pounding and limbs especially heavy. Her back was propped against a wall and she pulled at her wrists, only to find that they were tied firmly behind her. She couldn't tell quite how secure her bonds were, it had taken all of her energy just to move her hands. Despite the throbbing in the forefront of her brain, she cracked her eyes open and her heart stuttered.

Opposite her was a man mirroring the way she was sitting, his back to the wall and feet splayed out in front of him, staring directly at her. Upon seeing her wake, the man heaved himself forward and began making his way towards her on his hands and knees. Her vision swam and blurred and she struggled to tell whether his eyes were blue or black as his face came closer to her. The only thing she was sure of was that he was only wearing black. Assassin.

"Who're you?" She slurred, her voice barely loud enough to be heard.

"Shhhh, Miss Talbot." The man urged her in a light, childish voice.

Very slowly and very carefully, he lifted the knife in his hand to her neck. Violet could feel panic bubbling in the back of her throat but she couldn't express it, the drug had addled her brain and she barely flinched as she felt the cool metal against her skin. Another sharp stab of pain and her vision faded.

The man watched her head loll to her shoulder and sat back onto his feet. He fiddled with the knife absently, staring at the limp woman, a pout forming on his lips. Well, that hadn't been fun at all. Watching her bleed out, unconscious, was going to be a severe let-down after the fuss the Guild had made about her and her inhuming. He debated what to do with her, repeatedly lifting the blade to her neck and down again until he made his decision. He had a spotless record so far, he argued with himself as he lugged the unconscious woman over his shoulder. Plus, she'd be dead soon enough anyway. He just needed to have a little fun with her first.

When Violet came to again her head still hurt, but she felt that it was more due to a lack of fluids than the narcotic still working its way through her system. Her eyes fluttered open as she adjusted to the light of the room. She didn't recognise her surroundings.

She looked down to see she was firmly and carefully tied to a rickety old chair. Rope bound her hands to the backrest and crossed over her lap, tying her securely to the seat of the chair and, when she tested, she found that her ankles were tied together too. Her eyes scanned the small, dingy room; single bed, small chest of drawers and a man staring at her. She froze, letting out a pathetic whimper.

The strange man approached her, his arms crossed behind his back as he tipped his head to the side curiously. Now she understood why she had such trouble focusing on his eyes when she was drugged. They were two different colours, but not in the usual way of heterochromia where one can hardly tell. These were very obviously disparate, one eye the colour of an ocean storm, the pupil so small it had almost disappeared while the other was dark brown, so dark it was almost black and threatened to devour what remained of the white of his eye. His lips twisted into what could be called a smile and she looked away from him in disgust.

"Who sent you?" Violet asked through gritted teeth, her voice rough with disuse.

She looked up at him again and he merely shrugged, shoulders lifting and dropping carelessly.

"You should know." She said tightly.

She may have been brought up among the wealthy elite of Ankh-Morpork, but she knew how the Assassins Guild worked. Her mother had made sure of that.

"Not if they don't want you to know, Miss Talbot." He assured her in his high-pitched, childish voice.

"Then you have to tell me who you are, at least." She demanded.

She let her gaze drift back to him, taking in his blonde curls framing his face and the perfectly tailored black jacket he wore, buttoned all the way up to his neck. He must be good, she thought to herself, for he must be the most conspicuous member of the whole Guild.

"I'm Teh-ah-tim-eh." He pronounced slowly. "Jonathan Teh-ah-tim-eh, Miss Talbot."

He bowed slightly. She bit her tongue, brain scanning through every person she'd ever met to try and remember a 'Teatime'. His reputation didn't precede him, she'd never even heard of him.

"I'm presuming it was you who drugged me?" She asked him, despite the nagging voice in her brain, he's going to kill me, he's going to kill me, he's going to kill me.

"Yes. The Guild insisted that I try their new drugs, Miss Talbot. It wasn't my choice." He informed her, anger clouding his eyes. "They told me it was to make killing people easier, but it just made you act funny. You didn't react the way you should have."

He stepped closer to her, retrieving the knife he kept hidden in his sleeve. Using slow and deliberate movements, he held the blade to her neck. Her whole body tensed and she leaned away from the blade, her pale neck extending in an effort to get further away. Her breathing was short and harsh and she clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles went white.

He studied her face, his expression neutral as he brandished the weapon. He watched her pulse race beneath his blade, the rhythm frantic as he threatened her life. He had always enjoyed those last few moments, the dizzying high he got just seconds before he inhumed someone. Now with a woman was on the other end of his blade he realised just how much that excited him. He had never inhumed a woman before (not for a contract, at least) and as he felt that rush flood through him he found his heart rate elevating too, the adrenaline coursing through his body before eventually settling into an uncomfortable heat at the pit of his stomach.

Reluctantly, he lowered the knife and Violet exhaled heavily, her breaths shaky.

"You see?" He spoke eventually, lowering himself to kneel at her side. "That's the way you should react when you're being threatened, Miss Talbot."

She eyed him warily out of the corner of her eye, disgust lining her features.

"Please. Just kill me. Don't tease me in this way, I don't deserve it, I assure you." She urged him, nerves straining her voice.

He furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm not teasing you." He responded innocently.

"Someone's paid you to drag this out. Well, ask your questions and be done with it. There is no just reason for torturing me, sir."

His jaw shifted and he looked to the ground. He'd never had someone beg him to kill them before, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"You're very odd, do you know that?"

She let out a burst of laugher that turned more into a sob, her eyes brimming with tears that she refused to let fall.

"Perhaps I should drug you again." He spoke to himself.

"Perhaps you should." She said dully, her expression vacant.

He got up and disappeared from her view for a few moments before returning, mixing something into a glass of water. When it was sufficiently dissolved, he lowered the glass to her lips. She eyed him warily before parting her lips, swallowing back the water which she relished despite knowing it was laced with something. When she had finished, he lowered himself to kneel at her side again and placed the cup gently on the floor. A small drop of water trickled from the corner of her mouth and he reached forward to swipe it away with his thumb. Her eyes softened, the drug already beginning to affect her and her head drooped slightly.

"Thank you, Jonathan." She slurred, her words inane babble. "Not all assassins dress for the occasion. It's very considerate of you."

She trailed off, her vision fading and she passed out again.

When Violet regained consciousness, her eyes flung open and she sat bolt upright. She was lying on a bed, and her surroundings were vaguely familiar from the night before. The same bed, same chest of drawers, same dingy room. Was she dead? Had she been killed and now she was doomed to haunt the same room she had died in? Having to share a room with that strange assassin for the rest of eternity... the thought made her shudder.

She still felt alive. She couldn't float and when she looked down she didn't appear to be transparent. Pale, yes, but not transparent. She pinched herself and the pain brought her back to reality. Fairly certain that she was alive, and one-hundred percent certain that she had to get out, she shuffled off of the bed and made her way towards the window. It looked to be about midday and below her she could see the bustling streets of Ankh-Morpork, if maybe a poorer section than she was used to. She yanked at the window pane only to find it locked. Leaning down, she checked the lock; something she wouldn't be able to pick, but maybe she could smash it if desperate enough.

Having inspected the window, she moved onto the door. Locked. Unsurprisingly. She pressed her ear to the door and heard nothing, silence. Looking over the whole room she couldn't see anything that would immediately help her and so investigated the chest of drawers. Nothing of note, black clothing, weapons, odd bits and pieces that didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the stuff at all. She sighed, closing the drawers and turned towards a small desk hidden in the corner of the room.

The chair that she had been tied to now sat harmlessly in front of the desk and she ran her hand over it absently. The desk had been hidden behind her when she had been tied up; on it were a few pieces of scattered paper and a large glass of water.

She picked up the glass, holding it to the light to try and tell whether there was anything concealed in it. There didn't appear to be anything, but then again, his drugs had been dissolvable. Her thirst was clawing at her throat, however, so decided it was worth the risk and took a sip. She sat down on the chair, trying to feel that tell-tale headache that was all too familiar to her now. She sat for a while but when no hint of nausea washed over her she downed the rest of the glass. While she was drinking, her eye caught on one of the papers.

Violet set the now-empty glass down, instead picking up the yellowed pages scattered over the desk. One had her name printed across the top, her address and even the hand-scrawled note to Teatime to use drugs on her. Her eyes flicked back to how 'Teatime' was spelt; it wasn't in the way he had pronounced it at all. Another paper had his fees, the money he'd get from fulfilling the contract. She raised her eyebrows at the price, then noticed the 'young' and 'woman' stipulations highlighted in the margins. That explained the ridiculous amount of money.

The third was a small pencil sketch that took up a corner of the page and she did a double-take at how perfectly it had captured her likeness. Her stomach flipped and she felt slightly ill; she had been kidnapped and almost killed by an assassin, and for some reason this made her feel more uneasy than any of that. She had never posed for a pencil sketch.

Confused and thoroughly sickened, she stood up from the desk, only to hear the lock turn in the door. A rush of adrenaline shot through her and she sprinted back to the other end of the room, as far away from it as possible. The strange man entered the room and locked the door discreetly behind him. Her throat dried as soon as his strange eyes fixed on her.

"Why aren't I dead?" She choked out, pressing herself as far against the wall as she could.

"I find you very intriguing, Miss Talbot."

She couldn't tell whether he offered that as an explanation or as an unrelated topic.

He noticed his displaced papers and swiveled his head to look at her. She kept up the eye-contact despite her heart pounding against her chest. He made his way towards her, every step slow and deliberate until he was inches from her face, his off-kilter eyes searching her expression as her lower lip trembled.

"Pay close attention to me, Miss Talbot. Just do as I say and I won't hurt you." He assured her, cocking his head to one side. "Deal?"

"Deal." Violet agreed reflexively.

It felt as though she had just agreed to a particularly bad exchange on the playground. Only this time there were consequences. He lifted her chin with his fingertip, as if appraising her features, and as he did so she glanced at the door out of the corner of her eye. If she could knock him out of the way, just for a second, she might be able to-

She swung her hand towards his face but he grabbed her wrist before she had a chance to even touch him. She stumbled, quickly righting herself as he kept his hand on her wrist, fingers digging into her skin. She winced, her heart pounding in her ears as the adrenaline rushed through her anew. He grimaced at her, not letting go of her wrists as a blush spread over her face.

"What did I. Just. Say?" He asked slowly, every word sharp enough to cut into her.

She kept her eyes trained on the floor, her jaw clenching and unclenching. At her lack of response, he dragged her into the centre of the room, using her wrist as leverage. He let go of it suddenly, and she saw thin red lines streaked across her skin from where he'd been holding her in his tight grip.

"Kneel." He spoke abruptly and her eyes flicked immediately back to his.

"Are you going to disobey me again, Miss Talbot?" He dragged his sentence out, pulling a blade from the inside of his jacket. She blanched at the sight of another knife, paling considerably.

"Kneel." He repeated, holding the blade to her neck.

She lifted her chin slightly, trying to escape from the cool metal as she reluctantly carried out his orders. He followed her movements with his hand, as she lowered herself onto one knee and then the other. She kept her eyes looking dead ahead, she didn't want to have to look up at the vile man like some sort of beggar. She noticed he was wearing the same coat from before and her eyes were level with the last button. Despite it being well-fitted, she couldn't tell where his legs began and hoped desperately that she wasn't staring directly at his crotch right now. She almost shuddered; she couldn't even think of it.

He leered over her, using his free hand to lace through her hair and yank her head back. She hissed in protest, but stubbornly avoided his gaze.

"Look at me, Miss Talbot." He ordered her in a low voice, and her gaze slipped back to his.

The corners of his lips twitched and he started to lift the blade from her neck up to her mouth, resting the cool metal against her bottom lip. She willed herself not to move; one flinch and the knife would slice through her skin with ease.

"Open wide." He instructed her.

Her lips had barely parted when he began sliding the blade inside her mouth, and she had to open her mouth at a much faster rate than anticipated. She blinked rapidly at the sudden invasion, keeping as still as possible as she could feel the knife's edge pressing against her tongue, enough to hurt her but not enough to draw blood. Yet.

He enjoyed watching her squirm beneath him. He didn't intend to hurt her, but he liked making her panic nonetheless. He pushed his blade further into her mouth and it suddenly turned into something phallic in his mind. He quickly removed it, stepping back from her with his eyebrows drawn together. She looked up at him, fear still shining in her eyes as he took his leave, rapidly unlocking the door before leaving the room.

Violet stared after him in confusion, hearing the lock twist in the door again once he'd left. She couldn't explain his sudden departure. She clicked her tongue against her mouth, trying to get the feeling back into it after her adrenaline had numbed it. She looked out of the window to see dusk falling and her heart leapt; already nightfall. She could attempt another daring escape. She waited an hour or so to make sure that Teatime didn't return and watched as the streets grew dark and lifeless, almost everyone retired to their homes to live and eat and sleep, as normal people do. Opening up the drawer to extract a weapon she picked up a weighty knife, balancing out in her hand before deciding to take a smaller, more manageable one. She pressed her ear against the door, checking for any footsteps on stairs before she started. Silence.

She padded back over to the window, brandishing the knife in her hand. With relative ease she jammed it under the window frame, just below the lock. She pushed it through until it came across resistance, and when it did she pulled back slightly before violently slamming it into the obstacle. It merely made a loud noise, her knife bouncing harmlessly off of it. She winced at the noise, and waited a few seconds in silence to make sure that no-one had heard it.

Unperturbed, she tried again, only this time she felt the obstacle buckle slightly. She repeated this several times, now not giving a damn about the noise it made, until the lock shattered under her knife. Punching the air silently, she opened the window as wide as it could go, feeling the night air against her skin. She was about to drop the knife when she reconsidered. She may need it, if circumstances turned again.

Violet made sure that there were no walkers below as she climbed up and over the window sill. The cool night air hit her as she dangled herself from the sill, her legs not quite long enough to reach the porch roof below her. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she let go and felt the porch roof solid under her feet. She slid down the side of the porch, the fall now a lot easier as she only had to jump one story and onto solid ground. Without a second thought, she leapt off the roof, jarring her knees as she landed and started running as soon as her feet hit the floor.

She ran until her lungs were burning and thirst was clawing at her throat, which is when she allowed herself to slow down, first glancing behind her before taking a sip from a nearby barrel collecting rainwater. She allowed herself to pause only briefly before moving on, her pace steadier now and she kept glancing over her shoulder just to check she wasn't being followed.

Gradually, the houses began thinning out, being replaced by large trees and other foliage. She could feel unease creeping up inside of her; she had never been this far out of Ankh-Morpork before. Stifling her hesitancy, she forced her legs to keep going. Just keep walking, she told herself. You can find your way home in the morning. It was only when her calves started to ache in protest that she stopped, halting amongst the dense greenery to look up at the moon. The sight calmed her, but only for a fraction of a second before the unmistakable feeling of being watched crept up her spine. She fumbled with the blade in her hand, ready to attack any predator that she may come across.

"Show yourself." She muttered in the barest undertone.

Then, a halo of blonde hair emerged from the darkness; his arms were up in mock surrender, his footsteps muffled by the soft dirt underneath them. One eye gleamed in the moonlight, the other was still hidden in shadow. Instantly, she held the knife up in a defensive pose, even though she knew there was no way she would win if there were a scuffle. But be damned if she wasn't going to put up a fight.

"Are you going to use that?" He asked her patronisingly, tipping his head to the side.

She felt anger flare in the pit of her stomach and she pursed her lips, her blood boiling.

"You wait and see." She threatened him, holding the knife firm.

He slowly lowered his arms and she jabbed at the air, warning him not to try anything. He didn't pay any attention to her, he merely crossed his arms behind his back and stared at her evenly. She had trouble staring back at him; he disturbed her, but in the way that it's disturbing to see open wounds when you're not expecting to. They're horrific and gross and put you off your dinner, and yet you can't look away. And sometimes, they're strangely beautiful.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" She asked, her voice sharp.

"Oh, I can't do that Miss Talbot. You're supposed to be dead."

"Just kill me then." She spat. "I can't spend another day- no, another hour in that room of yours, just waiting to be inhumed. I'll have a proper life, or none at all."

At her little tirade, his eyebrows knitted together and he looked to the ground.

"You should be grateful. People are usually grateful when I don't kill them." He glanced up and it was as if his eyes were boring straight through her. "People are weird like that."

He took a step towards her and she lifted the blade higher. He raised his hands as if he were trying to approach a wild animal and by slightly lifting his hands, somehow he'd be able to calm it.

"I could stop this." He suggested in a measured voice. "Take that price off of your head. You'd have to hide for another night, but I could do it."

"You could?" She asked, letting her hand lower marginally.

"Yes." He took another step and she immediately lifted the blade back up to it's original position. "I could... deal with the person who put out the contract. You wouldn't have to die."

She looked almost hopeful before realisation dawned on her, and her features crumpled again.

"What do you want in return?" She asked despondently, expecting the usual fees; money, property and the like.

"Kiss me."

She almost dropped the knife in her hand. She could feel the colour draining from her face as she stood across from the madman, her heart pounding in her ears and she could it very hard to focus on one particular thing. She had only just started to think of him as oddly beautiful, and didn't particularly want to explore those feelings just yet. It would mean confronting a deamon far larger than herself, and she worried it would consume her.

"No." She sputtered reflexively.

"No? You'd rather die?" He took another step and she flustered.

"No I- Is there nothing else I can give you?" She stammered.

"No." He shook his head slowly, his tone decisive.

Her hand holding the knife started shaking and she gripped it tighter in an effort to hide it. It was either this or death. She decided she may as well face the task with dignity, so she squared her jaw and lifted her chin.

"Alright. But only so long as you promise to let me go." She affirmed.

"One more night, Miss Talbot." He reminded her. "Then you're free. I give my word."

Hesitatingly, she lowered the blade, expecting him to close the gap between them immediately. When he didn't move, she eyed him warily before approaching him with caution. She walked until a pair of black polished shoes entered her vision and she stopped, reluctant to move any closer or direct her gaze anywhere else. Digging her nails into her palms, she forced herself to look up into his eyes. She was going to kiss him, she told herself, she may as well get used to looking at his face. There was that odd, unhinged beauty again. Her stomach leapt into her throat.

His mouth twisted into a wry smile at her hesitant movements. She ignored his smug look as she lifted herself up onto her tip-toes and closed her eyes. She exhaled a tiny, shaking breath onto his lips before pressing hers against them.

She had barely pushed her lips against his when she recoiled, expecting that to be enough for him. It clearly wasn't, however, as he grabbed her and led her back up onto her tip-toes, crushing his lips against hers with far more vigour than she gave him. His hand circled her neck posessively, the other wrapped tightly around her shoulder blades, pressing the whole of her body against his lean frame. His tongue slipped into her mouth and her eyes snapped open but she shut them again quickly, focusing on these new, delicious feelings culminating in the pit of her stomach.

As he kissed her, she toyed with the blade still in the palm of her hand. All it would take would be a little jab; the damned thing was so sharp, she'd probably kill him with ease. Or at least leave him sprawled on the floor, bleeding out in the middle of the forest. But then they'd just send another assassin, and he was offering her a way out. She opened her palm and let her knife drop harmlessly to the muddy floor.

He slowly loosened the arm around her back and their mouths separated as she lowered herself back onto her feet. He looked down at her, his lips parted and eyes gleaming while she turned acutely red and stared at the floor. In actions faster than her own, he grabbed her wrist and led it upright between them. She inhaled through her teeth, her face petrified as he let her wait, her arm a barrier between them. Then he abruptly turned on the spot and started leading her back to where she'd come from by her wrist.

As they walked, she felt the lateness of the hour creeping up on her and she stifled her yawns. When her pace slackened, he gripped her wrist tighter and she tried to focus on the pain instead of her drooping eyelids. She hadn't realised quite how far she'd walked until they had already been walking for what felt like an hour and she still didn't recognise any of her surroundings. Her feet were dragging and she stumbled several times in an attempt to keep up with the assassin. He stopped in the middle of the empty street and she bumped into his back, not expecting the sudden halt. He turned back to her, frustration playing in his eyes as she struggled to keep her own eyes open.

"You're tired." He commented.

"I'm sorry." She apologized quickly, despite there being nothing for her to apologize for.

He leant down towards her, his arm knocking the back of her knees so she fell back into his other arm and picked her up into an effortless bridal carry. Her arms automatically wrapped around his neck as she was lifted from the safety of the floor, and found herself in far too close proximity to the man she wanted to avoid. She hated having her arms around him, but felt too unsafe when she removed them so she settled for an uneasy compromise; one arm wrapped uncomfortably around his neck while she curled the other into her own chest. Her hips were pressed to his stomach and his arm clung to her shoulder as he resumed walking.

She was now wide-awake and the gentle rocking of his steps was making her feel sick more than anything else. Her head was pounding and she was so tired, but her mind refused to give up as it plunged her into insane thoughts of love and murder.

As he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead she allowed herself to study his face from below. She noted the strong shape of his jaw, the pale skin that betrayed how much time he spent outside. Perhaps he always went out under the cover of moonlight, she thought. Being this close to him she could see the veins in his neck, blue and spidery against his porcelain skin, the sculpted lips that she'd had against her own only moments before.

"You don't spell your name the way you say it." She slurred drowsily in an attempt to distract her brain.

"What?" He asked, glancing down at her from the corner of his eye.

"It's spelt like about four o'clock in the afternoon."

He gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead, his hands tensing around her.

"You don't like it?" She asked, picking up on his defensive body language. "I should rather like to be named after four o'clock. It's a pleasant time, at least."

"I shouldn't mind it either, if it were meant to be said like that." He said through his teeth.

"So your parents were Teatime- sorry, Teh-ah-tim-eh too?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't they be?" He asked curiously, looking down at her and she shyed away.

"Oh. I don't know." She mumbled.

Clearly, her brain was starting to slow and no matter how determined she was that she couldn't possibly fall asleep, it must have happened as one moment she was outside, on the rougher streets of Ankh-Morpork, and the next she was being carried up a flight of stairs into a very familiar room. He dumped her unceremoniously onto the bed and she tried to shake the sluggishness from her brain as she bounced on the soft mattress.

"Sleep." He commanded, setting himself down heavily at the chair by the desk.

"You expect me to sleep?" She asked him incredulously despite her weary bones and heavy head.

"I'll deal with your contractor in the morning. There's nothing I can do until then." He informed her, wide eyed.

"What are you going to do all night then?" She asked him warily.

"Well, as you broke my window-" he looked pointedly to the window standing open, the lock smashed, "-I'll have to watch over you."

The thought of the sinister man staring at her while she slept churned her insides and she looked to the floor.

"You're offering me a way out. Do you truly expect me to try and escape again?" She mumbled to the floor.

"You can never be too careful." He answered innocently. "You're supposed to be dead. I can't have anyone see you."

"You're that concerned about your reputation?" She asked, reluctantly crawling up the bed.

His lack of an answer gave her his response. Tentatively, she lifted the covers and eased her body underneath them, trying to ignore the fact that this could very well be his own bed when she wasn't around. She lay on her side, furtively glancing between the man and the wall. Though resolute that she'd never be able to sleep with him watching her, she felt her eyelids begin to grow heavy. Within a matter of minutes, she was out-cold.

He watched her as she fell asleep, her breathing evening out and the muscles of her face relaxing so that she almost looked contented. He stood up from his chair and routinely undid the buttons on his heavy coat, slipping it from his shoulders and draped it across the back of the chair. He had a sudden chill and looked back to see the broken window still standing open, letting in the cool night air. He crossed the room on silent feet and closed the window.

Resolving to come up with a plan before she woke up, he set himself back down behind the desk and idly stared at the wall. The next time he moved was several hours later, though he wasn't aware that any time had passed at all. His hand twitched and his eyes were suddenly sharp and furtive. He had assembled a decent plan to deal with the person who had contracted the young woman's murder.

Upon thinking of her, he turned back to the bed. While he had been thinking, she had kicked off the covers, exposing her legs, pale thighs disappearing into the bunched up fabric of her skirt. She was breathing deeply and her hair was streaked carelessly across her face. Without thinking, he swallowed and his fist clenched by his side. She'd be so easy to take. Such skinny limbs, such a lack of will. But he didn't feel like fighting her, and although the kiss earlier had awoken something deep set within him he still held suspicions that she didn't feel the same way.

He stood up, leering over the unconscious woman. He pursed his lips, his head tilting from side to side. Then, very tentatively, he reached out his hand and traced it over her shoulder only to flinch back from her cold skin. He reached down and pulled the sheet back up her body, making sure that the back of his hand ran up her body as he did so. As a second thought, he held his hand to her forehead. She wasn't ill, but he did notice how pale she was in comparison to his own skin. And while paleness suited him, it did not become her.

She didn't deserve to be a bird in a cage, pacing the same room endlessly, otherwise he wouldn't be inhuming another person and breaking the Guild's rules again. He had entertained the idea of having her around, keeping the little bird and hiding her away until he grew bored of her and eventually fulfilled the contract. But her eyes were too bright, her mind full of untapped potential, not to mention the body that he had become keenly interested in over the last few hours. So, he had to carry out his latest plan in order to win her freedom.

He turned on his heel abruptly and left the room, so determined that he forgot his coat, and forgot to lock the door behind him.

Violet woke to sunlight glaring onto her face and she moaned, tossing her arm over her eyes. She rolled onto one side and felt the unfamiliar weight of the pillow, the difference in her mattress. Startled, she sat upright, only to remember where she was and what she was doing there.

It came flooding back in waves; the kidnapping, being drugged multiple times, her failed escape attempt. Despite his threat to watch over her all night, the sinister man was no longer in the room and she made sure of it; she got up and checked under the desk pointedly. Then she crawled back onto the bed, only to get up again when unease washed over her and she checked the drawers, one at a time. Although she felt absurd doing it, she did find herself feeling more comfortable when she yet again got back onto the bed.

Her eyes passed over the unfamiliar room; it was a lot less threatening in daylight. Ratty furniture, a tiny room. Even the assassins papers still scattered on the desk didn't disturb her, so long as she didn't look at that pencil sketch again. She grew impatient with her captor quickly, hating the way the threat of his arrival kept her on tenterhooks. Perhaps he was out fulfilling his contract, she mused, and the next time he saw her would be to release her. But it was all hopeful thinking, of course, as he seemed as changeable as the wind and she wasn't about to place any amount of trust in him whatsoever.

She very carefully and quietly got out of the bed, padding over to the window and pushed at it gently. It opened with ease and she discovered that the lock was still broken and he had made no attempt to seal her in the room. That could be one escape plan, but it would be very different to leap down into bustling streets, full of people. She would most definitely alert people to her presence, and if it didn't cause a massive commotion to have a young woman climbing down the side of the building, a ruffian most certainly would spot her fine dress and take her hostage for himself. While she didn't exactly admire her captor, better the devil you know.

As he hadn't made any effort to seal the window, she turned to the door with a vague hope bubbling in her chest. She approached the door, placing her hand on the handle and found it gave way very easily beneath her. The door opened onto a dim corridor, deprived of windows and therefore light and she squinted into the darkness.

"Are you planning to run away again?" Came a lilting voice from behind her.

She jumped, spinning around and shoving the door closed as quickly as she possibly could, backing herself into the doorknob. Teatime was standing in the room with her. She hadn't heard him arrive and she had been caught in a compromising position, so her heart was pounding and her brain was muddled. She barely noticed the window standing open behind him.

"No, I- uh-" She trailed off, her throat tightening.

He seemed barely interested though, turning from her and he furrowed his brow at his discarded coat. Once he got past the confusion, he removed the blade from his sleeve and picked up the assassins papers instead. She was only just getting over her shock, and watched his movements while staying frozen in place. She too had only just noticed he wasn't wearing his heavy coat, and she could actually see his long legs clad in black and a loose-fitting ruffled shirt. She had never seen a man look so good in such a ruffled shirt, let alone a black one.

He turned back to her and she briefly averted her eyes to make it look as though she hadn't been staring. A light flared up in the corner of her eye and she looked back up at him to see he'd struck a match and was holding it to the papers. The paper caught easily, flames licking at the paper and crumbling it into ash that fluttered to the floor. She enjoyed watching the pencil sketch going up in flames.

"You're no longer wanted by the Assassin's Guild." He spoke as the last few remnants of the papers caught fire and crumbled in his hand.

Her eyes wandered to the discarded blade. He had clearly made an attempt to clean it, but there were still spots of blood on the hilt. She shuddered, looking to the floor.

"You're free to go." He gestured towards the door with a crisp hand movement.

She looked between him and the floor, hesitating.

"What are you waiting for?" He asked in a low voice, leaning incrementally towards her.

Embarrassed, she forced herself to turn and open the door. She could feel his stare boring into her back as she closed the door behind herself. She made her way down the dank staircase, clinging to the shadows when she emerged outside and walked until she recognized her surroundings and could make her way home again.

"I didn't tell you the name of the contractor, did I Teatime?"

Downey rocked back in his chair, eyeing up the young assassin. He hadn't anticipated to have Teatime back in his office so soon. He expected him to do the job, collect the payment and he wouldn't have to see him until the next deranged client came around. But now he had to question him, ask him about something Downey knew he had orchestrated, though Teatime would never admit it.

"No sir." Teatime answered him shortly.

"So you had nothing to do with the contractors death?"

"The contractor's dead?" Teatime asked him innocently.

Downey sighed, looked to the ceiling.

"As they're dead, there's no need to inhume the woman. If you haven't already?" Downey asked, lifting one eyebrow.

"No sir. I was still on my planning stage."

Downey wasn't aware that Teatime had a 'planning stage'. He knew that Teatime had killed them, but there was no way of proving it and he couldn't chuck him out of the Guild again. He did prove useful, occasionally.

"Go." Downey waved at the door dismissively.

Teatime stood gracefully and made his way to the door, his hand on the handle when Downey spoke again.

"I'm disappointed in you." Downey murmured, looking over his paperwork.

Teatime turned back to him, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"It's not like you to get involved with your contracts." Downey continued, not looking up from his work.

Teatime's jaw clenched, and he turned back towards the door, firmly opening it and slamming it behind him.

Back at home, Violet lit a candle and retrieved her manuscript. She made her way to the empty dining room, tucking her feet under herself and hunched over her words. It was still missing something, and it didn't help that her mind kept straying back to the experiences of the last few days and her mysterious captor. Her parents had fussed over her, of course. She wasn't allowed outside for at least the next two weeks. She was alright with that presently, she wasn't sure that she wanted to see anyone other than relatives for at least two weeks. She was very happy sitting with her writing and-

A knock. Violet started, her head jerking towards the door. She couldn't hear her parents getting up to answer it, so she assumed they hadn't heard. On soft feet, she got up and made her way to the door, going against her better judgement as she cracked it open. Standing on the other side of it was a far too familiar face, a halo of blonde hair and two mis-matched eyes, staring at her intently. Her whole body froze; she knew she should slam the door closed immediately and call her parents, but the other half of her wanted to know what he wanted to say. Or do.

She remained frozen in place, until he took matters into his own hands and pushed past her through the door. This seemed to wake her up as she followed after him in a trot to keep up with his long strides. He made a move to go into the living room where her parents were settled but she abruptly intercepted him to go into the dining room that she had claimed for herself that night. He paused as he entered the room, his eyes scanning the flickering candles dotted around the room and the pieces of scribbled on paper lying carelessly on the table.

"What are you doing here?" She asked from behind him.

He inclined his head towards her, as if remembering that she was there, and smiled imperceptibly.

"I came to see you, Miss Talbot."

"You're not here to kill me?"

He laughed, a high-pitched jarring laugh that gave her goose bumps.

"I didn't kill you before when I was being payed for it, Miss Talbot, why would I kill you now?"

"Forgive me for speaking my mind, but you don't seem like the most level-headed man I've met." She tried to phrase it as delicately as possible, but he still turned to her with hurt playing on his features.

In one swift movement, he had his hand to her neck and her back up against the table, her hands scrabbling for purchase on a surface full of papers that clearly didn't want her to stay upright and the hard edge of the table digging into her back.

"Level-headed?" He repeated softly, and she winced.

He tightened his grip on her neck and she lifted her hand to his own, a pathetic attempt to get him to remove it. Yet, as her skin ghosted his, he looked down at her and noticed a fire in her eyes that matched his own. He let go of her briefly, confused by what he saw. She couldn't possibly be gaining as much pleasure from this as he was.... could she?

"I suppose I'm proving your point." He admitted through gritted teeth, folding his arms firmly behind his back.

"If you aren't here to kill me, then why are you here?" She spoke in a shaking voice, her own hand going to where he'd touched her neck.

He looked to the ground and appeared deep in thought while she eyed him warily. Then he stepped closer to her again, pressing his hips against hers and she leaned her torso away from him, but she was unable to shift underneath the pressure of his hips. He reached forward and placed his hands on her jaw, angling her head upwards towards him. He pulled them together, forcing his lips against hers even as her eyes widened and she reflexively pulled away, in vain.

Once her lips were secured his hands wandered from her jaw, his long fingers wrapping around the back of her neck while the other hand caressed her shoulder blades. He pressed the whole length of her body against his, his tongue slipping into her mouth and she whimpered in the back of her throat. She lifted her hands to his hips and closed her eyes, focusing on the delicious and unfamiliar feelings of his mouth on her own.

He pulled back and their lips parted, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features as he drew back. He kept his face close, however, so they were sharing the same heady air as his nose and forehead brushed against her own. They were still pressed close to one another, their chests knocking together as they breathed heavily. Then his head jerked to the side, as if he heard someone and in the next second the door to the dining room opened.

She froze, her eyes widening and jaw dropping in shock as her mother peered through the door. Though she stayed silent, she screamed internally. She couldn't be seen with a stranger, not after the kidnapping. She'd never be left alone again. They would think that she was having an illicit affair as it would be the only logical explanation for her disappearance. Her whole social standing would be ruined. It was only once she cycled through all of these thoughts that she actually became aware of her surroundings; Teatime was nowhere to be seen. It was only her, uncomfortably perched against the table, her cheeks flushed and lips swollen.

"Are you alright?" Her mother asked, though it was clearly more out of decorum than actual concern.

She thanked the gods that it was dark, the only thing illuminating her the dim candlelight, otherwise she would have definitely known that something was wrong.

"Yes, thank you mother." She exhaled.

"Are you sure? Me and your father heard voices."

"Voices?" She flustered, trying to act nonchalantly.

"Yes. A male voice, at that."

Her mother started to suspect something, going further into the room. She inclined her head away from her mother, making sure that she couldn't see her pink cheeks. While her head was turned, her eyes caught on her manuscript and her eyes lit up.

"I'm sorry, I was just... going through." She said vaguely.

"Going through?" Her mother asked.

"Yes. Going through my script. It's easier to visualize it if I say it out loud." She spoke to the floor as if she were embarrassed at having been caught.

"Oh. And the man's voice..."

"Mine." She said quickly, trying to inject some amusement into her voice. "Did it really sound like a man's voice from the living room?"

"I suppose not." Her mother started to second-guess herself as she moved back towards the door.

"Finish your book." Her mother pointed at her, her hand on the door. "You're taking too long and I want to read it."

She nodded, smiling lightly as her mother went through the door. Violet trotted up to the door, pressing her ear against it to ensure that her mother wasn't lingering behind it. When Violet was sure she had left, she turned back into the room to see Teatime standing on the other side of the table from her, his arms behind his back.

"Where did you go?" She asked in wonder, her voice barely loud enough to be heard.

"I have my ways." Teatime shrugged.

"Is that how you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Kill people."

The air became tense, her staring at him evenly while he returned that look, impassive and impossible to read.

"Sometimes." He spoke, his voice tight. "It depends how discreet I want to be."

"You murder people. For money." She said, sounding less accusatory and more inquisitive as she started slowly walking towards him from the other side of the table.

"Are you a sadist?" She blurted out.

He cocked his head, wide-eyed innocence playing in his eyes.

"Do you get off on other people's pain?" She went on, seeing that he didn't understand.

"Get off where?"

She rolled her eyes, not believing him to be as naïve as he let on. She was now halfway down the table towards him and he hadn't moved.

"I mean... do you get excited by hurting other people?" Her brain struggled to come up with something that his child-like brain could comprehend.

"Yes." The corners of his lips quirked up, a mad look in his eyes.

She stopped herself in front of him, looking up at the assassin that had threatened her life.

"Would you gain pleasure from hurting me?" She bit her lip, shifting from foot to foot.

His fingers twitched and he was very clearly trying to restrain himself.

"Oh yes, Miss Talbot." He hummed.

With shaking hands, she reached up and gripped his collar, abruptly pulling him down to meet her eye-level. He seemed unfazed by this man-handling and allowed himself to be pulled in such a way. He seemed almost to be expecting it.

"Then hurt me."

Now it was his turn to overpower her, whipping her around and pressing her lower back to the table, one palm slamming firmly on the surface of the table while the other grabbed her arm and pulled it behind her back. She whimpered but her eyes lit up as he jerked her arm into such an unnatural position.

"Are you a masochist, Miss Talbot?" He asked in a low voice, his body pressing against hers.

"I don't know." She answered quickly before thinking on it. "Or, at least, I didn't know until very recently."

He captured her lips on his in a smooth motion and she didn't back away, or even flinch. He still pulled at her arm and she winced into the kiss, pressing her body even harder against his.

"Violet!" Her mother called from the other room, and they parted, still staring at one another's lips.

"Coming mother!"

He let go of her arm and she exhaled heavily, propping herself up against the table with it. He backed away, making a move towards the door when she stopped him with a hand gesture. She stepped towards him as he watched her evenly.

"Visit me again." She urged him in a low voice. "Only, visit when they're not around."

The corner of her lips quirked into a smile. He merely stared at her, eyes bright with excitement and he licked his lips.

"Yes Miss Talbot." He murmured, before turning and leaving the room.

The moment he left the room, she sat herself back down in front of the bits of paper that had been scattered with her clumsy movements, and attempted to piece them back together. She knew what the manuscript needed now. It was more violence.

As she lifted her pen, she grinned to herself; perhaps the story wasn't fit for her mother's consumption after all.

#fanfic #jonathan teatime #hogfather #terry pratchett

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pondernce · 6 years ago

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Behind Closed Doors

Hi!

So this is the first thing I’ve written in almost 5 years, and the first for Outlander. (be kind to me). I hope you like it, and much love to @julesbeauchamp for her support <3

Jamie and Claire meet again in less than ideal circumstances...

Chapter 1

He could feel her hands on him, soft, delicate fingers tracing the planes of his back. They danced over scar tissue--the groves hewn into his skin by force--healing the wounds for him. Her mouth dipped to caress his jaw, the feathery brush of lips chased by soft, humid breath. A kiss on his neck. His Adam’s Apple. The juncture where sternocleidomastoid met trapezius. For a moment he let his eyes close, lost in the sensation. She found his mouth then, her legs winding over his hips and guiding him, urging him on.

Immersed in her, the gentle sound of the crashing waves was lost to him. He pressed up onto his hands, wrenching his mouth away because he needed to see her, needed to find those eyes…

Jamie woke up.

His heart raced, his skin was damp with sweat and he was uncomfortable stiff in his pants. As he was every time he remembered. And he always woke before he could see her face again. Aye, he could call her to his mind’s eye and he’d drawn her a dozen dozen times, but nothing so vivid as those dreams. The sketches were never quite right, and he knew that if he could only see her face in those dreams, he’d be able to capture her likeness completely.

With a sigh bordering on a groan, Jamie sat up and glanced at his phone. Five in the morning wasn’t too early, he supposed. At least it gave him time for a workout before he headed to university. A chance to get the nerves out. For some, perhaps, university was an unnerving step into adulthood. Leaving home, moving into a new place, the excitement of newfound independence. But Jamie had already made his move. From Highland Scotland to the Middle East, with the RAF. He couldn’t look forward to seeing what lads and lasses barely out of their A-levels would make of “adulthood” when they had no real responsibilities yet. And what would they make of him?

The streets of London were hardly quiet at this hour, but they were remarkably empty, and that’s what Jamie needed. A place to clear his head- to get her out of his head- before hustling through the crowded halls of King’s College, London. He jogged through the streets of Southwark, dodging the odd dog walker or early commuter. His route to King’s wouldn’t be long, thankfully. His military salary afforded him a nice enough flat close to the school, just across the river. He shared it with another Scot, Rupert, whom he’d served with in Afghanistan. It was a small mercy that Rupert spent almost all his time at his lass’ flat. The bloke was cheerful, but a bit too much sometimes.

Rounding the corner, Jamie checked the time on his FitBit and pushed his pace up, aiming to finish out five kilometers before he made it home. It wouldn’t due to be late for his first course though, even if his schedule for the day of Legal Philosophy and Medical Ethics hardly seemed interesting.

---

Legal philosophy could have been interesting, if the professor hadn’t put half the class to sleep. Jamie wasn’t surprised though, given that the majority couldn’t have been more than 18. High off being in Uni and hardly interested in what the ancient man before them had to say about the foundations of Legalism. The two girls next to him hardly paid attention, too busy giggling. He recognized the blonde from orientation, and she clearly recognized him.

Throughout the lecture he took diligent notes, only to avoid the girl’s eyes. The former soldier nearly bolted when the course ended.

He had nearly two hours before his next course, and plans to meet that bloke from the Rugby team. He’d gone out before orientation, trying to find some way to get involved. Many veterans struggled in university to find community, and he hoped he wouldn’t be another statistic.

“Fraser!”

He turned, smiling over a few startled students to see John Grey speed walking towards him. He was young, but Jamie found he didn’t mind that energy, John seemed a good person.

Smiling, he bumped the shorter man gently on the shoulder. “Good to see ye, I hope yer class wasn’t as boring…”

“Haven’t had class yet, just came early to grab lunch with you. We have practice this afternoon, you know? You’re welcome to come.”

Jamie glanced at his phone and shook his head. “Medical Ethics,” he sighed, “can ye tell I’m keen?” he laughed and shook his head. He wanted to get a background in law before he tried to leap into counter terrorism, and how did medicine relate to that?

“Pity. I hope it’s interesting.”

“I doubt it.”

Jamie didn’t mean to be cynical about university. It was supposed to be an opportunity to make something of himself after his medical discharge. Only, he found it overwhelmingly uncomfortable. And pointless. When he’d been in the war, reviewing briefings and in charge of his men, everything had been urgent. Learning on the fly, under pressure, where attention meant life or death. Here, he had the feeling he’d never need to attend to do well. It was disheartening.

His mind drifted as they ate. His fingers itched for his sketchbook, idle in his book bag. Jamie has taken up the hobby in the barracks, well before he met his muse. But the last two Moleskins had been interspersed with pages devoted to her. It had been a year, he knew he needed to let go. But he couldn’t yet.

“Jamie,” John’s voice cut into his thoughts, jarring the plans for how he’d shade the moonlight dappled on her skin from his thoughts.

“Och, Sorry. What was it ye we’re saying?”

John pursed his lips with that good natured shake of the head Jamie had already come to realize was a habit. “We should get going to class, where’s your head, man?”

The scot blushed, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck with a laugh. “Nothing, sorry. I didn’t sleep well, ye ken?” It wasn’t quite a lie, given he almost never slept well, or the medically recommended amount. With a small nod he grabbed their rubbish, scolding himself internally on the short walk to the bin.

Jamie knew better. He wanted to make something of himself that wasn’t available in the military, and that’s why he was here. He’d done the work, networked with other former soldiers already working for MI5 and in the government, learned what he needed to do if he wanted to work against domestic terrorism. But university should also be for himself, shouldn’t it? A change to live a bit of a normal life, to decompress after so much time at war. He knew he was lucky to even be back in the UK, let alone at a prestigious university. With a sigh and a quick shake of his head, he returned to John.

“I’ll be at practice after my class eh, make it up to you. Ye free for a pint after?” He grabbed his bag and fell into step alongside the shorter man, making a mental note of their plans as John went off about something on the news that morning. His brother was running for Parliament and the whole family had been in politics for centuries. Perhaps someday Jamie would be able to take advantage of such a connection, but presently he just needed the company.

They parted ways at one of the newer campus buildings, all shiny glass and stone. London was like that--an eclectic mix of modern and tradition that had Jamie missing Scotland more than foreign shores ever had. He’d not been home in years, and never truly wanted to go back. At least not yet.

“Excuse me,” he shoulder his way through a gaggle of students in the corridor, looking for the correct room. “104, 106… Christ.” 108 had to be the smallest room in the building, if not on the bloody campus. He’d failed to realize that the modern building connected to one of the oldest buildings, where the rooms became cramped cubicles of stone with sharply pointed windows, more reminiscent of a church than a university. The floor was old oak pitted and polished by centuries of steps, and Jamie could almost trace the path to one of the few available seats left. He was a large bloke--a fact which became abundantly clear as he settled behind the old fashioned desk. His knees knocked against the tabletop when he tried to sit up, forcing him to fold them awkwardly over the side. “Bit cramped, aye?” He joked quietly, meeting the eyes of a petite girl watching him. She flushed violently and nodded, stuttering over her reply.

“It-It’s a small course,” she shrugged finally, milky eyes darting back to her phone.

Jamie hummed, his own phone lost in the bottom of his bag after he got off the tube. After the military he apparently lacked the addiction to smartphones present in the rest of his generation. Or perhaps he was just old. Stretching his legs, he inadvertently cracked his back and sighed in relief, twisting to traction the other side just as another student walked in.

He froze, tracking her steps as she came into the small room. Slightly flustered, curls escaping her high bun and dragging over the material of her lightweight olive jumper, and her arms full of files and textbooks, she was unmistakably the same woman. His muse. Jamie traced every line of her, the smooth curves he knew with his hands and his pencil. He watched the long arc of her graceful neck, so pale and flawless against her dark hair. He couldn’t see her eyes, not yet, and the desire to almost had him squirming in his seat. So distracted was he that he failed to notice she hadn’t taken one of the available seats.

His muse had set down her books at the front of the room, shrugged off her camel overcoat and tossed it carelessly over the podium, carved her name into the ancient chalkboard in neat print, and now stood before them all, introducing the course.

His muse was a professor. His muse was his professor.

The name that had been absent from his syllabus and his memories stared mockingly back at him, stark white on deep green. Dr. Claire Beauchamp.

#my fic #behind closed doors #jamie & claire #prof/student au #if you catch a typo let me know!!#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fic

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duckbeater · 6 years ago

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Some Notes on A. S. Hamrah

A lifetime ago, I thought it’d be rewarding to teach A. S. Hamrah’s “A Better Moustrap” to first-year students struggling through their second semester of basic comp. I wanted to wow them with Hamrah’s heedless deployment of unsettling theses, argued crisply and irreverently, in an essay that supplies a plausible solution to its concerns (a rarity among most rhetorical appeals, whose authors left my students stimulated but empty-handed). Very in the vein of “A Modest Proposal,” “Mousetrap” confronts a social ill—fetish videos where women crush small animals to death under their Stilettos—yet proposes a non-ironic salve: “crushies,” where “the must-have plush-toys of the Christmas rush will be smashed underfoot.” Most of my course was based on weird internet shit, which I thought (I still think) mostly anyone can appreciate, especially the young. “Mousetrap” is full of that weird-internet-shit jouissance.

“Reading this is like eating your favorite food,” I told the class. “You’re just gonna shovel in ideas. They’re all delicious. Eh, they’re pretty weird, too. But it’ll be fun.” It wasn’t fun. Nobody read the essay. Moving through its arguments, in front of twenty-five nineteen-year-olds and a few grandmothers, was embarrassing. I had to dissect Hamrah’s great takes on crush video culture, his movements through film history, his appraisals of Mickey Rooney, then his wider and, to me, scintillating prognostications on American adulthood—an adulthood most everyone in the classroom (accepting the grannies) was soon to inherit—totally alone. “Do you watch these videos?” one student asked. “Then what’s your fetish?” asked another. “Bryson fucks books!” became the consensus. (“I fuck your dads!” I thankfully did not say but very much wanted to. I was a coward; this partially explains why no one bothered to complete my assignments.)

Flying solo—or falling sans parachute, as the case may be—through Hamrah’s film criticism and cultural reportage of the last decade has probably been a shared experience among his far-flung admirers. Finding his byline in Bookforum or the obscure domain of the International Federation of Film Critics or mirrored pages from the defunct Hermenaut was usually the result of a periodic Google search. If he appears more regularly now, and more regularly in prestige venues, that’s the fault of n+1, where he’s contributed reviews tri-quarterly since roughly 2008.

Indeed, it was Hamrah’s initial, online-only contribution that inspired so much ardor and devotion. “Oscars Previews” provided bright, bursting capsules—the gleeful bitchery of a best friend's phone call. Apparently this quality was transliterated from its material creation, when he reported the piece to his editor, Keith Gessen, over a phone, after complaining he didn’t have time to write the thing. Each entry in this salvo (none are more than a hundred or so words) lands with a zinger. They have the polish of a joke, featuring a setup, some reinforcement and then a payoff. He even plays some of his capsules against each other as callbacks. The entirety of Hamrah’s entry on Michael Clayton reads: “There was a lot of driving in Michael Clayton. I like driving in movies but after a while Michael Clayton started to seem like a car ad—though it showed how a car ad can be liberal. That’s a message for our times.” The wit is authoritative, hypnotic, dismissive. The taste behind these pronouncements felt sui generis, and the criticisms brief enough to be dispatched verbatim without attribution. I was a senior in college when I first read Hamrah. I had a busy season of parties at professor’s houses and dined-out on his opinions for weeks.

This is not to say Hamrah only works when you’re young and grasping for style. But I do think it’s evident now that his short forms are the seedbed for his long form successes, paper sketches for the larger canvas. When you read enough of Hamrah’s capsule reviews, you get the sense he’s reporting exactly (or only) what fits into his little joke, sometimes you can even hear him reaching for his beats. When you read a whole book of them, you get the sense Hamrah’s less interested in the works under review than in his performance of reviews, his performance of freedom and audacity.

—

The Earth Dies Streaming, apart from film writing, is a log of Hamrah’s fascination with his persona, his brand of humor and arch sensibilities. He’s not exactly a curmudgeon—he wants readers to know he’s tried too many drugs to be a curmudgeon (comparisons to acid trips crop up, as does “bad speed”)—and he’s not exactly an academic (despite his Ivy League bona fides as a corporate semiotician)—and he’s not even a movie reviewer in the jejune, crass, sell-out way so many movie reviewer must be in today’s enfeebled, saturated, and deeply compromised market (he tries “to never include anything in [his] writing that could be extracted and used for publicity”). This is where I trot out a gif of Amy Poehler playing a Cool Mom in Mean Girls. Hamrah’s bobblehead offers virgin daiquiris to teenage cineastes. “I’m not like a regular film critic,” he says, “I’m a cool film critic.” The tits, the wink, the velour sweatsuit.

Other irritations. Hamrah’s insistence on the inferiority of animated films and his churlish dismissal of Miyazaki’s contributions to the medium’s history. He’s always on accident catching some part of a children’s movie—on an airplane, in a public clinic—and using these unsatisfactory experiences to comment on the aesthetics and advancements of animation at large. It’s a hobby horse he flays as often as Adorno assaulted jazz, and (to both their credits), slightly adorable for how insistent and under-thought. If only, as he does in “Jessica Biel’s Hand,” he would immerse himself in the backlog of lauded animation from this century and the last, he might, for once, be able to say something interesting about it.

Hamrah’s stance against feature-length animation is nearly as looming and placeless as his stance against other films critics, whom he evidently reads closely but can never be bothered to cite. His essays are peppered with a dreaded sea of bought-off weekly reviewers whose pedestrian tastes frustrate him. This, despite the regularly insightful, playful, and overall helpful criticism of David Edelstein and Emily Yoshida at New York; Dana Stevens at Slate; Manhola Darghis at the Times; Justin Chang in Los Angeles; and the fairly dour takes of Peter Debruge in the industry’s digest, Variety. Hamrah alludes to David Denby’s work in Streaming’s introduction, then names him outright in a later capsule review of Little Children. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine as to with what critical consensus Hamrah finds his views out of alignment. These are critics and journalists who, obliged by deadlines, report weekly on their film-going habits. That they have new things to say even once a month is a miracle, but that they do so four to ten times a month is frankly incredible. (It must be evident that I’m a fan of movie reviews and film criticism. I work an office job where between menials I find intense delight and distraction in the work of daily reviewers, and I carry around with me an ungainly amount of knowledge regarding box office performances and future releases that in all other ways I have no interaction: I go to the movies maybe three times a month, often by myself, and often I see low-brow flicks. Last weekend I saw the third How to Train Your Dragon movie; the weekend before that, Isn’t It Romantic; a weekend before that, Roma. I saw these movies on the advice of daily reviewers, and Roma only after reading Caleb Crain’s celebration of it.)

I volunteer Richard Brody and Christian Lorentzen as Hamrah’s contemporary intellectual kin, with caveats. Brody’s work is too mystical, too mythical to properly critique his subjects, and his symptomatic readings, which border on the Lacanian in terms of the extraneous and deranged, become hulking apertures that always overtake whatever work is under discussion, squashing them. Also he is never, ever funny in his reviews. Brody is a curmudgeon, and what he criticizes rarely appears in the films themselves but float around the films’ receptions, financing or forebears, and when he ventures into specifics—a film’s lensing, its sound, the actors and their acting styles—his descriptions become ridiculous. Lorentzen, as with his book reviews, writes to a word count. (There is no other reason for the amount of tedious plot summary in a Lorentzen take-down.) If Hamrah sounds like these critics, it may be because all three are careful in their dissents to let the filmmakers know they think they’re complete assholes. When these three do find praise for a work, it’s the entirely appropriate object of adoration, art-house and independent, or, gotcha!, a studio event they appreciate for more correct, more interesting, and more nuanced reasons than everyone else.

What sets these critics apart from the daily reviewers I listed above, may be the daily reviewers’ capacity to surprise and be surprised. Perhaps they saw a movie with a daughter and her friend; they appreciated a family flick in context; they were caught unawares by stray scenes in a larger, unsuccessful work, and appreciated glimpsed wisdom. They have hope yet for a return to better forms. These reviewers are flexible and receptive; they are as likely to be charmed as they are to be chagrined. Even when Brody, Lorentzen and Hamrah are surprised by the quality of a work, they take it as an affront to their sensibilities and bridle, like horses suspicious of an open gate. Why were they not warned? Why should they trust this development? Their reflexive, ingrained annoyance, occasionally flowering into high dudgeon, fills their actual reviews with foregone conclusions. One does not visit their writing for news, or for new takes, for synthesized connections, or revelations of form. One visits for the comforting familiarity of a flagging standard—“a continuity of aesthetics that [has] become an aesthetics of continuity,” if I’m remembering the St Aubyn phrase correctly.

Criticism this entrenched in its own personality ends up toothless. It’s why Renata Adler, for instance, will be remembered for her reporting and not her film criticism. Despite its bite—and it’s quite biting—it rarely leaves a mark. Hamrah never cites Adler—nor do I think he will. His prose and her prose are rather too alike. He must sense the comparison coming, and dislike it, because Adler is not particularly well informed on film and filmmaking. Her amateurish moonlighting grated in 1968, and it grates now, but only for its prosumer-level expertise. Her prose (like Hamrah’s) remains indelible, deadpan, and addictive. When I recall the subhead to Kyle Paoletta’s appreciation of Hamrah, “Always On: A. S. Hamrah’s film criticism is a welcome corrective in an outmoded field,” I consider Adler’s own attempts at the form, as a corrective. And I find them contiguous with other platforms discussing same, places like Slate, Twitter, and The Ringer’s Exit Survey, which preempts the leap from hot take to tweet. (Q: “What is your tweet-length review of Venom?” A: “What if All of Me (1984) but action and also tater tot–loving aliens?”) What I’m saying is this: Hamrah’s form is not novel. His tone is not novel. His writing is, however, very convenient (brief, digestible) and entertaining, and he’s been adding more personal atmosphere of late.

So the named lodestars in Hamrah’s critical firmament: Pauline Kael, Susan Sontag, Jonathan Rosenbaum, J. Hoberman and Manny Farber (to whom Hamrah pens an exceptionally sweet and informative essay). Hoberman, the only critic still alive among these titans, shares Hamrah’s acid tongue and penchant for political excavations, while doing his readers a courtesy by assuming not all of them attend film festivals or live in limited-release area codes. The same semester I taught “A Better Mousetrap,” I taught Sontag on sci-fi movies and Hoberman’s seminal “21st Century Cinema: Death and Resurrection in the Desert of the (New) Real” (later to become his book-length essay, Film After Film). Hoberman can be as tart and irreverent as Hamrah, but he’s not above recounting plot summaries. He’s both a guide and a rebel. I suppose, following my own argument, if in fact I’m making one, this makes Hoberman the better critic—a classification that would not hurt Hamrah’s feelings. (This would hurt very few film critics’ feelings.)

—

Very little of the above matters. I had hoped to answer why, then I got bored (then I had to go to work; after that, I had to design a booth for a marketing expo in London; then I lost the thread). When I was in Brooklyn last December, I dropped into the Spoonbill on Montrose. The first book I bought on my second time in New York City was Hamrah’s The Earth Dies Streaming, and I carried it about like an obsessive as I made my way by foot to Prospect Park. I devoured it in a few days. I devoured it again on the plane ride back to Chicago. And I’ve read all the capsules before, and most of the essays—they’re usually posted in front of paywalls. If I quibble with Hamrah, it may be because he’s made me a better writer, and surely a better thinker, yet I found that I disliked my own dismissiveness and superiority, my own rigidity. If I can name my influences, I thought, I can break from them. But this is unso.

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sockablock · 6 years ago

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Chapter 9: Tinsel on the Awnings

“No, no,” said Caleb, reaching for his pencil. “You have to account for Reichden’s Law of Opposing Forces. Otherwise you will just make the lightning even worse. Here, the glyph should look like this.”

Fjord, on his stool across the library counter, sighed. “I knew there was something wrong. I guess I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”

Caleb hummed his agreement as he worked. “No offense meant, but I am surprised you would make this mistake. It is...Spellcasting 101, you might say. Did your teachers never show this to you before?”

“Er, no,” Fjord admitted. “But I’ve also never exactly taken a magic class before, so I guess it makes sense that I’d fuck up like this.”

“You’ve…” Caleb’s hand paused over the page. “You’ve never been taught this in a formal setting?”

Fjord shrugged. “Is that hard to believe? I mean, you know how shitty I am at this. You’ve watched me fuck up for two weeks, now.”

“Yes," Caleb blinked, "but…to be perfectly honest, I thought you would at least know the basics. After all, Fjord, I saw you do magic that night at the Moondrop. You have arcane capabilities, you cast spells that I could not even name.”

Something flickered behind Fjord's eyes, but he tamped it down quickly. “Well…yeah,” he said slowly. “But that’s, um…”

He sighed and leaned in, lowering his voice. “Caleb, I’ve never really talked about this before, not even with Jes. So, you’ve gotta promise me that you’ll be discrete, alright?”

Caleb raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Ja, okay. Sure.”

Fjord took a deep breath. “I, um…I’ve never actually learned magic before. And those spells you saw…I don’t think they were the wizardly kind—”

“—they certainly did not appear to be—”

“—right. So, what I’m saying is, I think my powers are...I didn't get 'em out of books. I just sorta…wish really hard for something to happen, and then it does. Is that, is that weird? Is that normal?”

Caleb suddenly burst into laughter, catching Fjord completely by surprise. “I just spilled my guts out there a bit,” he said with mild reproach. “Was there something funny about it?”

Caleb wiped at the corner of his eyes and shook his head. “Nein, no, well…maybe a little bit funny. Oh, you should have told me that in the first place! Now I understand.”

He met Fjord’s bewildered gaze and smiled faintly. “You are just a sorcerer, Fjord. There is nothing wrong with that. Your abilities are inborn, and natural to you.” Then he waved his hand dismissively over their notes, and the rough sketches of arcane symbols and circles across the pages. “You do not need any of this, my friend. You just need to practice your own skills. Mein gott, I cannot believe I was trying to teach magic to a sorcerer.”

Fjord found himself grinning as well, despite his confusion. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, uh…I didn’t realize there was somethin’ different about…uh…wait, are you sayin’ that your magic isn’t coming from you?”

“Oh, of course not,” Caleb chuckled. “I channel the raw arcana that exists in this world around us, in every living thing, in every thought and idea and emotion and et cetera. That is what all this chicken-scratch is,” he added, pointing at the notes. “But you get your magic from yourself. Whether it be because your ancestors were cursed, or blessed, or maybe one of them was a dragon, I don’t know, were your parents dragons, by any chance?”

Fjord’s smile faded slightly. “Uh…probably not,” he said. “I never, uh, knew them.”

Caleb’s jovial air immediately vanished. “Scheiss,” he said, “I am sorry. That was tasteless—”

Fjord shook his head. “No, no, don’t worry about it. But, uh…just checking, are those the only kinds of people who do magic? There aren’t, I dunno, there aren’t any individuals who just kind of picked it up along the way, or maybe they found something that granted them powers, or anything? It’s, it’s great to know I’m a sorcerer, that’s so cool, but you know, since we’re on the subject, is there anything…else?”

“Oh, ja, there are all sorts out there in the world. Warlocks, most of them, who tie themselves to unspeakable evils in exchange for a bit of power, sure.”

“Oh,” Fjord squeaked. “Uh…unspeakable evils, huh?”

Caleb shrugged. “Well, not always evil. Sometimes they’re gods, or they’re wandering spirits with nothing better to do. But I was always taught that more often than not, otherworldly patrons have otherworldly agendas that usually spell disaster. Then again, I was taught many things that today, I do not necessarily agree with.”

Caleb picked up his pencil again, and nodded to Fjord. “Now that we have established my uselessness as a magical tutor, then, perhaps we should spend the next hour on something else.”

“What?” Fjord asked, jolting out of his daze.

“What else do you need assistance with?” Caleb repeated. “Jester stopped by a few days ago asking about the Ratio Test, and your study guide says it will be on the final exam soon. Would you like to go over that?”

Fjord blinked, and then nodded quickly and reached for his math binder. “Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

"How do you feel, so far? Do you understand it?"

Fjord rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Uh...actually, I kind of don't. Sorry, I really haven't had time to study lately, what with all the craziness at work, and everythin' that goes into moving apartments."

“No worries, I am here to help. That is what you are, under my protest, paying me for, yes?”

“Gods, Caleb, I’m not gonna extort free labor from you. Not even if you insist.”

“I told you, it was more than enough for you advertise my services to your classmates. I am fully booked for this week, Fjord! That is…truly, that is an incredible gift you have given me.”

Fjord grinned. “Don't thank me, thank reading week," he said. "But, I mean...yeah. Of course. That’s what friends are for, right?”

Caleb chuckled softly. “You know, Jester has been sneaking envelopes of cash into my bags before she leaves from her lessons as well, now. Do you…do you have anything to do with that?”

“I dunno,” Fjord said, though it sounded like he did. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

Caleb snorted. “I still haven’t figured out what rate she is paying me,” he said. “Sometimes it looks like ten cents an hour, sometimes thirty dollars. Does she understand how much money is worth?”

Fjord sighed, and flipped open to his notes. “I’ve seen the size of her trust fund,” he said. “She hasn’t got a clue.”

“Well,” Caleb said, reaching for his own papers, “let us hope she never has to learn.”

•

At this time of year, the Pentamarket Square was in full holiday swing. Storefronts burst with gold and silver lights, tinsel glittered along the awnings, and colorful wreaths adorned their doors. The usual wide tents of the street vendors had been replaced with wooden booths, their four walls covered in more sparkling lights, and their space heaters spilling warmth over the open counters and into the brisk winter air. Children wrapped in parkas and woolen hats ran through the cobbled plaza, and young couples window-shopped hand-in-hand. Cheery music played from a number of outdoor speakers, and the smell of hot baked goods, wisps of cinnamon, sugar, and chocolate syrup, drifted up and over the crowd.

This was the Winter Market, and it would last up until the week after New Dawn.

Nott the Brave, skipping cheerfully through the crowd at knee-height, was here to take advantage of that. Her pockets were already rather heavier than they had been this morning.

But just as she spotted a particularly promising-looking old woman with a shiny polished cane, she heard something that made her stop dead in her tracks and look around wildly.

“—ah, you look like someone who’d like to know their future, how about it? No? Well then, how about you, miss? Yes, I can see you’ve got something very important happening soon! What’s that? Well, you’d have to sit down for a reading to find out, eh?”

Nott immediately abandoned her search for loose wallets and jewelry and began shoving her way through, weaving around legs and ducking under shopping bags, until she arrived at a tented stall selling warm apple cider.

Next to it, sitting cross-legged on a thick, navy-blue carpet, was none other than Mollymauk Tealeaf himself. He was wearing his full makeup, glittering eyeshadow and all, and had his crimson performer’s coat on. A white cardboard sign by his knee read, FORTUNES TOLD FOR GENEROUS TIPPERS, and he was shuffling a thick stack of blue-and-gold cards between his fingers as he beamed widely at passing shoppers, winked to small children, even tipped an imaginary hat to an old woman walking by.

And then he caught sight of Nott, her face poking out from behind a young couple’s shins. His eyebrows shot up, and he smirked all the way until she had finally managed to throw herself onto his carpet, the small rectangular island of peace in this sea of people.

“Well, well, well,” Molly grinned, setting his cards aside and gesturing for her to sit. “Look at what the cat dragged in! Nott the Brave, how are you, dear?”

Nott took the seat opposite him. “I’m fine, I guess, but what’s up with you? Why are you here?”

Molly shrugged. “It’s the holiday season, dear. No better time for attracting customers! Well, it’s not quite as good as Midsummer or Merryfrond’s Day, or Harvest’s Close, but it’s best you can do in the winter, eh?”

“Winter sucks,” Nott grumbled. “Aren’t you freezing, out here? Most people bundle up so much there’s nothing I can pickpocket.”

Molly snorted. “Is that why you’re here?” he asked.

Nott crossed her arms. “You can’t prove anything,” she said. “But seriously, isn’t it cold? You’re going to get sick.”

“I won’t,” he reassured her, “tieflings run hot.”

“You’re not running now. How is that supposed to help?”

Molly opened his mouth as if to respond, then paused, and sighed. “Nevermind, dear. But hey, since you’re already here, how about a reading? I’d be willing to do it free of charge, for a friend as delightful as you.”

Nott rubbed her chin. “Are we even friends? I mean, I know we hang out with the same people, I think, but the two of us have never exactly…bonded.”

Molly waved a hand dismissively. “Let’s make this our bonding experience, then! Let me read your fortune.”

She responded with a suspicious glare. “This isn’t your way of buttering me up because you want to get to Caleb, is it?”

Molly lowered his hand. “Of course not!” he said. “But, er, he hasn’t mentioned me at all, has he? It’s been a couple weeks but, uh, I was just curious,” he added hastily.

“Ha! I knew it.”

“Come on, Nott, you can’t blame me for just asking. Besides, I am genuinely invested in getting to know you, now. Jester likes you plenty, and Yasha seems to have taken a shine to you, and you insult Beau just as much as I do, so really, we’re just best friends waiting to happen.”

She eyed him over carefully. Then she sighed and nodded. “Alright, alright, performer boy—”

“—mmm, not boy.”

“Performer person?”

“That’s sort of better—”

“Performer fey-being?”

“...sure, alright. Yeah, let's go with that.”

Nott nodded and leaned in. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Molly deftly scooped his cards back up and began to toss them from hand to hand, effortlessly forming a gleaming bridge between his fingers. He laughed cheekily as Nott rolled her eyes at the extravagance of it all. Then he made a few more passes, flicked his wrist elegantly, and let three cards fall onto the carpet between them. They landed face-down, lined up evenly next to one another, and Nott genuinely couldn’t tell if that was dumb luck, or pure skill.

“Would you like to flip them over yourself?” he asked generously.

“Why?” she asked. “Is that part of the trick?”

Molly scoffed. “It’s not a trick. It’s fortune-telling.”

Nott raised her eyebrow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

•

“Hey, Beau?” Jester asked, lowering her magazine. “I know I don’t usually ask about this kind of stuff, but…shouldn’t you be looking for a job?”

Beau, who had been furiously doing chin-ups on a rod jammed into the doorway leading into the living room, paused. Arms raised, bare feet brushing the ground, she gave Jester a suspicious look.

“Why’re you so interested, all of a sudden?” she asked. “You’re not worried about money, are you?”

“No, no,” Jester said, and set aside her issue of Iva’s Secrets. “Well, okay, kind of a little bit. But I’m worried about your money. What are you going to do when I move out? Are, are you going to, to find a super-rich roommate, or something?”

Beau dropped off the bar and sighed. “It’s sort of a long story, but I don’t really…I’m actually good, financially speaking.”

Jester blinked. “Good? What do you mean by that?”

“I just mean…it’s not a concern. I found a way to get cash.” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. “It’s not even illegal, so don’t worry about that either.”

“You just found some way to make money like that, not illegally, where you don’t have to work for it?”

“Yup.”

Jester considered this. Then she reached for her magazine and nodded. “You should write an article or something about that for Iva. That sounds just like the sort of thing that she likes to put on the cover.”

“I’m really concerned about what that rag is teaching you, Jes.”

“I’m not.”

Beau snorted. “Fair enough,” she said. Then she added, under her breath, “It wouldn’t really work for everyone, anyways.”

•

“—and then I told him that his fortunes aren’t right, because I’ve never even owned that many swords before.”

Caleb paused in his whiteboard calculations, bit the end of his dry-erase marker, and stared at Nott. She was sitting at the edge of the kitchen table, swinging her legs off the side and peacefully decimating family-sized pack of chips.

“Are you…aware of how tarot cards work?” he asked slowly.

She waved a hand dismissively, sending Xtreme BBQ flavoring scattering through the ar. “Not really. But I also wasn’t paying too much attention, because while he was talking, I saw a woman passing by with some really nice buttons, so I was busy trying to Mage Hand them off of her.”

“Ah,” Caleb said weakly. “I see. And did you get those buttons that you wanted?”

She beamed, wiped her hand off, and fished around in her hoodie. She produced three glittering, gold baubles the size of her fingernails.

“Got ‘em. Look, look, they’re in the shapes of flowers, I think.”

Caleb did not in fact look very closely, but his slightly-weary, mildly-amused smile was good enough for Nott.

“How’s the accountant stuff going?” she asked after the buttons had been safely stowed back into her pockets. “Are we looking good for the month?”

“More than good,” Caleb grinned, and swiveled the whiteboard around for her to see. “We are looking the best that we ever had, spatz, thanks to Fjord and Jester for getting their classmates to hire me. Movie night tomorrow will go off without a hitch, I am sure. We even have money for extra pizzas! We can even go to a bookstore, can you imagine?”

“I can,” Nott said happily. “I can imagine it real well. Thanks, Caleb.”

He scoffed. “Do not thank me, I am just riding on a wave of good luck and kind people.”

“No, no,” Nott shook her head. “I meant, thanks for keeping me around. And for, um, buying me stuff, and letting me live here. And for not kicking me out even though you’re rich now.”

“I am not rich, far from it,” he laughed. “But…” he added in a more somber tone, “well, of course. Of course. It is a pleasure and an honor that you are my friend, and I wouldn’t exchange that for anything else.”

Nott cracked a small smile. “Thanks, Caleb,” she said. “I wouldn’t, either. Here, have some chips.”

After that lull in the conversation, he went back to checking over his math, then set on memorizing the contents of their budget. But just as the thought crossed his mind that, actually, I could just buy paper now to do this on, there was a loud cough from across the table. He looked up, and saw and Nott eyeing him over nervously, the snacks discarded at her side.

“Er…yes?” He blinked a few times. “Is everything alright?”

Nott sighed, and pulled out her phone. “That depends,” she said, and handed it over to Caleb. “That depends on whether or not you’d be willing to ask a specific purple bastard out for some more coffee.”

Caleb lowered his marker and frowned. “Er…what?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “When was the last time you spoke to Molly?” she asked. “Alone I mean, not at movie night. I know you don’t use your phone, and I bet you haven’t gone out together since.”

“Well, no,” Caleb frowned, “I have not. But…do I need to?”

“Didn’t you have fun on your last coffee-not-a-date?”

“Yes? I did?”

“So don’t you want to do it again?”

Caleb hesitated. He fidgeted with his marker. “No? Er…yes. Wait, no, that’s…” He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I had fun,” he said. “But that does not mean…that does not mean I want to ask Molly to do it once more. I mean, what reason would we even have to meet up? He does not have any of my possessions, at the moment, and I do not have any of his.”

Nott stared at him incredulously. “Caleb…you don’t need an excuse to see him.”

He bit his lip. “Yes, I do.”

“What? Why’s that?”

Caleb sighed, and put his forehead against the kitchen table. “I…I can’t just ask him. He’s probably busy, and probably has much better things to do.”

“Now, that’s just a lie,” Nott countered. “Both of us know pretty well that he’s been bored out of his mind ever since the Moondrop shut down.”

“Ja, alright, but he would probably be offended if I asked him to coffee out of pity.”

“But it’s not out of pity, it’s because you’re friends and you want to hang out!”

“Are we…friends?”

Nott leaned over, and prodded Caleb between the eyes. “You won’t be for long, if you keep avoiding him! Come on, it’s easy! Just pick up the phone, ask him if he’s busy. I don’t know why you’re so freaked out.”

Caleb considered this. He thought about telling the truth, telling Nott that he couldn’t do it, that he was afraid to ask, that if he initiated things, then he would be acknowledging his own feelings, that he would be indulging in something he shouldn’t, that he would be making things real, that he didn’t deserve this happiness, and that worst of all, above everything else, he would be betraying her—

But then he thought about how much he didn’t want to say any of that. He thought about how excited Nott was for him, how supportive she had become, and really, how nervous and excited and elated he felt at the prospect of seeing…

Caleb sighed, and reached for Nott’s cell phone.

“Fine, fine. But you’re going to help me compose the message, spatz. I…I really don’t remember how to do this sort of thing.”

Nott grinned. “Oh, I know exactly what to do! I’ve been reading that magazine Jester showed me, ever since you got back from the last date."

“You’ve-wait, what?”

“Shhh. Don’t worry about it. Okay now, type this out—”

•

Today 6:22PM

Nott TB: good evening Mister Mollymauk Nott TB: it has been some time since we last spoke Nott TB: how are you doing? Molly Tealeaf: … Molly Tealeaf: nott what the fuck Molly Tealeaf: I just saw you today Molly Tealeaf: why are you talking like that

Molly, sprawled across his bed and back in his silk pajamas—at six in the evening, no less—watched the tiny dots appear at the bottom of his phone. He had a glass of wine in one hand, and an appropriately bewildered expression across his face.

Nott TB: schmid Nott TB: *scheiss Nott TB: I am so sorry this is Caleb, actually Nott TB: sorry

Molly spat his wine out. He practically threw the glass onto the nightstand in an effort to free both his thumbs.

Molly Tealeaf: CALEB Molly Tealeaf: GODS I THOUGHT THIS WAS NOTT Molly Tealeaf: CALEB???

There was a brief pause. And then the words:

Nott TB: yes, caleb Nott TB: Caleb Widogast? We went on that double date once Nott TB: and we fought a really big toad together a couple weeks ago Nott TB: I think you told nott a fortune this morning, I am her roommate

Molly snorted, and shook his head.

Molly Tealeaf: yes yes dear I know who you are! Molly Tealeaf: I was just surprised!! Molly Tealeaf: I didn’t think you knew how to text

Another pause.

Nott TB: nott says that youre joking and also that this is a common theme in our group chats Molly Tealeaf: shes absolutely correct Molly Tealeaf: now, how have YOU been? and how can I help you?’

Molly was not too proud to admit that he waited, with baited breath, for the answer.

Nott TB: oh Nott TB: actually I have been well Nott TB: and I was wondering Nott TB: if you were free any time this week? Nott TB: id like to get some coffee together, if you also would Nott TB: my treat this time

Molly felt his soul burst into song.

Molly Tealeaf: that sounds lovely!! Molly Tealeaf: and I would never say no to such a gentleman Molly Tealeaf: Wednesday or Thursday works for me! Nott TB: thursday it is

Then there was a long pause, and the “…” icon appeared on the screen for almost a minute, before one last text came through.

Nott TB: I have missed spending time with you Nott TB: see you then.

Then this was followed by another message.

Nott TB: im back Nott TB: I hope your happy Nott TB: im deleting this conversation off my phone

Molly rolled his eyes, and waited a few more beats, just in case there was more on the way. When nothing else happened, he sighed deeply, screenshotted the entire exchange—for posterity’s sake. Then got up and waltzed out into the kitchen for more wine.

As he closed the refrigerator door, his eye caught the calendar that Fjord had hung up ten months ago. They had used it for about a week, before promptly abandoning it in favor of never knowing what day it was.

He flipped all the way to the last page, and found at this coming Thursday.

Soon.

•

“Oh, but then he confesses his love for her!” Jester sighed, leaning flush against the brick wall behind their building and pressing a hand to her forehead. “He tells her that no matter what, he would stay true to her forever, and then she starts crying because no man has ever been that open and loving to her in her entire life!”

“Uh-huh,” Beau mumbled. She was only half-listening to Jester’s account of Guard of My Heart, instead directing most of her energy towards trying to open the lid of the dumpster—which had sealed itself shut with a thin layer of frozen trash slime—as fast as possible, so they could get back inside. The weather forecast had predicted heavy snowfall tonight.

“But then in the second act, her family finds out about it!” Jester continued. “And of course they don’t approve, she’s a high-ranking member of the Crownsguard! And he’s only a lowly butler, but they’re so in love, and—”

“Uh-huh,” Beau muttered. She had almost lost her thumb to jagged ice, and was now trying to figure out a different angle of attack.

“Beau, are you even listening?” Jester asked, crossing her arms. “You just cut me off.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Maybe if she wedged a stick under the hinges, yes, that could work—

“Beau! Beauuuuuu, are you sure you’re listening?”

“Yeah, yeah, Jester, their…families suck?”

“Oh. Oh, you were paying attention! Right, okay, so, basically what happens next is that her dad forces him to a duel for her favor, and the conditions are that he has to duel a member of their family. And that sucks, because all of them are such badasses, you know? But then, oh my gosh, I didn’t even see this coming, she’s also in the family! And so now it’s two lovers forced to fight, one to prove his love and one to defend hers, and…”

Beau finally gave up, and took a deep breath, and slammed her shoulder as hard as she could into the tiny gap between the top of the lid and the dumpster itself. It flew open, leaving a rank trail of festering garbage-stink through the air as it went, and Beau was so relieved that she almost immediately threw the trash bag over the edge to call it a day.

But she didn’t.

Which was fortunate, because if not for that split second of hesitation, if not for the quick pause she had afforded this errand, Beau would have completely missed the tiny black bundle huddled in the corner of the bin, draped in dirty, wet fabric, and shivering in the cold.

She dropped the garbage bag onto the pavement. She threw her face closer to take a better look, ignoring the smell.

“What’s wrong?” Jester asked, and joined her at the edge of the dumpster. “What is it?”

“Do you see that?” Beau asked. “I…I can’t really see in the dark, but…there’s something in here? I think it’s moving?”

Jester peered in. “Ugh, it's so gross, what are—”

Her eyes, glowing a faint purple and built for low light, immediately latched on to what Beau was talking about.

“Oh, shit,” Jester breathed. “Oh my gods, what should we do?”

•

TUSK LOVE 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO Today 7:09PM

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: heyyyyyyyyyy guys? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: uh (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: I think maybe whoever is free right now might want to come over (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: beau and i sort of found something???? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: and we need a little help Lavender Thunder: of course, I’ll come now Lavender Thunder: what kind of help? NottSoBrave: and what kind of something??? Seaman: fuck, im at work Jes Seaman: is everything alright? Drunkmonk: we're fine but like Drunkmonk: just Dunkmonk: you have to come and see alright? we don’t know what the fuck to do NottSoBrave: caleb says “don’t worry” NottSoBrave: caleb says “we’re on the way”

Today 7:14PM

NottSoBrave: caleb says “help we don’t have a car” DrunkMonk: good gods Lavender Thunder: im stealing Fjord’s station wagon, i’ll get you two NottSoBrave: caleb says “tell Molly I said thanks” Lavender Thunder: (o^-')b Lavender Thunder: be there in a flash

• • •

💚 ☕ ☕ 💚

#AND WE'RE BACK #critical role #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #jay writes #critfic #widomauk #fjorjester #text #long post #cr2 #the mighty nein #something new for me and you

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