#even though my mum's parents have been dead for seven / eight years

[glitterandholland]

The Emergency Contact || Tom Holland

Prologue

Mentions death and an accident

Rohan Grace MacAllister was seven years old the first time she met Tom Holland. Her family had just moved to Kingston from Alabama, USA for her fathers job. She was the youngest of two children, and she was terrified to start a new school in a different country. A classroom full of seven and eight year olds was scary, and kids were mean, but when the teacher showed her table, the boy sat across from her was the nicest person she’d ever met.

“Hi!” He greeted. “I’m Thomas, but my mum and dad call me Tommy.” She smiled at him, taking in his kind brown eyes and mop of curls.

“I’m Rohan. My mom and dad call me Ro though.” She told him. The boy went wide eyed as she spoke.

“Whoa. Your accent is cool.” He said.

They became friends fast, really. Tommy showed her the ropes of the British school system, and made her laugh. They stayed attached at the hip throughout the years, Rohan supporting his dreams and him hers.

Then when she was sixteen, he was woken up at two am by his phone ringing. Why was Rohan calling him at this hour, he didn’t have a clue, but she was sobbing on the phone when he answered

“Tommy” she sobbed. He’d long since outgrown the nickname, preferring Tom now, but she still called him Tommy. “Tommy can you come to the hospital? St. Ausgustine”

“Let me wake my mum.” He told her. “What’s going on, Ro?”

“I— We were in an accident, me and my family. We went out to dinner to celebrate Alex’s birthday and we were hit head on” she sobbed. “Tommy, my parents and brother are dead.”

“I’m coming, Ro. Give me a half hour and I’ll be there.” He told her. As soon as the call disconnected, he was out of bed and throwing on clothes before running down the hall to his parents room.

“Mum!” He was on the verge of tears himself. “Mum, I need you to take me to the hospital.”

Nikki Holland shot awake at the word hospital, thinking something was terribly wrong with her son. As soon as she saw he was almost in tears she softened a bit.

“What’s wrong Tom?” She asked, he let out a shaky breath. “Tom you have to talk to me.”

“Rohan was in an accident” he sniffled. “Mum, her parents and brother are dead. Where is she going to go, Mum?”

“Oh Tom, c’mere. Let me get dressed and we’ll go to the hospital. Where is she at?”

“St. Augustine” he told her.

The Holland family had taken guardianship of Rohan until she turned eighteen so that she could finish her education. Nikki would never admit it to her son, but she enjoyed having the girl around and could tell Tom cared for her more than a friend, but he never said a word about it. While Tom got his big acting break with Captain America: Civil War, Rohan went to university and got a business degree, starting her own small business in London upon graduating and had made a name for herself.

Now, Tom was sat in an interview for Uncharted, and was fairly certain he was being bored to death by it. The stuffy room in New York was small, and he’d left his phone with his best friend, Harrison, while he did this interview. It was the end of the press tour so by this point, all the questions he’d already heard a million times and he was glad he was an actor so he could play the role of the energetic star of the movie, even though deep down he really hated being in such big roles sometimes.

Three firm knocks came from the other side of the heavy wooden door. Was the time up already? Had he successfully acted his way through the interview. A glance at the clock told him it’d only been twenty five of the allotted forty five minutes, so he was suddenly confused. He knitted his eyebrows together when the door opened and Harrison appeared.

“I’m sorry.” The other man spoke. ���Mr. Holland has a flight in an hour due to an emergency at home, so we really have to go.”

By the time they’d gotten his stuff from the hotel, Tom hadn’t gotten much more information out of his friend.

“What’s going on, Haz?” He finally asked. “Is my family okay?”

“Your family is fine.” Haz told him. “Your phone rang while you were in that interview and I answered it. Did you know you’re Rohan’s emergency contact?”

“I did. We set it up that way when she graduated from Uni.” Tom said. “What happened?”

“The doctor wouldn’t tell me.” Haz explained. “But whatever it was, she’s shut down on everyone. They said all she’ll do is ask for you. In my eyes, that’s an emergency and I needed to get you back to London.” Tom could feel tears threatening to start pooling in his eyes. Was she hurt? What had happened to make her shut down like that?

“You’re right.” He rasped. “I need to get to her. She’s the most important girl in my life.”

And even though he figured she’d didn’t have her phone on her, he couldn’t help but pull his own out to text her.

I’m coming, Ro. I’m getting on a plane and I’ll be there as soon as I get off. I love you.

[solohux]

Prompt: exiled kylux with their kids learning how to live like ordinary people, if you don't mind.

The sounds of little bare feet running through the house wakes Hux from sleep whilst dawn is still in its youth outside the windows of their farmhouse, its rays barely strong enough to shine through the curtains, yet the twins are awake and ready to start their day.

“Dad! Mum! It’s the first day of spring! Wake up!”

Hux groans, having had a particularly late night with his husband and having hoped that he could have a lie in this morning but seven year old twins, Ares and Arild, have their own agenda it seems. The boys burst into their bedroom with an overwhelming amount of positive energy, too much for their parents to deal with before noon, so Hux keeps his eyes closed and snuggles underneath the warm duvets as Ares and Arild jump excitedly at the end of the bed.

“Ren,” Hux sighs, rolling over to face Kylo who’s still snoring. “Ren. Your sons want you.”

“Mm,” Kylo groans, waking up but keeping his eyes closed. “Before sunrise, they’re your sons.”

“Daaaad!” Ares leaps up onto the bed, flopping himself down between his parents and pouting with disappointment. “Dad. You promised we go out first thing to see the new spring sunrise!”

“That’s true, Ren,” Hux says, hugging Ari—the quieter of the twins—when he lies down on top of him. “You promised.”

Ares waits with held breath, his nose pressed against his father’s, making Ari giggle.

“Breakfast first,” Kylo mutters.

“Yes!” The twins leap from the bed and dart out of the room, talking excitedly about what animals they may see on their trek uphill through the neighbouring forest to the very top of the hill where a grand vista of the valley waits; it’s where Kylo proposed to Hux almost eight years ago.

The silver wedding ring upon Hux’s finger glints as he cups his husband’s cheek and tucks his dark hair behind his ear, admiring the few greys that have appeared in the black strands.

“I’ve had better wake up calls than that,” Kylo says, finally opening his eyes.

“I did have a rather pleasant morning planned for us before the boys woke up but looks like they beat me to it,” Hux teases, giving Kylo a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see to breakfast. You make the bed and take a shower, hm?”

“Yes, General,” Kylo pouts, stealing another kiss before Hux gets up and adorns his slippers and robe, fastening it tightly around his soft middle. He can hear the boys in the kitchen, rattling plates and bowls as they prepare the table for breakfast but Hux’s mind is drifting, thinking back to the life that he once thought that he would never give up.

General. He hasn’t gone by that title for years, not since the battle of Crait, not since he discovered he was pregnant on that same night that Kylo revealed that Snoke’s haunting voice inside of his mind hadn’t gone away despite the old creature being dead. With twins on the way, Hux remembers being held so tightly in Kylo’s arms as they decided to leave it all and go into exile, into hiding, for the sake of their future.

It had hurt at first, leaving his life’s work behind but upon finding and renovating this farmhouse on a quaint and beautiful planetoid in the Inner Rim and upon having the twins, Hux discovered that everything that his heart had desired was here, not on the bridge of a star destroyer.

He walks into the kitchen to find that Ares and Arild have already dressed themselves and are trying to prepare for breakfast, with the table set and the kettle on.

“Ares,” Hux chastises, raising an eyebrow as the eggs levitate from their place in the cupboard and into the pan on the stove. “Be careful.”

“Dad said using my powers was okay,” the boy pouts, frowning.

“It is okay, darling,” Hux says, sweeping his son off his feet and lifting him to sit on the kitchen worktop. “Inside of the house.”

“But why?”

Ari hugs Hux’s leg, clearly in need of a share of the attention that his brother is getting. Hux lifts the boy to sit next to his twin, using his hands to stroke through their hair and then kiss both of them on their foreheads.

“Because there are some bad people in the galaxy who may want to hurt us,” Hux says softly. “And if they saw you��either of you—using the Force then they’d be afraid. People hurt people when they’re afraid.”

“But, Dad does it. He uses his powers aaaall the time.” Ares folds his arms.

“Your Father is a law unto himself,” Hux scoffs. “I’ve known him for almost fourteen years and I’ve never been able to tell him what to do even when he knows that I’m right.”

“Mama is always right,” Ari says, nodding.

“Correct, my darling,” Hux smiles though it fades when he remembers what an outsider might do if he sees one of his boys using their Force skills; their cover would be blown and their peaceful life would be uprooted. “But…he has more control over his powers than you do. You’re both young and still learning. I know it isn’t fair but your Father and I only want to protect you. Understand?”

“Yes, Mum,” the twins say together, and both of them reach out simultaneously to hug him.

“Good boys,” he says, taking them both into his arms, kissing the tops of their heads. They’re his galaxy, both so beautiful in their own unique ways and so different despite being twins. Ares may be more attune to the Force than Ari but Ari wears his heart on his sleeve just like their father, feeling to truly and deeply even without a strong connection to the Force.

“How dare you have hugs like this without me,” Kylo says, stepping into the kitchen wearing his trekking gear though his hair is still damp from his shower.

“You said that they were my sons before dawn,” Hux says, refusing to let go. “Go away, Ren.”

“No, Dad!” Ares laughs, reaching a hand out. “Join in!”

Kylo does, enveloping them all in his armspan and cuddling them, smiling so widely that Hux can feel it against his own cheek.

Exile may not have been his first choice for the rest of his life but he wouldn’t change anything about it now. Ordinary does not mean inferior.

[purple-dahlias]

homesickness for reesker from the bthb? <3

There’s a box under the bed that Ava hardly ever opens. It’s roughly the size of a shoebox and filled with memories. Something she’d bought over with her from South Africa when she made the move to Chicago now over two years ago. She had chosen to travel light, mostly, but that box contained most everything she didn’t want to part with. That she didn’t want to forget. The small things and moments that made up the pieces of her.

That afternoon, though, she wasn’t even looking for it. In fact, she had almost completely forgotten its existence until she went hunting for her running shoes, which had turned out to be under the bed, but were now lying forgotten beside her, in favour of The Box.

Ava opens it up carefully, and really, it’s a wonder the lid ever went on in the first place. It’s packed to the brim, full of photos and scraps of paper and postcards and other memorabilia from her life before America. One where the weather was warm and the sun kissed her skin and she hardly ever had need for a coat, completely unlike Chicago where it seemed you were bundled up for the most part of the year.

Sat cross-legged on the floor, Ava picks up the first photograph that had fallen out when she’d lifted the lid off the box. It’s of a house. A house with light coloured walls and a pale blue door. One where the large, fiery red crocosmia peeked out from over the wall and a chestnut tree could be seen, its branches extensive, spanning wide across the front garden. That was the tree she had broken her arm falling out of when she was eight, Ava remembers, smiling at the memory (though she hadn’t been smiling much at the time, she recalls). She traces a finger across the photo. This was the house she had grown up in, her and her sister Hilde.

Hilde. And that’s who the next photo is of. It’s the two of them sat at the kitchen table, Hilde in front of a large iced cake with seven multicoloured candles, a tiara on her head and dressed in a pink fairy costume. Ava remembers that day well: it had been Hilde’s seventh birthday, and her mother had been crying moments before they had bought Hilde into the kitchen because it had almost been a year since Hilde had been given the all-clear from the oncologist and there was a time when it was hard to believe she’d pull through to make it this far. But she had. She was a fighter.

Ava misses Hilde, wonders what she’s doing right now in that moment, halfway across the world, all those miles separating them as she puts the photo carefully aside and picking up a stack from the box. Next come photos of her childhood bedroom, of her school friends, of trips to Sea Point and down to the beaches. Her parents on their twentieth wedding anniversary. Seashells. Her fifth birthday candle. An assortment of other small objects that send the waves of memories rolling over her, like the tides did down at Long Beach. Letters and birthday cards and ticket stubs. Her mother’s face smiling up at her from grainy photographs. Moments perfectly frozen in time, ones that Ava can almost hear.

She doesn’t even realise she’s started crying until the tears fall onto the photograph she’s holding. It’s one of her with her friends, just after high school had finished. She remembers that one well. And it all just hurts. She doesn’t mean that particular photograph. It’s all of them. All the memories. The time and distance separating her from them, from being back there in her mother’s kitchen, from driving down those familiar roads, from her father’s laugh, from Hilde being just across the hallway from her.

It leaves a deep ache inside of her, which was why she never really opened that box. She didn’t want to get swept up by the past. Because even though she’d chosen to leave, it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Especially with all that she had left behind, and how, since leaving, she hadn’t been back. Not once. Sure, there had been phone calls and video chats but it wasn’t the same. It’s strange to think of the place, with all the people she’d known and loved and grown up with still existing, carrying on, without her there.

The bedroom light flickers on and Ava looks up, blinking at the sudden light, to see Sarah standing there in the doorway. She hadn’t realised she had been sitting there for so long that it had already gotten so dark. She hadn’t even heard Sarah come home, so engrossed as she’d been.

“Avey? Are you alright?” Sarah asks, concern filling her voice as she notices the tear tracks on Ava’s cheeks, coming to sit beside her there on the floor, leaning against the bed, the pile of photos and memories littered around the two of them. Sarah doesn’t remember ever having seen the box or its contents before.

Ava just shrugs noncommittally, watching as Sarah comes to sit beside her there on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed. She wasn’t quite sure how she was supposed to answer that, to put it all into words.

“It’s silly,” Ava finally begins, filling up the silence, “but I just miss it,” she reveals, gesturing to the photographs strewn about as she leans back against the wall, bringing her knees up and burying her face in them, not wanting to look at Sarah right now.

Sarah takes the opportunity to take a look at the photos Ava had gestured to. There’s one of two girls, one older, with the same eyes, the younger with decidedly curlier hair, both grinning up at whoever had been taking the photo.

“Hilde,” Ava says, by way of explanation when she sees Sarah looking, and Sarah nods in understanding. Ava had told her so much about her sister Hilde, and Sarah could only imagine how hard it must be for Ava to be apart from her, timezones and oceans separating them.

“You both look so happy here,” Sarah smiles, holding the photo carefully in her hands, a window into the past.

“We spent almost the entire day at the beach that day,” Ava says, remembering the day fondly. “Neither of us wanted to go home and we begged and begged to be allowed to stay. And then Hilde fell asleep on the sand under a pile of towels and mum freaked out because she thought we’d lost her.”

Sarah smiles at that, and inches her way closer to Ava, so that they’re both sitting side by side, backs leaning against the wall.

“The sunsets are amazing, Ava tells Sarah, showing her a photo. “The camera doesn’t do it justice. “I’ll have to take you there, one day,” she promises.

“I’d like that.”

“I guess it’s just, even though home is here now, with you in Chicago, it’s hard to see it that way sometimes, when almost all the memories are attached to another city on another continent.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself, Avey,” Sarah assures her. “And it’s not silly. Not at all. Of course you miss the place you grew up, where you spent most of your life. Where your family are. It’s only natural. But, we could go visit, if you like?” Sarah says carefully, posing it as a question, eyes trained on Ava who snaps her head up at that.

“Really?”

“Sure,” Sarah affirms. “Of course, we’d both have to get time off agreed, but I don’t think that would be a problem. I’d love to see where you grew up, and I’m sure it would do you a whole lot of good to see everyone you miss. And anyway, I’d love to meet your sister. Trade embarrassing stories. All that stuff.”

“Oh no, I am making sure you two are never alone together,” Ava decides firmly.

“Relax, I won’t tell her about the time you practically blew up the toaster and short circuited the house because you dropped tin foil in there.”

“You’d better not, Sarah Reese,” warns Ava. “And I thought we agreed to never bring that up again. It was late and I was hungry,” but she’s smiling now.

“Alright, alright,” hushes Sarah, putting an arm around Ava and pulling her close.

“You smell like hospital,” Ava informs her after a little while.

“Well I did just get back from a twelve hour shift,” retorts Sarah. “Not all of us were lucky enough to get a day off today.”

“Take that up with Connor. We traded shifts because he wanted to take Will to some stupid sports game, but, I did get the day off, so who am I to complain? Not when it ends like this,” she smiles into the crook of Sarah’s neck, twisting a coil of Sarah’s hair around one finger.

“Aves, not that I don’t love this and all, but my leg’s gone dead. Mind if we take this somewhere more comfortable?”

“I was comfortable,” Ava grumbles, helping Sarah up.

“Well, if it helps persuade you, I got doughnuts on my way back.”

“You did? From that place on Ellis?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, let’s go, then,” Ava says eagerly, practically dragging Sarah from the room.

[cassieschaosdimension]

The First Train Ride

The first chapter of Snake Befriending Lion by Bookdragonfanish on AO3! Please feel free to check it out to leave a comment or kudo if you haven't already!

*THIS IS NOT EDITED YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!*

Eleven year old Draco Malfoy stands on Platform Nine and Three Quarters hoping for a glimpse of the boy who lived. He, like everyone else in the Wizarding world, had grown up hearing his name. The story was one of legend and he wondered if Harry remembered it all. He was interrupted in his thoughts by two rambunctious red headed boys who brushed past him laughing loudly. He heard his father give a sniff of disapproval.

He pitied the boys even though he knew nothing about them. His father, Lucius Malfoy, was notorious for making sure none of his enemies were around to stop him. Draco had always wondered about the company his parents kept, much preferring to stay in his room whilst they had any visitors at all.

"Draco darling," that was his mother. He sauntered over to where she was and listened to what she had to say. "Draco, Remember no matter what happens at school, your father and I love you very much. We will write you as soon as we get home and eagerly await your owl. Chin up, back straight. Malfoys and Blacks do not slouch."

Nodding his head, Draco says "Yes mother. I love both of you too. And I can't wait to see the castle with the lake and my classes. Mum, do you think people will like me? What if I can't make any friends? I don't want to hang out with Blaise or Crabbe and Goyle or Pansy. They're mean and stuck up to people."

"Just be yourself darling and remember what I told you. Go see your father." Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, formerly known as Black, was a thin woman who demanded respect when she walked into a room. No one ever knew what she was thinking, but one thing they knew was she loved her family dearly. She would do anything to keep her son safe and away from harm.

Draco walks over to his father. "Draco, while you're at Hogwarts please try to remember we are not like the others. We are of noble blood and we must be treated as such. Do not let others get you down. You are a Malfoy and the name of Malfoy has demanded respect for centuries. Do not mess it up. Have fun at Hogwarts, but do not forget what I have told you. Get on the train.

Mr. Lucius Malfoy did not have the best childhood and when Narcissa became pregnant he vowed to protect his son from harm. He did this by only letting him intermingle with those of his own kind. He made sure his son had a normal childhood. Well as normal as he would let him.

After hugging and kissing his mother and shaking hands with his father Draco runs excitedly onto the train waiting to see if he could make any friends before he even got to Hogwarts. After looking into one compartment on the train he shies away from that one. It had really tall, really loud people in it! He didn't want that at all.

Another compartment had only girls. His only experience with girls his own age had been Pansy and he wasn't eager to find out if all girls were like her. She was enough to deal with. He wanted a group of guy friends. Crabbe and Goyle did what he said because his father was the boss of their fathers. They weren't his friends. They had to do whatever he said and he didn't like it. He remembered asking them if they could come out on the moors with him to look for gnomes at four. Crabbe threw an absolute fit. Goyle had to drag Crabbe after Draco as he flounced off to the moors. Draco was extremely put out, but when he looked back and saw the two of them lumbering after him, he brightened up.

Another memory he had was Christmas when he was seven and he wanted to play in the snow after the meal. Crabbe and Goyle were stuffing their faces and didn’t want to leave the food. He went to complain to his mother. What happened next was what he expected, but he felt guilty about it. His mother went over to their mothers and practically demanded their sons play with him. Draco only wanted some real playmates. That was the year he realized he might never have real friends. Crabbe and Goyle weren’t as smart as he was so he could never have the stimulating conversations he had with his mother over their daily afternoon tea.

They weren’t going to have genuine fun with him. This is when he learned he could make the two boys do his bidding. He started to turn from the carefree happy boy he once was in the open into a cold hearted, manipulative person who closed off his emotions to please his father. However, he did keep some of himself when he snuck down into the kitchens for a late night talk with the house elves. They were his only real friends growing up besides his mother.

Whenever Pansy and her parents came over she was so mean to the poor house elves. She was always talking to them as if they were the gum on the bottom of her patent leather flats. The way she ordered them to take her outerwear was shocking to Draco. As she grew up, he watched her parents not able to say no to her. She got everything she asked for. It was sickening for him to watch. Once she got to ten years of age, Draco was spending all of his time with Crabbe and Goyle because two buffoons were better than one spoiled brat. Draco always went and apologized for her behavior to the elves in the dead of night. The house elves were sad to see him go off to school, but they were excited too.

"Excuse me. Coming through. Lee has a tarantula for us to look at. Budge along." It’s the two rambunctious red headed boys who had brushed him going onto the platform. When they get to Draco, their happy looks sour.

The one on the right looks at the one on the left and says "Pardon me your Highness. Will you let us pass to get to our compartment?" Draco doesn't like the tone he uses. He isn't doing anything wrong. The train hasn't even started to move yet!

"Oh yeah," Draco presses himself up against the wall to let the two pass. He doesn't like these two and hopes he won't have to interact with them in class. They looked older, definitely not first years. In fact, all of these people looked a lot older than he was.

Draco was starting to get scared and started to stumble across the long, velvet carpeted, hallway separating the compartments from the platform.

With each peek into a compartment, he starts to worry. He had yet to see any people who looked like first years. At one compartment he sees Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy and immediately lurches past with his head down.

Shaken up at seeing them, he steps into a random compartment and is relieved to see a round faced brown haired boy with a toad sitting next to him. This boy looked like a first year like him.

"May I sit down?" Draco asked politely.

The boy looked to Draco and jumped in surprise. "Yes... yes you can. My name is Neville ummm, Neville Longbottom and this is Trevor." He gestured to the tod sitting next to him. "Sit down and…” He looks at the window with a blush on his cheeks and wide eyes. “Ummm, make yourself comfortable. Please um, please make sure you close the compartment door so Trevor doesn’t escape.”

Grinning at the warm greeting, Draco complies. He sticks out his hand and says, "I'm Draco Malfoy. It's really nice to meet you Neville! I hope we can be friends!"

At the name Malfoy, Neville shoots up in his seat in alarm and starts to look around as if an escape hatch will appear so he can disappear. "M-mal-malfoy?! As in the Death Eaters?!" He started to fidget and panic.

Draco looks at the poor boy in utter confusion. "Former Death Eaters. Are you okay Neville?"

Eyes wide in fright, Neville grabs Trevor and huddles at the furthest edge of the compartment from Draco, as if he has a disease. Draco wants to cry. Here is a first year boy who looks terrified of him because of his name. He doesn't understand why Neville is petrified. His parents weren't Death Eaters anymore and they only did it because He - Who - Must - Be - Named made them! All he wants is a real friend!

Draco on the verge of tears, turns to go. As soon as he opens the door he's met with a mane of brown, frizzy, bushy hair. He falls backwards in shock and hears a whimper from Neville.

"Hello. Everywhere else is full. They're about to depart so would you mind letting me into the compartment? That would be wonderful." The bushy haired girl says with authority. "I would like to be seated when the lurch is felt.” Pushing past an astonished Draco with only an “excuse me”, she falls into the just vacant seat Neville left only moments earlier.

She pushes past him and Draco stands up; when he's turned around the scene he looks at is chaotic.

Neville stands up to leap after Trevor, who with the door open, makes his way, hopping faster than Draco expects towards freedom.

All else forgotten. Neville screams "Grab him!" The bushy haired girl lunges for the toad and misses. Now it's Draco's turn to redeem himself in Neville's eyes. He too lunges for the toad and manages to grasp his left hind leg before he falls flat on his face, his grip loosening on the toad who hops away unaware of the chaos he has caused.

Neville's face is distraught. "My great uncle Algie gave me Trevor when I got accepted into Hogwarts! I’m a pureblood you see and most of my family believed I was a Squib for the longest time until I was eight. Uncle Algie pushed me off the Blackpool Pier.” Gasps are heard throughout the compartment. “Don’t worry. I bounced all the way down. Uncle Algie was so pleased he gave me Trevor! Now, can we please go after him?”

Draco and the girl exchange concerned glances. Draco knows that any Wizarding family will have almost all of their family members accepted unless they're a Squib and he's certain his family tree doesn't have any Squibs.

"You're a pureblood?" Draco cautiously asks, accidentally falling onto the girl who just sat down as the train gives a lurch. He hasn’t looked at the family tree since his father forced him to glance at it when he was six. Draco strains to hear Neville’s answer, but with the train moving steadily now, there’s no way to hear Neville at the volume he speaks at.

The girl huffs and moves to give Draco room to sit and he smiles gratefully at her. He's never seen her before and she seems to give off the same air he does. He wonders if she's a pureblood from another country. As she speaks again, he realizes she doesn’t know a thing about the Wizarding community in Britain and the surrounding areas.

"Oh purebloods! I've read about them. They're the silly witches and wizards who think that half-bloods and Muggleborns are scum. I find that absolutely atrocious as I am a Muggleborn myself," the girl turns to Draco. "My guess is you're a pureblood?"

When he nods she starts to lecture him. "You all should be ashamed of yourselves! I read that if you guys didn't marry outside of your circle you would have died out! The mindset is completely rubbish and shouldn't even be put into practice. And at a school no less!"

Neville and Draco look at her in shock, eyes wide and face awash with horror. For such a tiny girl she can inflict fear into anyone with that tone. "I'm Hermione Granger. And what House do you hope to be in? Personally I want to end up in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor as Slytherin seems filled with selfish and mean people and Hufflepuff seems filled with pushovers."

At this Draco swells. "Excuse me! My whole family has been in Slytherin for centuries and I can tell you we are not selfish and mean people! We care for the greater good!"

Neville seems to shrink into his corner again at the last three words and Draco instantly regrets the words he unconsciously let spill from his mouth. He wants Neville as a friend and now maybe he won't want to be his friend!

Hermione turns towards him so fast her hair slaps him in the face. "You sound like Grindelwald! He sounded like you! Are you a supporter of He Who Must be Named?! They were both awful men! How can you sit there saying that when they did such horrible things!"

An even greater fear starts to creep into his eyes. These two do not like him. He is only repeating what he's heard his parents say! Should he say that? The words pop out before he can stop them. "My parents taught me that and I'm sorry if that was wrong all I want are real friends for once! Please give me a chance!"

Hermione looks at Neville and walks over to him. They converse in hushed voices. Draco's heart begins to sink. Will they give him a chance to be their friend?! All he wants is a real friend he can count on! He doesn't think he wants to be a Malfoy if this is what the name gives him. Why did he have to be born a Malfoy?

The waiting is agonizing. It seems like forever when they suddenly turn to him and Neville says, "How do we know you're not lying? Your mum's sister made my parents insane! "

Hermione rubs his back reassuringly and looks at Draco. "Okay, we don't trust you, but we are willing to give you a chance because we believe you can be good at heart. You get one chance. If you mess up, we won’t be your friend anymore. Now... please help us find Trevor. He's special to Neville and he doesn't want to start Hogwarts without him. Please help us look for him."

Draco senses a wonderful opportunity and stands eagerly with a frantic nod and wide grin. "Where do you want to start? Should we split up or stay together? Personally I think we should stay together because all of those people out there are scary."

The two stare at him in shock. They were not expecting him to jump up so suddenly and agree wholeheartedly.

Hermione says split up and Neville agrees, but then Draco points out no one will tell him anything since almost everyone knows who he is. Finally it’s agreed Neville will go on his own and Draco and Hermione will ask together.

Neville heads off to the left towards the front of the train. Hermione and Draco head towards the back of the train.

In the first few compartments they check, the students seated will only tell Hermione if they saw Trevor and ignored Draco completely. He wants to cry. Is the Malfoy name really making people not like him?! But they don't even know him! How are they supposed to know they don't like him if they don't know him?!

The last compartment holds two boys: one very red headed and one with round glasses and black hair. Draco hangs back behind Hermione’s hair as she asks the boys about Trevor.They respond no and turn away from the two toad hunters. The red headed boy pulls out a wand and Draco inches closer to see what spell he’ll utter. He’s watched Pansy wave her wand around since she went to Diagon Alley the day after she got her acceptance letter. He didn’t watch her because he didn’t want to associate himself with her and her ways. His mother made him promise not to use his wand until his first class because he could hurt people and he agreed.

The red haired boy says something about rats, daisies and yellow. As expected, the rat does not turn yellow. Hermione scoffs and then fixes the black haired boy's glasses.

When the red haired boy introduces himself as Ron Weasley, Draco wrinkles his nose. He can't help it. His father says the Weasleys are blood traitors and Mugglelovers. He was always taught they were bad, but now he's not so sure.

Then when the black haired boy says his name is Harry Potter, Draco surges forward. As he comes into view Ron turns away in disgust and he deflates a little bit. He's going to have to be careful in how he says things. "Hello! My name is Draco Malfoy and I'm also looking for Neville's toad. I'm assuming since this is the last compartment he's not here. Hermione, I'm going to head back to the compartment to see if Neville found him."

Ron stares at him in shock. “You’re a Malfoy? But you’re nice?” Turning to Harry, he whispers audibly, “The Malfoys were the biggest supporters of You - Know - Who.

With a smile and wave goodbye he leaves the three of them stunned into silence. The smile falls off his face as he trudges with a heavy heart towards the compartment to put his robes on. He realizes he should only stick to the people he has already met and he vows to steer clear of Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy for as long as he can and since they'll be in Slytherin like him it'll be hard. He'll manage; he always has.

He puts his robes in in the empty compartment and waits for Neville and Hermione to come back. Hopefully they will since their trucks are here. Smiling to himself, he stares out the window, already imaging what fun things he can do with his new friends!

[twoidiotwriters1]

"It’s a Secret”- (Harry Potter xFem!Reader)

A/N: This was so so cute!!! I loved it

P.S. I apologize for any mistakes you might found, I tend to have quite a few and then not noticing when I edit lmao but I hope you like it anyway!

Blurb Request:

AU modern!harry potter. HARRY likes his friend’s sister, but doesn’t want to ruin his friendship. His friend notices him staring at his sister and hints that she’s single. CONGRATULATIONS BTW!!!!

Join our followers celebration!

Harry was running out of excuses.

Ron was starting to notice, Seamus was starting to notice, Dean… hell, even Neville was catching up.

Now they didn’t even ask what were his plans for the weekend, the answer was always the same: With the L/Ns.

Okay fair, maybe he was being pretty obvious and all, and maybe he should stop. However, as long as Y/N didn’t know, he was safe.

He was doing a horrible job at keeping the secret a secret, though.

Harry stared a lot, he couldn’t help it, not when Y/N was always around, reading in the living room, having breakfast in the kitchen. For some reason, she was always there.

Take today as an example, Harry and Lucas had just come back from Ron’s place. They’d spent the whole afternoon playing video games against him and his brothers, Fred and George kicked their ass of course, but hey, at least they were off to college next year.

“You want anything?” Lucas asked him as they entered the house, “you’re staying for a while, right?”

“Yeah, my mum’s not expecting me ‘til like eight,” Harry nodded, closing the door behind him.

“Alright, I’ll get us something to drink…”

Lucas disappeared into the kitchen while Harry put his things next to the door entrance, when he turned around, he met a set of familiar bright eyes.

“Potter,” Y/N smiled, “good afternoon”

“Hey,” Harry stammered, feeling his cheek reddening, “uh- hm- Lucas and I just got here from Ron’s…”

“I see that,” She chuckled, “I was just in the kitchen a moment ago, wanted a snack to keep going with my binge-watching”

“I won’t distract you then”

“Yeah, alright,” She turned around, “don’t burn the house down, okay? My parents aren’t home and Lucas always does dumb shit when they’re gone”

Harry laughed, he sounded really awkward stupid, and oh man, was he thankful that Lucas hadn’t heard a thing, he’d probably go mad if he knew he had a crush on his sister.

Oh yes, had he forgotten that little detail? Y/N was Lucas’ sister, so add that to the list of why Harry was an utter mess of a person.

“Harry,” A voice on his left brought him back from his thoughts. “Hey mate, is all right?”

“Y-yes!” He jumped, taking the drink Lucas was offering to him, “Y/N was just here… uh- she was just saying hi”

Lucas’ eyes shifted for a moment, Harry could’ve sworn he saw the glimpse of a smirk.

“Right,” He nodded, “well, you want to watch a movie or something? My folks aren’t home-”

“Yeah, Y/N said that too,” Harry grinned, “she also asked me to keep you away from burning the house down”

“Geez, one accident with the microwave and they never forget it,” Lucas rolled his eyes as he walked away towards the living room, with Harry’s low chuckles as the only reply.

____________________

It was seven-thirty, which meant it was time for Harry to go back home, he’d promised his little sister they’d bake together something for dad’s birthday, so he needed to get home in time.

He ran into Y/N one last time before leaving, she was going back to the kitchen, holding an empty plate and wearing that lovely sweater that Harry loved to see her wear.

“Oh, you’re leaving already?” She asked in genuine surprise, “It’s so early…”

“I promised Ellie I’d be back before bedtime so we could make something for our dad, it’s his birthday tomorrow,” Harry replied.

“That’s so sweet,” She beamed, “good luck then, Harry. Tell your dad I send my love”

“Will do,” He nodded, his eyes fixed on her figured as she vanished through the kitchen entrance.

“Hey, prince charming,” Lucas teased from the porch, “you’re ready to go?”

“Ah, yes,” Harry moved, not daring to look at his friend in the eye.

His friend walked with him until they reached the fence, there he stopped, and Harry stopped too to say goodbye.

“You know,” Lucas tilted his head, “my sister spends every night up in her room or curled up in the living room, that’s not healthy”

“I guess not,” Harry didn’t know where the conversation was heading, but he figured Lucas would tell him soon enough.

“Yeah,” The boy agreed, a small grin on his face, “she could use a boyfriend you know… so you want to ask her out yourself or should I tell her to ask you instead, huh?”

Harry almost dropped dead.

“How come?”

Lucas laughed, he seemed to be having the time of his life.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, mate. You’re terrible at it,” He shook his head, “look if what’s stopping you’s our friendship, I don’t mind. You’re good for her. You’re better than Fred and George for all that matters.”

Harry laughed then, feeling like a huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.

“Fred and George can be a lot”

“That’s what I mean,” He patted his shoulder, perhaps too hard, “well mate, I’ll wait to hear about that date soon a’ight? My sister’s been waiting long enough”

“Sure,” He scratched the back of his head, feeling his cheeks burning, “see you”

“Bye, Potter.”

[robinlestrange]

Something a little different this week - it’s not Strike based!

Broken Stones

Chapter One Detective Inspector Gemma Shepherd shoved the last of the contents of her locker into an overflowing Ikea bag. The rustling, bright blue plastic seemed incongruous in the staff room at New Scotland Yard, and for the first time since she’d made her application to take a twelve-month sabbatical from the force, she felt distinctly uneasy about her decision.She had begun her career with the Met as an eager eighteen-year-old, fresh from A-levels, fiercely determined that she would catch the all bad guys and change the world. She’d been equally resolute to embark upon a career that would enable her to leave home as soon as possible, if the truth be known, but the bad guys were her main reason for joining. She’d grown up with T J Hooker, Chips and Miami Vice. Then there was the Bill and Dempsey and Makepeace who had adorned the walls in her bedroom for several months during the later stages of middle school. She’d even managed to convince her mum to let her have her hair cut from waist length to a chin length bob with a blunt fringe, just like her fictional detective heroine.And just like Harriet Makepeace, she’d fallen for her colleague, except they didn’t quite manage the happy ending.  *     *      * As she approached Detective Chief Inspector Andy Clarke’s office, she watched his eyes flicker in her direction, and saw him pick up the phone, indicating to her with a swivel of his eyes and a nod of his head that she should take a seat just outside.She bit her tongue slightly to assuage the urge to visibly roll her eyes back at him. She was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of her. It was bad enough that the timing of her sabbatical had coincided with his appointment as her senior officer. “You still hanging around?” DS Tim Eldridge asked as he passed by on his way to the photocopier. “Thought you’d be out of here and down the pub like a rat up a drainpipe.” He glanced through the glass wall of the office behind and smiled sympathetically. “Keeping you waiting is he?” “Yep,” she pursed her lips, “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve handed in my Oyster and badge. You’re coming right?” “Of course. Ennis will be along later and Vince and Hammond are going to meet us when they get off at eight o’clock. Not tempted to invite His Lordship then?” he nodded in the direction of DCI Clarke. “Not a snowballs,” Gemma responded, to which Eldridge laughed, having known he would get exactly that reaction, if not something even ruder. DCI Clarke was not a popular man.Naturally it was at that precise moment that he appeared, having finished his phone call. “DI Shepherd – come in.” Gemma followed him into the office and sat down immediately opposite him, rather than waiting to be asked as she would normally with a superior officer. He eyed her with a combination of mild amusement and thinly veiled hostility, his sharp features more hawk like than ever, his cold, blue gaze almost palpable. “So, I need to run through a few things with you before you get on your way. You won’t mind that though will you,” he paused for effect, “…being as you’re so good at running?” Gemma refused to break eye contact.“Thank you,” she replied, turning his barbed comment into a compliment, “Here’s my badge and card.” She pushed a small padded envelope across the table. He opened it immediately and made a show of thoroughly checking the contents. For God’s sake! “DS Shepherd, you’ve applied for a 12-month sabbatical for the purposes of study and personal development which has been granted on the basis of your previous twenty-five years service. You understand that this period will be unpaid and will not count towards your pensionable service. You cannot work in a similar role during the sabbatical period and you will not accrue any annual leave during this time.” “The sabbatical period will terminate on 31st March 2020. You understand that your current position will not be held open for you to return to and that you will therefore be expected to begin the redeployment process and paperwork by 1st October 2019 in order that you are back in an appropriate post on 1st April 2020. Do you have any questions?” “No.” She was determined to give him no reason to prolong this meeting any more than was absolutely necessary but could almost hear his brain turning over, trying to grasp something, anything, that would enable him to have the last word. “Right, off you go then.” The words were friendly, the tone was anything but. Still, Gemma welcomed the opportunity to leave and was on her feet and halfway to the door before he spoke again. “I must admit I’m surprised at your decision.” She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at him, an automatic response borne of common decency and politeness, rather than any actual desire to engage in further conversation. She let out a barely stifled sigh of resignation and decided she may as well get it over with. “Really. And why’s that?” “You’ve always been so bloody stubborn. I thought I’d be stuck with you until one or both of us retired. Mind you, you ran away from your responsibilities as a mother and a wife, I suppose it was inevitable you’d run away from the job eventually,” he paused, performing a slow head to toe examination of her appearance that made her want to throw up. “Or perhaps it’s not the job you’re running from?” he smirked, “How long has it been now Gemma, eight years? Isn’t it about time you moved on? It’s not as if you had problems on that front when we were married.” She stood in silent appraisal of the man she had once promised to love and honour, the man who had fathered her only child, and wondered how on earth they had gone from those levels of intimacy to an animosity so intense it was like she’d never known him any other way. It was as though they had always hated each other on a level so deep it was almost primal. She took half a dozen slow, deliberate steps across and leant on his desk, bringing her eyes level with his. “May I remind you, DCI Clarke, that you’ve seen the dates on my sabbatical application, and you are therefore well aware that my decision to take a career break has precisely fuck all to do with your appointment, and whether or not I’m on sabbatical, I can still make a formal complaint about your bringing personal grievances into the workplace…” She paused for a split second, unsure whether to call him on what was bothering her most. “As for my parenting skills, remind me? When was the last time you saw our daughter?” She didn’t give him a chance to reply, simply raised herself to her full five feet seven inches, gave him a final, withering look and walked out of his office and onto Victoria Embankment, where she took a sharp right turn and headed, with an immense sense of relief, to the pub. *     *      * By ten o’clock the table around which Gemma and her colleagues sat was a chaotic mess of empty bottles and glasses. They’d ordered a few sharing platters between them, which were nowhere near adequate to mop up the amount of alcohol that had been consumed, particularly by those without a shift the following day. Tim Eldridge had just returned from the bar and set down a full round of Café Patron shots, when the laughing crowd became aware of a tall, unsmiling figure looming silently over their table, and their chatter ceased in relay like a tumbling line of dominoes. Gemma was the last person to become aware of the new arrival and turned around to find herself looking straight at her ex-husband. “Oh, do sod off, you weren’t invited for a reason.” She was on sabbatical now, he no longer had any power over her and she no longer felt any need to even attempt civility. “I’m not here to join you, I just need to speak to you for a minute.” She looked him over, eyes slightly heavy with intoxication, resentful of the fact that his appearance was bound to ruin her night. “Seriously? Can’t it wait until like, next April?” she laughed. “It’s a private matter,” he replied tersely, “Come outside with me for a minute and then I’ll go.” She recalled his appraisal of her in his office earlier, the veiled reference to her sex life, or lack thereof, and felt herself rapidly sobering up. “If you’ve anything you need to say to me, you can say it here.” She knew he would see the challenge as her being difficult and uncooperative. As far as she was concerned it was simply self-preservation. “Fine, have it your way,” he replied coolly. “We’ve had a call from Sussex Police. Oscar’s dead.”

[the-dyslexic-blogger]

so this is where it begins

So, Hi I'm Dino (obviously not my real name but I wish it were haha). There is a trigger warning to self-harm, mention of suicide and depression.

I'm 20 and attending university a few of my friends have done some blogs, so I decided this is where I'm going to start.

As a reader, I thought you'd better known I have dyslexia. Hence, it is a big step to write a blog as, usually, I'm not too fond of it (the dreaded writing spelling and grammar NOOO), But here we go.

In my lifetime, I've been through a lot of crap to get to be who I am today( I will probably talk about some of this in other blogs.) Of course, the aftermath of having a lot of crap happen to you is a lot of issues in the future and a lot of trauma.

There is a daily struggle with mental health. Everything is a battle most days I have to drag myself out of bed which is so very hard to do many little tasks that are easier for other like showering I find is a massive task (thanks depression love you too). Most nights I'm up to the early hours of the morning fighting the demons in my head screaming at me to give in and will not shut up until I give in to the blade and feel the sweet relief of pain as I cut myself. The blood flows out of wherever I've cut it from, Even after this it's not the end of the battle, I get a big hit off of the guilt about doing it, so I don't sleep whatsoever so am tired all the time. In the daytime dark thoughts still spinning around my head, monsters breathing down my neck. Throughout the day, they are lingering over me, waiting for me to mess up somehow and then reminding me of this mistake all day.

The night time is when they are the loudest when everyone I could turn to is asleep. Still, I don't want to bother my friends with my shitty problems 'they don't care. "They don't like you' the demons whisper in my ear when I pick up the phone to text someone, To scream out and get help for my head trying to kill me, haunting me dark thoughts taking over my mind full of darkness and nightmares no light left I'm alone with my thoughts so, I give in and let the demons take over like a bring me the horizon quote 'it comes in waves, I close my eyes Hold my breath and let it bury me I'm not okay, and it's not all right '. I'd say night time is like a tight rope your battling to staying it while monsters are trying to push you off watch you fall to your death some people make it, but some fall off. I always cant get the thought of they (The demons) have been there when no one else was. They have never left me like everyone does.....

Its been about eight years since I started cutting I've been self-harming for a while I can't remember exactly when I began, it began as hitting myself hard. , it only developed into cutting in year seven. I was bullied a lot, so this triggered me to start cutting myself. I felt worthless and like I deserved it everyone hated me so I may as well hate myself too. It began to get worse when my best friend I'd known since I was in primary school killed herself. The guilt consumed me whole, and I became a shadow of who I used to be I was no longer that sweet innocent child who had no care in the world. I was a self-destructive monster who wanted nothing less than to hurt me and wanted nothing more than have me dead. (I'm not going into the suicidal thoughts in this one yet maybe in a future blog.) Yet no one knew. I wouldn't show any emotions expect happy I was 'hyper ', but it was all an act to stop the evil thoughts consuming me and not to let anyone worry about me I didn't deserve that. I'd tell myself daily that I deserve the pain that I cause myself.

I tried to get help for the bullying at school, but my school made it worse so from then forward I shut down completely refused to talk to anyone about my depression. I didn't have a pleasant childhood my parents were abusive (again not going into that in this one). I didn't have many friends, so I never felt good about myself. This was all a massive kick at my self-esteem. It was only until year 11 when my games teacher noticed me as always wearing long sleeves in the blistering heat when we were playing rounders.

It was a childcare lesson she took me aside and took me to the school nurse then I'll never forget how my heart dropped when she said "roll your sleeves up" I first refused. She suggested that she'd go outside the room and to show the school nurse to make sure they wasn't infected or anything so I agreed to this. After this miss brown was the most supportive and she'd been. School became a bit easier from then. We started talking more and more each lesson I enjoyed her company.

One of my bullies who I am very close to now, and we talk a lot came up to me and apologized for what she has said to me in the past. I forgave her, and we sat and chatted about things I let her open up, and she had been through a lot of shit as well, and I felt terrible and told her she could talk to me. After this we became friends, and we talk now and then.

At this point, I was still self-harming and being bullied even cyberbullied to the point the police was involved. Another traumatizing event happened during this time I put my trust into the wrong person and regretted it. I still regret it today and hate myself. But we will cover that in another blog.

I did my GCSEs did pretty well, and life was okay even though I was still at home my self-harming was still a thing, That summer my sister found out about it she asked I told her not to tell mum. Guess what she did TOLD MY FUCKING Mum. My mum was in a lousy mood came to me shouted at me to take my jumper off, so I did she saw the cuts and had a go at me took my phone off me and grounded me and more which I'm not going to go into yet. It was horrible of course I cut again and again and felt suicidal she made me feel so worthless and alone.

Starting college for the first time was stressful and made my anxiety so bad. The first year of college was when I began therapy Tamsin was my therapist. She was lovely, helped me a lot. My self-harming didn't stop but reduced a bit whereas before the sweet relief of the blade and saw how much id bleed was most nights. It was like it was part of my routine. Go to school/college get home to wait till everyone is asleep then cut my night away.

Then lie in bed and stare at the ceiling thinking of how worthless I was and how I want to be dead how I wish I could cut deeper and made it worse for myself. This reduced a bit it wasn't every night, but most nights it was rough and never thought it would consume my life as much as it did never thought id still be here struggling with it.

I've cut myself a few times where I think I probably should have gone to the hospital, but I didn't. One of these times was in my next college it was rough as my original college had told me I wasn't good enough, And that I Wouldn't make it, so I moved to a new college. One of the first weeks there I remember cutting very deep and panicking it was a hot day I was at work and had got home and felt stressed over things and cut my arm badly. I wrapped a sock on it was all I had and texted my girlfriend she told me to find my mate I walked into town found my mate we went to the shop got some supplies sat on a bench and patched it up. I knew a paramedic, so I texted them asking them what I should do they told me to put alcohol on it, Once I got in I put some rum into a small glass went upstairs and told my dad I was going for a bath I ran the water got a wet flannel and bit it. At the same time, I cleaned it I screamed into the flannel in pain I put the water on so my parents couldn't hear me I led on the floor after this and cried to myself silently until I was done then I came out so my dad wouldn't think anything of it went back into my room and cried myself to sleep.

The second year of college wasn't too bad. I had a shit therapist who would tell me things that triggered my eating disorder and would make me feel suicidal. I remember going into her appointments feeling okay and come out feeling suicidal. I had good best mates in my life it was okay (I was still cutting through) thankfully. I am always thankful to this day my friends stopped me from going to this therapist as she made things worse I stopped seeing her for a few months if I didn't stop seeing her id be 6 feet under the ground with nothing to me but a skull.

I wasn't in therapy for a few months as I needed a break from it all until my cutting and suicidal feelings got worse, so I decided to get back into therapy with the help of my friend I had this lovely therapist called Sharon she stuck by me and suggested I go to the doctors, so I did. I was put in meds and probably diagnosed with my issues. However, id had them since I was at least eight or nine at least had some of them like anxiety. Things calmed down meds helped me but also affected me badly I got all of the side effects,( so that wasn't fun.) Still, things went pretty smoothly until university applications I was accepted into a good uni on a conditional offer. This all went wrong this was in 3rd year by the way my college fucked up and put me into The inappropriate exams I couldn't do the GCSE due to my mental health my therapist suggested I do not take it I was suicidal and cutting.

So I didn't get into the university I tried to get into another one they rejected me as I was about to give up hope my friend introduced me to clearing, and that's how I got into the university I'm in now.

Self-harm and suicidal thoughts still attack me, and I still struggle with simple things like just staying alive and not cutting. Each year I wonder am I going to make it to the next year or will I kill myself before the year ends its an achievement getting through the year and surviving it.

I have excellent people in my life now. I feel happy with where I am for the first time in my whole life. I've never felt pleased with the way things are going things usually fuck up. I'm pretty sure life will throw another obstacle my way eventually, but I'm sure one day it will get better. Self-harm will be in the past one day, not right now I'm not ready to stop altogether I can't physically do that (sorry). One day my mental illnesses will be manageable without the pain that comes with them now. Years down the line, I can say I WAS a self-harmer instead of I AM a self-harmer. That will be a while I still need to heal my emotional scars and finally be free from the monster that is depression. Depression is a war you either win or you die trying it's the worst beast of them all the strongest beast, but even the biggest worst beast can be beaten. I believe in all of you out there struggling with your depression. Suicidal thoughts depression can be beaten, look at those who have got through it google it many celebrities have depression and won the war in their head. People like Lady Gaga, Demi Lovato, Ellen DeGeneres and many more.

Depression is the silent killer it waits till your alone( i mean not alone physically; you could be in a room full of people and still feel alone. )

Then it strikes with false things about no one caring about you. But you are so much stronger than you think if you need support, there are people out there who care about you. You may feel alone but don't tell me in the world of billions, and billions of people, not one cares because that's not true I care.

It's okay not to be okay. I look back and see things do get better from the point I am now to the point I was six years ago things have changed, things may not work out to start with, but it will be okay. Still, they will work out one day this darkness your in will be light you won't have to struggle with the beats in your head the silent monsters that grip you with their claws and consume you alive.

So there you go that some of my battle with self-harm I will go into things a bit more in future. I hope you liked it is not the happiest (sorrrryyyyyyyyyyy ). Still, I hope I can inspire you and give you hope that it does get better and things will work out.

You probably have been told this thousand of but here is the Samaritans number they good and living is good once you get past the darkness of depression. You will get through this your strong enough!

Stay strong fighter!

love

Dino xx

summations:116 123

[let-it-raines]

Indirect Deposit (1/3)

Summary: It’s the oldest story in the world, isn’t it? Falling in love with your neighbor. Killian’s sure that he’s seen hundreds of books and television shows starting off that way, and he’s always thought them all to be entirely unrealistic. That is until he started getting to know Emma Swan, who just so happens to live across the hall from him, and he has absolutely fallen for her in a way that he hasn’t fallen for anyone in a long time. 

It’s the oldest story in the world...until it isn’t. Because it’s not just Emma he’s fallen in love with. It’s her unborn child too, and while everyone he knows thinks he’s crazy for falling in love with a pregnant woman, he knows that he’s not. Some things in life are worth taking the risk. 

Some people are worth loving. And some things about life may surprise you.

A/N: This fic wouldn’t happen without @csmarchmadness and @wellhellotragic. When you guys get to the end of the chapter, some things may seem familiar, and that’s because this was her fic idea that she has graciously passed onto me to write. She’s very kindly given me lots of ideas that have been incorporated. I know I don’t have her magic touch, but I hope I do it justice! Seriously, thank you for letting me write this even when it made me want to pull my hair out! All of the credit goes to you, lovely!

Found on AO3: | Here |

Tag list: Let me know if you’d like to be tagged for the next few parts!

@nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @wellhellotragic​ @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @branlovesouat @dreadpirateemma @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian

The door shakes behind him as he enters his apartment, the pounding sound it makes when it locks into its frame reverberating in his ears while he throws his backpack down on the floor, not caring for its contents or the fact that it’s not his usual spot to keep his things. On any other day, he’d carefully take off his shoes, straightening them next to the door, and purposefully unstrap his bag from his back and place it on the bench seat that he keeps in the entryway of his apartment.

But today is not any other day.

It started as any other day, his alarm going off at six, early enough for him to go for his run and get back home in order to take a shower and get ready for work, arriving on campus a little after eight for his office hours. Very rarely does a student ever come talk to him during Monday morning office hours, which is partially the reason he timed them that way. It gives him time to grade exams, not being a fan of scantrons and their automatic grading when he’s an English professor who gives exams that mostly deal with essays, without distractions as well as helping to fulfill the Boston university-required demands of him having ten hours spent in his office per week.

As luck would have it, though, he had five students waiting for him the moment he walked up to his door, each and every one of them nearly jumping from their seats on the floor and thrusting their newly graded essays in his face claiming how unfair his grading was. But it’s not. He knows that it’s not. If anything, he’s overly kind with his assignments. He’s thirty-three, not that far removed from university himself, and he remembers how much he despised professors who failed students simply because they could. So, usually, he’d take a look at these papers and consider their protests, normally deciding to help the kids, but he knew for a fact that these five never showed up to class, never came to any of his extra lectures, so he said no, not today.

They were not pleased with him, but he didn’t care. He’s lenient, but you have to show up to class or prove that you can do the work on your own if you decide not to come.

That only soured his mood a bit, something he figured he’d forget about, but then his classes were all difficult that day, no one paying attention to a single word he said, no one engaging in discussions, and all of the passion he usually held for teaching seemed to fade away. But it was just a bad day, nothing that a glass of rum at home wouldn’t fix, and then his ex showed up outside of his classroom.

What. The. Hell.

He and Milah broke up seven months ago after he walked in on her, in their apartment, sleeping with another man. That’s a sight he’s never quite forgotten, as much as he’s tried, but it often plays in the back of his mind when he’s up late at night and can’t sleep. He told her to get out then, and that’s the same thing he told her earlier today when she decided to beg for his forgiveness, to ask to come back talking about how much she still loved him. How fucking dare she try to come back, to even think that he’d want to be with someone who broke his heart and betrayed his trust in such a way that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to recover from it all. He had loved her, still loves her really, and he’s never quite understood where he went wrong, where they went wrong. They had a good, solid relationship…and it simply disappeared because of something Milah called one stupid mistake. Maybe he should have listened to her, maybe he should have thought about trying again, maybe it really was simply one moment of weakness, but he doesn’t think he’s ready to try to build up that trust again. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So her face and the memories of her cheating on him replayed on his entire drive home, the only reprieve (or not) being flashes of memories of all of the good times too, and as he walked into his apartment, the place he has completely redone to his own tastes since they broke up, all he can do is see her face and the laughter lines he used to love so much. So no part of him cares if he keeps the place as neat as usual. No one is here but him anyways.

He doesn’t want anyone here but himself.

Huffing, he walks into his kitchen, bypassing the pitcher of water in his fridge and grabbing a bottle of beer. He feels like downing an entire bottle of rum, and not the cheap stuff, but he’s not twenty-one anymore. Hangovers are a bitch, and he’s still got to edit his lectures for the rest of the week, not content with the premade ones his mentor sent him when he took over British Literature at the beginning of the fall semester last month.

He’d really like that rum.

The liquid is refreshing as he tilts the bottle to his lips, letting the alcohol run down his throat, doing little more than giving him the smallest sense of control. But after he downs the one bottle, he tosses it into the bin and pours himself the glass of water he’d just turned his nose up on, grabbing an apple and making his way to his living room, promptly settling himself down onto his couch and turning on his TV, not caring what’s on as long as there’s some kind of noise besides his breathing and the cars driving by outside.

“God,” he groans, running his hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to shut everything out. “What the hell kind of day is this?”

Almost as if the world is out to get him, he hears a knock on his door. The absolute last thing he wants to be doing is talk to someone else, but then they knock again and he stands from the couch, adjusting his pants and shirt before making his way to the door, looking through the peephole and seeing his neighbor from across the hall standing outside of his door with her teeth tugging on her bottom lip and her hands behind her back.

Undoing the locks, he swings open the door, catching it to make sure it doesn’t slam into the wall, not wanting the knob to make a dent.

“Hello, Swan,” he greets, forcing a smile onto his face. He may be right pissed at life today, his mind running the paces of the entire spectrum of emotion, but she doesn’t deserve any of his ire.

They don’t talk often, nothing more than hellos and the occasional friendly small talk. He knows that she’s a lawyer, that her father was a police captain who was murdered in the line of duty on a case that he wasn’t even supposed to be out in the field for. He only knows that because it was all over the news, every local channel covering the story for weeks on end, Emma’s sullen face in the background of every shot. She was always alone, no one standing by her, and in her he always saw himself when he was twelve, standing alone at his mother’s funeral while Liam gave the eulogy. The dead parents club is a club you don’t want to be in, and every time he meets a new member, he wishes that he hadn’t.

But that was five years ago, and he didn’t know her then. He doesn’t truly know her too much now. She just moved into his building a little over a year ago. He figured someone with her kind of money could live in a nicer apartment, not that their places aren’t nice, but they’re not exactly peak Boston real estate. He can only really still afford the place on his own because of the money his mum had put away for him and the extra jobs he picks up.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

That takes him aback, the way she blurted the words out not at all what he was expecting, but before he even gets the chance to answer, she’s pushing past him, running down the hallway and swinging open his bedroom door and disappearing from sight.

This day could not possibly get any weirder.

Sighing, he closes his front door and quickly makes his way back toward his bedroom, not knowing what to expect. She’s nowhere to be seen until he hears the sound of dry heaving from the bathroom.

So this day could get weirder.

He should honestly write a book of his own documenting all of the unbelievable things that happen in his life. Forget writing about academia when he has a best seller about his ex-girlfriend showing up back in his life and making him want to vomit only to have his neighbor actually vomit in his bathroom.

Top of the best seller list. No doubt.

It might need a bit of padding, some more plot, maybe something more unexpected happening, but it’s got potential.

“Love.” He knocks on the door, not really sure why he’s asking for permission to enter a room in his own home, but nothing quite makes sense today. “Swan, are you okay?”

She doesn’t respond, and he can still hear the noise emanating from the other side of the door. Not really sure what to do, he turns the knob, pulling the door open to find Emma collapsed on the floor, her arms resting on the lid of the toilet. For some reason his first thought is that he’s relieved that he cleaned the bathroom Saturday morning.

“Shit, Swan,” he groans, walking toward her and squatting down next to her, tucking her hair behind her ears so that it doesn’t fall into her face or the vomit that he’s attempting not to smell. “Are you okay?”

“Obviously not,” she snarks, her voice shaky and not at all as solid as it usually is, at least from his limited experience of talking to her about sales at the grocery store down the street. “I need – ” she dry heaves into the toilet again, the sound causing his stomach to roll, but he tries to calm himself down by focusing on Emma, holding her hair back and rubbing his hand in soothing circles up and down her back. It’s been awhile since he’s had to soothe someone through something like this, and usually it’s a buddy who’s had too much to drink, but the mechanisms are always the same.

When she’s finished, she leans back against his bathtub, her face covered in a sheen of sweat and all of her color has been completely drained from skin. She looks miserable, and he has no idea what’s going on. So he flushes the toilet and washes his hands, scrubbing up and down his forearms until he feels clean enough. He’s not sure if he’ll ever feel clean enough, so he can’t imagine how Emma must feel. He grabs a washcloth and wets it with cold water, squeezing it out before squatting down in front of Emma and handing it to her.

“Thank you,” she sighs, taking the cloth and dabbing at her face, letting the cloth fall to the floor before she takes her hair, the strands seemingly never-ending, and pulls it up into a sloppy bun, brushing all of the loose strands back and off of her forehead. “I feel like I owe you a million explanations and apologies before I, you know, disappear out of mortification.”

“What? What about this situation could possibly be mortifying?”

She huffs, the smallest of smiles tugging at one side of her lips before she wipes her face down again. He smiles a bit at his own humor. He’d normally find that pathetic, but he thinks he can get a free pass today. “Every bit of it.” “Eh, I’ve seen worse. My ex-girlfriend showed up to my office today, and several of my students witnessed us getting into an argument. Talk about professional.”

He doesn’t know what convinced him to share that, why he thought that would be in any way equivalent to what’s currently happening right now, and the way Emma’s looking at him makes him realize that she thinks the same. There’s not exactly a guideline for how to handle this situation.

Maybe that will be what his book is about: How To Handle When Your Neighbor Vomits In Your Bathroom For Dummies.

“Okay, so bad example,” he sighs, reaching up and scratching behind his ear while his mind runs all over the place on what to say, what to do. “I’ll come up with something better if you tell me why you needed to come into my apartment to vomit.”

Emma scrunches up her face, all of her features distorting, and for a moment all he can think about is how adorable that motion is, how he’d kind of like for her to do it again.

“Well, I lost my key for one. And I’m also having just horrible morning sickness, which is a major lie considering it’s six o’clock in the evening. This sure as hell isn’t morning.”

Morning sickness.

Morning sickness…she’s pregnant. He didn’t even know she was seeing anyone, not that it’s any of his business. She’s his neighbor. That’s all. Sure, he’s always thought she was beautiful, her flowing blonde hair and green eyes calling to him as much as her smile or the way her ass looks in a skirt when he sees her on her way to work. So he has no reason for the way his stomach twists, the way he feels suddenly nauseous as well, the way it has nothing to do with the smell of vomit. He barely knows her.

“Congratulations,” he grits out, wishing he’d been able to express more genuine joy. It’s just a shock is all. And it’s not like there’s really another way to express joy over someone else having a child. He’s not about to tell her congratulations on having sex.

But it is a weird day, so he wouldn’t put himself past it.

“Thanks. I, um, I’m sorry for all of this. I just need to call the building manager and have him unlock my door, so as soon as my legs stop shaking, I’m going to go do that.” “You can stay here as long as you need. I really don’t mind.”

“Look, you’re being nice, which I really appreciate. I was about to vomit all over the carpet outside before I dared come knock on your door. And as great as this little chat has been, I really don’t want to impose on you anymore.” “Swan, I get that, but it could take awhile for Scarlet to get here. He works another job down at O’Leary’s during the evenings.”

“Of course he does.” “So call him, and we’ll hope that he’s not working tonight, but if he is, you can stay here. You can stay in my guest room if you want. It’s got its own bathroom.”

She looks like she could vomit again before her shoulders relax and she reaches up to push her hair back again, catching all of the loose strands and slicking them down. “Thanks.” Emma calls Scarlet, who turns out not to be working, so within an hour, he’s unlocking Emma’s door, griping and moaning about how she should give a friend her spare key instead of keeping it inside her apartment. He only knows this because Will basically screams when he speaks, his voice reaching all the way into Killian’s apartment. He can’t hear Emma’s response, though, but he imagines she pretty much tells Will to fuck off.

What a day.

-/-

“Mate, I’m not bloody doing it.” “It’s been months,” Robin says, taking a sip of his water before twisting on his barstool while Roland continues to color in his book, his curly hair flopping over his eyes. “You need to get back out there.”

“No offense, but you’re likely the last person to give me relationship advice.”

“Yeah, Papa.”

Killian chuckles, reaching out his hand to give Roland a high five, the kid smacking his hand as hard as he can. That’s his best bud, always backing him up even to his dad. “See, even your son knows.”

“That’s because my son is a nosy seven-year-old who agrees with everything his uncle says but not everything his own father says.”

Roland shrugs. “I like Uncle Killian.”

“What? And you don’t like me?”

“You make me eat green beans. Killian gave me a cookie last week.”

Robin sighs, shaking his head back and forth while he smiles. “If you ever have kids, I absolutely cannot wait to load them up with sugar and leave you to deal with the consequences.”

“Considering I don’t plan on dating for a very long time, I imagine that we won’t have this problem.”

“So you really won’t go out with Rebecca?”

He shakes his head before running his hand through his hair, wishing that the thought of dating didn’t make his stomach twist. “I just can’t, mate. I’m still…I can’t. And, honestly, I’m fine with how things are. I don’t need to be with someone.”

“If you say so. But Roland is going to get older, and suddenly single Uncle Killian isn’t going to seem quite as cool.” “Please,” he huffs, rolling his eyes, “I’m always going to be cool.”

He leaves Robin’s house a little after seven, letting him put Roland to bed in peace. Most of his Saturdays are spent at their house after they go to Roland’s football games, even if he cringes a bit at all of the kids calling it soccer. He might have been in America for over a decade, but there are some things he still hasn’t switched over in his vocabulary. Others slip off of his tongue like he’s been speaking that way for his entire life, but the football and soccer distinction is something that’ll likely always stay.

He’s tempted to pull over into several bars on his way home, knowing that he’s not got anything else to do tomorrow since he finished most of his work for the next week Friday afternoon (maybe he really does need a bit more of a social life), but he’d honestly rather go home and change into his joggers and catch up on some television. To some it might make him boring, but he likes doing things that make him happy.

After he parks in the garage a block over from his building, he makes his short walk home, ignoring all of the people passing by who are going out to dinner or going out with friends. He’s spent all day with his best mate and his son, and honestly, that’s how he likes things. He likes being comfortable.

If he had the money, he’d buy a boat and spend his days out on the water reading, letting the waves move below him while he gets lost in the words that others have written.

That would be the perfect Saturday.

When he enters his building, he makes a stop by the mailboxes, figuring he should go ahead and check while he’s down here, but then he sees long blonde hair and the red jacket that she’s always wearing. It’s only been a week since he last saw Emma, since she came into his apartment, and he’s almost sure that she’s been going out of her way to avoid him. He understands. It’s not exactly a situation that you want to have to talk about all of the time. If he were Emma, he’d probably want to just forget about it.

Though it’s not something one easily forgets.

He’s just about to turn around and walk away from the boxes, respecting her space, when she turns, several envelopes in her hand that she’s shuffling. He thinks that he has time to move out of the way, to stay unseen, but then she’s looking up and looking directly at him, her eyes going wide like she’s been shocked.

So, yeah, she was definitely avoiding him.

“Hello, love,” he waves, giving her a kind smile while he makes an attempt not to cringe. “How are you today?”

Her eyes slant, almost like she’s studying him, but then they widen again to reveal the green. “Are you asking because you care or are you asking because you’re scared I’m about to vomit all over your shoes?”

He chuckles under his breath, reaching up to scratch behind his ear while he clicks his tongue, not really sure what to say. He does rather like these shoes. “Can I say both?”

“You can, but I’m not sure that I’ll believe you.”

“Fair,” he sighs, sticking his hands in his pockets so that he can stop his fingers from fidgeting. “You get anything interesting?”

Bloody hell. Why is he even bothering to speak? Everything that comes out of his mouth seems like something a teenager who’s never spoken to a woman would say. Or worse, he sounds a bit like someone who’s just never spoken at all. And the way Emma’s eyebrows raise doesn’t exactly help him feel any less awkward than he does right now.

He’s asking her if she got anything in the mail for fuck’s sake.

“I don’t think you could handle all of the interesting things I get in the mail.”

“I can handle more than you think, darling,” he promises, tilting his head so that he can look Emma directly in the eye while he runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

There he goes. That’s more like him. “Right,” she says incredulously, looking up at him before back down at her mail. “So I’m just going to go. Have a good night.”

She begins to walk away, and he’s not sure what comes over him next. But, honestly, once the words start, he can’t make them stop. “What are you doing tonight?”

Emma stops in her tracks, her sneakers actually squeaking against the tile as she turns around. “I’m just going to watch some TV, catch up on some shows. Why?”

“Would you like to come over for a drink?”

She smiles at him then, something soft and subtle, but it’s a smile. “Pregnant, remember?”

Well fuck. How did he forget that? She’s pregnant. Of course he knew that. Of course he knew that she’s pregnant. And she has a boyfriend, so she probably has no interest in hanging out with someone she barely knows, not that her having a boyfriend means she can’t have other friends. That would be ridiculous. It’s just…he guesses Robin’s words about not being alone and watching all of those people go out with their friends outside, they must have impacted him in some way. He likes being alone, prefers it sometimes, but he wouldn’t absolutely hate to have someone watch TV with him.

Probably just not Emma Swan.

“Sorry, love,” he apologizes, having to work to keep his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t scratch his ear again. “I didn’t mean to impose. I’m not sure why I asked.”

He thinks she’s just going to walk away again, but she doesn’t. “Well, there are other drinks besides alcohol, you know? I happen to be a big fan of hot chocolate.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods, taking a step closer to him and uncrossing her arms from her chest. “And I was thinking about watching Big Little Lies. So if you have hot chocolate and like Reese Witherspoon, I feel like I might agree to having a drink with you.” “Aye, I have hot chocolate, and how can one not love Reese Witherspoon? She’s America’s sweetheart.”

“Aren’t you British?”

He winks. “That’s beside the point.”

-/-

Emma knocks on his door a little after eight, and he lets her inside. The similar layouts of their apartments must make her feel at home as she simply walks into his living room and sits down, spreading out the blanket she brought with her over her legs. He’s never known someone to bring their own blanket with them, but it’s actually a good idea. Oftentimes he goes over to someone’s house and is either freezing or is stuck using a blanket with uncomfortable material.

When the hell did he become such an old man?

He joins her with the hot chocolate he was making before she came. He only had the instant packets, not the ingredients to make the good stuff, but he’s never had the need to use anything but the instant anyways. Honestly, he usually adds rum or whiskey to it, but he didn’t tonight. Solidarity and all.

Besides, he’s genuinely confused as to what the hell is happening, so being sober is probably a bright idea. Emma’s been in his apartment twice. Once to throw up, another to spend a Saturday night watching television. He feels like there should be some kind of in between or, really, a better beginning. But it is what it is, so he’s simply going to go with it.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t know.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling up at him before placing her mug on his side table and leaning forward so that she yanks his coffee table closer to her, propping her feet up on the wood. “I promise I’ll move it back before I leave. I just have to have something to prop my feet up on.”

“I’m the same way.”

“Yeah? It seemed a little far away for you to be able to do that.”

He waggles his eyebrows, leaning a bit closer to her. “I’m a tad bit taller than you, Swan, so my legs are longer. It’s part of my devilishly handsome appeal.”

“Well, you have to have something to support that large ego of yours.” “Touché. So tell me about this show we’re watching.”

“Wait,” she begins, taking a sip out of her mug, “you haven’t even heard of it?”

“Well, I have, but all I know is that it’s about a bunch of rich women and there’s something about Audrey Hepburn.”

“And murder.” “Spoilers, Swan,” he teases, feeling lighter than he has in awhile. It’s nice to have a friend (maybe) who doesn’t expect anything from him but to watch TV. There’s no prodding into his life, no encouraging him to go on dates. It’s all purely conversation for the sake of lounging around the apartment and watching television. “Alright then, let’s watch this show where Reese Witherspoon is a murderer. I simply don’t believe that to be true after all that time she spent becoming a lawyer.”

“I applaud your pop culture references, Jones. That’s a good quality in a man.”

“Well, you could also technically be legally blonde, so it works.” Emma groans, throwing her head back against the couch before twisting her neck to look at him with a soft smile. “That is so not the first time I’ve heard that joke. You’ve got to be more original if you’re going to make a joke about my job and my hair color.” He raises a brow, the corners of his lips ticking up until he feels as if his entire face is smiling. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just that you’re pretty much the definition of blonde ambition.” “Play the damn show, Killian.”

He’s surprisingly intrigued by the show, but mostly he’s surprised how open Emma is as she talks while they’re watching each episode. He doesn’t think she realizes all of the little things she’s revealing with her statements and with the moments that she laughs at, but he wouldn’t either. Hell, he’s probably doing the same thing. Mostly, though, as the hours pass and the episodes continue, he’s as wrapped up in the show as he is with Emma. It’s an entirely inappropriate feeling, this liking her, and he’s got to stuff it down. He will not be someone who cheats, he will not be someone who has feelings for someone who is in a relationship, but he will be friends with someone…just friends. That’s what’s appropriate, and that’s what he’ll do.

Besides, this is one night. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s likely just bored and saw an opportunity not to spend her night alone, which is funny to him because she’s always struck him as someone who likes to be alone. Then again, how much can he really know about someone from only short, superficial interactions?

Not much, but maybe Emma Swan isn’t as stand offish as he once believed.

Maybe Reese Witherspoon really does bring people together.

When it’s two in the morning, Emma lets out a big yawn, covering her mouth to hide it, and when she’s in the middle of saying something, another yawn catches her. She’s exhausted. Has he kept her up all this time? Don’t pregnant women need more sleep than normal people? They do. He’s almost entirely sure that they do.

“We can stop watching, love. You look like you need to go to bed.”

“No, no,” she protests, another yawn passing through her lips, “we have to keep going. We’re almost finished. I want to know what happens.”

“Swan, you’re practically falling asleep sitting up.”

“Jones, suck it up. We’re finishing the show tonight. It’s what Elle Woods would do.”

So he sucks it up and powers on, finishing watching the show and wondering about how the hell they could end it like that. It’s not a cliffhanger, but he needs more. As the credits roll, though, he doesn’t get up to turn the television off and go to bed. No, he stays exactly where he is because Emma Swan, his elusive neighbor, is fast asleep with her head on his lap, her blanket pulled up over her shoulders while she lets out small puffs of air onto his knee.

He can’t wake her. He just can’t, not when she obviously needed the sleep, so even though he’s deeply uncomfortable, he stays how he is and lets her sleep.

Eventually, he falls asleep too.

And when he wakes up, while he’s not surprised that she’s not longer there, he is disappointed.

-/-

After he woke up alone, he tried not to dwell on it too much, tried not to dwell on the fact that he felt like he’d had a really good first date only to have his date not having enjoyed herself. He knows how to woo and charm a woman, but he’s not for everyone. If he was, well, then he’d be crazy. Or he’d just go on the Bachelor. The men on that show seem to attract several women all at once.

Not that he’d do that or even want that. For all of his bravado and flirting, for all of the times that he’s come home with a woman without knowing more than her name, and sometimes not even that, he actually prefers relationships. He prefers the steadiness of them, the friendship, the way that he gets to truly know the likes and dislikes of his partner. So the Bachelor probably isn’t for him, but if he’s desperately bored enough, he might watch it.

Maybe it’ll make his pop culture knowledge soar. Emma seemed to like whenever he referenced anything, always giggling a bit before telling him something just as clever. No, she was normally more clever. And he really liked the way that she’d look like she was so proud of herself after every joke that she told. That was so endearing.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, resisting the urge to kick his foot against his bedframe from where he’s been folding his laundry. He is in deep after one night to an unavailable woman, and no part of that is okay with him.

Wasn’t he just convincing himself that they were friends? Or really good acquaintances? It was one night.

There’s a knock at his front door, more of a pounding really, and his heartrate increases while his cheeks flush. The only person to knock on his door in the past week has been Emma, and he’s irrationally getting his hopes up that it’s going to be her again. He shouldn’t even want to see her, not after she left this morning, not after he knows that he has feelings for her when she’s with someone else.

It’s a crush. It’s like when he was younger. It’s simply a crush, and it’ll go away.

After he finishes folding the t-shirt and places it in its correct pile, he walks out of his room and down the hall to his front door, unlocking the latches and swinging it open to reveal Emma standing there still in her clothes from yesterday holding two grocery bags. What in the world is she doing here?

“So, I woke up this morning and was thinking.”

“Please enlighten me as to what the brilliant Emma Swan was thinking.”

She rolls her eyes but steps inside his apartment, pushing through him and the way he had his arm propped up against the door until she’s completely inside and standing by the kitchen counters.

“Just let yourself in, Swan.”

“I just did,” she laughs, unpacking her bags while he closes his door and moves to stand opposite of her. “So anyways, I was thinking that we definitely need to finish the show.” He opens his mouth to say that he finished it, and she holds her finger in the air and places it on his lips. “Don’t say that you finished it without me. And I thought if we’re going to do that, I absolutely have to get you the good kind of hot chocolate. And snacks. We need snacks, so I woke up, went home and brushed my teeth and stuff, and then ran to the store.”

She’s been unpacking her bags, chocolate, whipped cream, milk, cinnamon, popcorn, and pop tarts all coming out, and for a moment he’s not sure if he’s speaking with a grown woman or with a child.

“Love, what the hell is all this stuff?”

“It’s the provisions, Jones. I’m going to make the hot chocolate the way my dad taught me to make it, which is pretty much the only way to make it, and then we’re going to stuff ourselves with my favorite food.”

“Pop Tarts?”

“Well, no. I like grilled cheese and onion rings, but the grease isn’t sitting well with me right now. And I know I’m supposed to eat healthy and all that, and I do, but I really want the damn Pop Tarts.”

He picks up the box, inspecting it while Emma goes through his cabinets. They look disgusting, but if it’s what she wants, he guesses that’s what they’ll have. “Then Pop Tarts you shall have, milady.”

“I know. I bought the things. Where do you keep your pans?”

-/-

September fades away into October in the blink of an eye, the leaves morphing into warm oranges and reds all the while the air in Boston dips and chill winds begin to blow through. It’s his favorite time of the year without question, though he does enjoy summer months and any opportunity he gets to go out and spend time by the harbor, possibly even on a boat, and even though he’s spent more hours locked away in his office grading midterms than he’d like, he’s happier than he has been in a long time.

Much happier than some of his students are going to be when they get back from fall break.

He tries to attribute it to the fact that he’s moving on from all of his heartbreak in the past, that he’s not waking up in the middle of the night and seeing flashes of Milah and the life they used to share, and he’s finding a new rhythm that he likes. That he loves really.

In the mornings, he wakes and goes for runs down by the river. Some days he listens to music, other days he lets his thoughts keep him company. Afterward, depending on when his lectures are, he either runs errands or heads to work, both of which give him the same amount of joy. Usually he’s much more fond of his students, but this semester he only truly likes the English comp class that he took up teaching for extra pay.

And he despises teaching English Composition.

But his class is full of bright-eyed freshman who for some reason actually show up to class and ask questions, a lot of them begging to write about something more interesting than your run of the mill essay topics when all he’s trying to teach them is proper grammar and punctuation.

As someone who doesn’t always use proper grammar and punctuation, it’s a bit of a difficult task.

After his lectures he usually goes to his office, talking to some of his coworkers and preparing lectures and grading assignments. It’s his normal day, really, but there’s a pep in his step that he hasn’t felt in a long time. And it definitely comes from the fact that every day a little after seven, he eats dinner with Emma.

Yeah, so that’s a new part of his routine. It used to be that he’d eat alone, going over to Rob’s once or twice a week to join them, but ever since he and Emma started their binge watching sessions and he saw how dreadfully she ate at home, they’ve been eating dinner together.

He’d gotten a little carried away from himself and googled examples of diets for pregnant women, knowing that it was none of his business and that Emma was perfectly capable of taking care of herself and her baby, but he also knew from their time together that she didn’t cook. At all. And she said the things she did occasionally cook were making her feel sick. So one night while making some stir fry for himself, he realized how easy it would be to add a little extra food and have enough for two people.

And maybe after the first few times he offered Emma food, claiming he had extra, he made a little more so she’d have leftovers to take to work for lunch.

So, yeah, he’s got a little pep in his step every day. 

He’s making salmon for them tonight, and he needs to get home and get it prepared. He also needs to get some coffee before he gets home. Emma’s trying not to drink any caffeine, claiming she used to drink too much of it to begin with, so he’s been staying away from it when she’s around. He can’t stay away from it completely, so he definitely just drinks it and chucks all of the evidence before she can see it…or smell it. She usually smells it on his breath.

They’ve formed a strange friendship over the past six weeks.

And he knows that it’s a friendship, he does, even if he has feelings that are far from appropriate for her. For awhile, he felt infinitely guilty, like he was doing something wrong, but he and Emma aren’t dating. He’s not doing anything wrong. There’s no cheating involved, and he would never make a move on a woman who’s in a relationship.

It’s just not good form. Not for him. He’s sure there can sometimes be extenuating circumstances that can make it be reasonable, but he just…he can’t. Not after the way his heart was ripped out by having his relationship broken apart.

But from what he’s figured out, Emma’s not seeing anyone. If she is, she’d have to only see him during the day since she seems to spend every night with him, and that would be one of the strangest relationships he’s ever seen. He’s decided, though, that Emma must have been dating someone and when she told him she was pregnant, he bolted. The bloody asshole. He’s not even sure who the wanker is or what exactly happened, but when he thinks about it too much, all he wants to do is tear the man apart. She doesn’t talk about it, though, doesn’t allude to having gone through a breakup, and if she doesn’t want to talk about it, he won’t ask.

They work how they are, and he doesn’t plan on changing anything.

He hears the knob on his door jingle, the lock twisting, from his spot in the kitchen pouring the sauce over the salmon. He’d given Emma a key last week, and just two days ago, she’d come to his door with a reluctantly happy look on her face while she held up a key.

“I need you to keep my spare key for me.”

“What?”

“I need someone to keep my spare key for me, and I don’t have anyone who lives near here who can do it.”

“So you want me to do it?”

“Are you going to steal any of my stuff?”

“No, but I don’t think anyone would answer yes to that question.”

“This is a good point. So no stealing, but I wouldn’t hate it if you left me food.”

“I believe leaving things in someone’s apartment is the opposite of stealing.”

“Shut up, Jones.”

Emma comes into view a moment later, the door opening and quickly closing. She’s already changed out of her work attire and into the sweatpants and sweater she’s been fond of lately, but she hasn’t removed her makeup or pulled up her hair so it’s like she’s a mixture of professional and casual.

He’s rather fond of when she wears her hair down. It’s long and flowing, always a slight wave to it, and it’s soft to the touch. Plus, it smells bloody amazing. He doesn’t know what kind of shampoo she uses, but he hopes that she uses it for a long time to come.

(He may have to vacuum his apartment and shake out all of his throw pillows from all of the blonde hair everywhere.)

“Hey,” she greets, a timid smile on her face. She’s holding a brown paper bag, and he’s really not sure what’s in there, especially since she’s holding it rather closely and stays on the other side of his island with it.

He continues to pour the sauce over the salmon before turning around and sliding it into the oven. When he turns around, it’s to Emma still standing there with her bottom lip tugging between her teeth. “What’s up, love? Why do you look nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Your nerves are practically radiating over your entire body.” He takes a step closer to her, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s wrong, Swan?”

“Nothing.”

“Swan.”

“Okay, okay,” she concedes, raising her hands in the air, “so I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but some of my coworkers brought me a cake today.” “Why is that a big deal? It seems sweet.”

“Because today is my thirtieth birthday.”

“Happy – ”

“No, no, no. Okay, so I haven’t really celebrated my birthday in a long time, and I don’t usually like it. But I figured we could eat this after dinner. It’s, like, a birthday cheesecake or something. And before you say anything, yes, I checked to make sure I could eat it. There’s no funky cheeses in or anything. I just thought it’d be nice.”

He smiles to himself, shaking his head a little bit before stepping toward her and brushing a brief kiss against her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin underneath his lips. “Happy birthday, darling. I’d love to eat your cheesecake.” “How did you manage to make that sound dirty?”

He pulls back and winks before moving his brows across his forehead in the way that he knows makes her laugh. Sure enough, she giggles, shaking her head back and forth as she takes the cheesecake and moves it into his fridge.

“So what are we eating?” “Salmon and a salad.”

“Really?” “Yep, gotta cancel out all of the cheesecake we’re obviously going to be eating over the next few days. It’s good, though, love. I promise. My brother makes it all the time when I visit him.”

“So you’re telling me that you fly to London just for your brother to make you salmon you can make yourself?”

“I mean, I do enjoy seeing my brother too.”

“That seems like it’s not reasonable at all. You guys should be eating, like, tea and crumpets or something.” He raises a brow. “Darling, is your entire knowledge of London based on television shows set centuries ago?”

“Maybe,” she begins, scrunching up her face in the way that he’s really come to like, that he’s always liked. “I’ve literally only ever lived in Boston. I grew up here, went to college here, work here. The furthest I’ve been away from here is Seattle, and I only went for a two-day work conference. I was in conference rooms the entire time.”

“We’ll just have to remedy that someday. I can suggest a lot of places if you and your little one ever want to holiday somewhere.” “Oh,” she gasps, her entire face lighting up. Ever since her morning sickness has waned, he swears that she’s been glowing in all of the stereotypical ways that sometimes pregnant women glow. It could just be her makeup, but he thinks she glows a bit. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’s simply become delusional. Her breasts are rounding out, though. He has noticed that no matter how much he tries to keep his eyes trained on hers. “I have a bump finally. Like, one that other people besides me and my jeans notice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, hold on.” She gets up from her stool and comes to stand in front of him, pressing her sweater against her stomach to reveal the smallest of round curves. He knows that she’s pregnant, has known for awhile, and even with all of the other signs and symptoms, it’s lovely to get to see this. It’s even lovelier that she feels comfortable sharing it with him. “See? I have a bump. I never thought I’d be one of those women who gets excited about stuff like this, but I’m excited, you know?”

“Not from experience, but yeah, I know.”

“Hush,” she laughs, letting her sweater go loose. “Maybe if you were less healthy and sat on your ass all of the time, you could have a little bump too.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The salmon is fantastic if he does say so himself, and even though he knew that he would enjoy it, he’s glad that Emma does, especially since it’s apparently her birthday. He’s never been one to celebrate much, but he at least celebrates a little. She seemed mostly averse to the idea, but he’s hoping that she’s having a good night.

He really does.

She deserves to have good days.

God, he’s a goner. It’s ridiculous.

They spend the evening eating and continuing to work their way through the American version of The Office. He’d never seen it, so Emma insisted. Like, really insisted. She’s seen it before, but she sits there and laughs the entire time like it’s the first time she’s watching it. It took some adjusting to get used to Michael, but now that he has, he really enjoys the show.

And the cheesecake is damn good.

“I mean, obviously Jim isn’t going to stay with Karen,” he tells Emma when they’re each two pieces of cheesecake in and it’s one in the morning.

“You don’t know that.” “It’s a TV show, and he’s been in love with Pam for years. They’re going to give them the happy ending. What’s the point of television if not to give people something to root for? To give them a happy ending because life doesn’t always work that way?”

Emma sighs next to him before she scoots closer to him, their thighs touching, and rests her head on his shoulder. He feels the shiver the runs down his spine, the gooseflesh that’s rising on his skin under his shirt, and it’s the most pleasant feeling he’s had in a long time.

“I like happy endings. I used to…my life has been hard,” she admits quietly, the words almost lost in the material of his shirt, “and I thought maybe that I could never have anything happy, never have anything good in my life without having it taken away from me, but then I got pregnant, you know. And while I don’t believe anyone should have a child in some desperate attempt to be happy, I know that this kid makes me happy. It’s something that’s mine, and even though it’s hard, I love having a family again. I love getting to love someone else again.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, how to respond to her quiet admission of all of the heartbreak she’s been through, so he wraps his arm around her shoulder and tugs her closer, pressing a quick kiss against her temple. “You’ll get your happy ending, Swan.”

-/-

Emma: I can’t make dinner tonight.

Killian: Why not?

Emma: I have a doctor’s appointment in an hour, and since it’s making me miss work, I have to stay late.

Killian: Are you okay?

Emma: It’s just my 16-week check up. Nothing to concern yourself with.

Emma: Don’t eat anything good without me.

Killian: I won’t.

“Killian?”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you just go all starry-eyed and then look disappointed?”

“I did not,” he scoffs, stuffing his phone in his desk drawer and looking back to his computer where Liam’s got a smug look on his face. Haughty. He looks haughty. “I was just replying to some texts.”

“With your girlfriend?”

“Bloody hell. You know I don’t have a girlfriend, you wanker.”

“What about that woman who you spend your nights with? She seems like a girlfriend.”

“So how’s work?” he asks, rolling his eyes and changing the subject. “You get to captain any new ships lately?” “You know as well as I do that I sit in an office all day filling out paperwork and when they’re feeling the need to put on a show, I have to get all dressed up and wander out to inspect the ships.” He watches Liam slide on his glasses before licking his thumb to turn the page of whatever it is he’s reading. When did his brother become such a middle-aged man? Even more so than Killian and his blanket preferences. “I also know that you’re changing the subject.”

“How’s Loren?”

“Bloody brilliant as always. She’s at her mum’s tonight, but I’m sure she sends her love. So you seriously don’t want to talk about this woman? Emma, right? I think you let it slip once that that’s her name.”

He sighs, running his hand through his hair before tapping his finger against the stubble on his chin. “Aye, Emma. Her name is Emma.”

“And you say you’re not dating?”

“Correct.” “And yet you’ve had dinner with her every night for what? Two months now? Loren and I are married, and we don’t even eat dinner together that often.”

“We like to eat,” Killian laughs, reclining himself in his office chair since he knows that there’s no getting out of this one. “And it’s nice to have company that’s not Robin or Roland, as great as they are.”

“So what’s the problem then? You obviously like her, and don’t protest. Your cheeks are blushing, and every time you talk about her you scratch behind that damned ear. I’m assuming she likes you or else she wouldn’t spend all of this time together. Are you really just so stubborn so that you won’t date again?”

“I’m sorry I had my bloody heart ripped out of my chest, Li. That’s not something I can just get over like it didn’t happen. I was convinced I’d found the woman who I was going to spend the rest of my life with, and she didn’t feel the same way. I still don’t understand it. It hurt, it still hurts, and if I have scars from that, I can’t even begin to imagine the scars Emma must have from her boyfriend leaving her after she told him she was pregnant.”

He knows he’s messed up, that he’s shared too much, the moment the words leave his lips. He doesn’t even know if it’s true, doesn’t want to invade on the parts of Emma’s life that she doesn’t want to share, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have shared her private life with his brother.

“The woman you like is pregnant?”

“Yep,” he answers nonchalantly, looking away from the screen so that he doesn’t have to see the way Liam’s looking at him with slanted eyes and parted lips. “She’s sixteen weeks pregnant, and I think she’s going to find out if she’s having a girl or boy today, if my googling is any indication.”

“Killian,” Liam sighs, the disappointment in his voice obvious, “I love you and support you, but this isn’t one of your best decisions. Her life is obviously complicated, and you need something simple. Because I know you. You’ll fall hard and fast and get attached to both her and the baby only for the father to come back into the picture and you to get left in the dust.”

Liam’s words ring true, but he’s not about to let his brother terrify him away from one of the best friends he’s had in years. And he’s not about to leave Emma to be alone, pregnancy or no pregnancy. They are friends, and him wanting them to be more than that won’t change anything. If he has to, he’ll stay her friend and nothing more for the rest of his life. He simply likes to spend time with her and for her to be happy.

He likes when she’s happy.

She makes him happy.

“I appreciate your concern, but you don’t need to be. We’re simply friends, and her being pregnant doesn’t change who she is as a person.”

“Just think about what I’ve said.”

“I will.”

He won’t.

When he gets home several hours later, he takes the opportunity of having the night to himself to clean his apartment. He doesn’t need to deep clean it, but he definitely needs to straighten up and dust off the bookshelves. He probably needs to wash the sheets in the guest room too. It’s been awhile since they were touched, and everything in that room is beginning to feel a bit stale. But he really won’t go down to the basement to do laundry until Thursday when he’s also got some clothes he needs to wash.

So he focuses on the living room, taking all of the books off the bookshelf and dusting underneath them all the while candles burn to make everything smell less sterile. Or like lemons. Sterile and lemons. It’s like a hospital in here.

He’s sitting on the ground in his living room organizing some of his old binders from when he was getting his doctorate that he saves for God knows what reason when his front door swings open and Emma comes into view, her favorite oversized plaid blanket wrapped around her shoulders and dragging along the ground. He doesn’t look up, just sees her mismatched socks, and continues to restack the shelves.

“Killian?”

The sound of her voice, the way that it’s strained and watery, gets his attention, and he’s immediately up off the floor, not caring how much it hurts his knees after being on the ground for so long. He’s by her in an instant, and even though she’s looking at the ground, he can see the tear tracks on her cheeks and the way her eyes are read and puffy, all of her makeup removed. And he doubts she removed it with the wipes she uses.

“Emma?” he questions, placing his thumb on her chin and guiding her gaze up to his. “Love, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Is the baby okay?”

She nods her head up and down before leaning forward and wrapping her arms around his middle. He can feel her bump in between them, and he wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her even closer, letting her bury her head in his shirt as he rubs his hand up and down her back. He’s got no clue what’s happening, not a one, and the only thing that comforts him is knowing that the baby is okay. He just hopes Emma is okay too.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” she sniffles, the words murmured into his t-shirt. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to c-cry, but I…I had a bad day.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want to ignore it?” “Talk about it, but I want ice cream first.” “I don’t have any ice cream.” “Yes, you do. I put it in your freezer last week.”

He chuckles into her hair before pulling back, swiping his thumbs underneath her eyes to wipe away her tears. They’re still watery and puffy, but he hopes that changes soon. He also cannot believe she snuck ice cream in here.

“Go get your secret ice cream, love, and I will put my listening ears on.”

“You’re such a dork.”

He settles down on his couch while Emma gets her ice cream, coming back with the small container and handing him a spoon. It’s banana split flavored, and while he doesn’t love that, if Emma wants him to eat some ice cream right now, he’ll eat some ice cream. Mostly though he just wants her to know everything is okay.

After she’s eaten half the carton, she finally puts the spoon down and the ice cream on the table. It’s going to melt, but he really shouldn’t be worrying about that right now.

“I’m having a girl,” she finally says, the corners of her lips ticking up into a small smile. “I saw her on the monitor today, and God, Killian, it was like…it was like magic.” “Yeah?” he asks, and he can feel the own smile on his face. That little girl is going to be so loved.

“Yeah.” She pulls her knees up to her stomach and wraps her blanket around her knees again. “I’m really excited, which I’m sure doesn’t make sense with the breakdown I just had.”

“It makes perfect sense, Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, wiping at her eyes again. “Okay, okay, so I’m going to tell you some stuff, and I really hope you’re not going to judge me for it.” “Never.” “That’s what you say now.”

“I promise I won’t judge, love. This, like whatever that blasted gym is called down the street, is a judgment free zone.”

She laughs a little bit, and he already feels a bit better that she feels better. He’s still absolutely terrified of what she has to say.

“My parents are dead,” she blurts out, bringing her bottom lip between her teeth, the surefire sign that she’s nervous. “My mom, I didn’t…I never even knew her. There are pictures I have, pictures from when I’m a few months old, and that’s really all I have. I actually, she didn’t die, not that I know. She left me and dad, and since I don’t like to think about that, I like to think that she’s just…dead.”

“I do the same thing with my dad,” he admits, and Emma’s head shoots up so fast that she must get whiplash. He’s guessing she wasn’t expecting that. “It hurts so much to feel unwanted that you rationalize and try to convince yourself that something else happened.”

“I’m sorry, Killian.”

“I’m sorry for you too. Bet you didn’t expect our parental history to be so similar.” “Not at all. I just…is your mom dead too? Because I’m sure you saw the news of when my dad was killed, and I – I’d hate for you to have been through what I went through.” “Cancer,” he shrugs, pushing down all of his emotions. He’s come to peace with his parents’ deaths...or abandonment, really. They still sting on occasion, but he’s come to peace with them. “She died of cancer. I think we make quite the pair, Swan. So is that why you’re upset? Your parents?”

“In a way,” she admits, curling into an even smaller ball, “but not really. I mean, I miss my dad every day, but that’s not why I told you not to make fun of me. I told you not to make fun of me because well, I…I got pregnant through a sperm donor.”

Well, there goes every single theory he’s had. Like, every single one. He was not expecting that at all, not in the slightest, and he’s not sure what to say. He’s not even sure if he’s supposed to say anything. It’s really not a big deal, but she obviously feels like it is. She wouldn’t be announcing it in this way if she didn’t think so.

“I just…I have been alone for a lot of my life when I really just wanted a family, but I seem to have crappy luck in that department. And the same with guys. God, one day I’ll have to tell you about all of my shitty boyfriends. But I don’t know, I didn’t want to have to wait for a guy to have my own family. I wanted to take it into my own hands, so I did.” “That’s brave of you, love.” “Then why does it make me feel weak? What am I doing to this little girl? She’s not going to have a dad, grandparents. She’s just going to have me, which is what I wanted, but what if she resents me for that one day? What if I screw her up because she doesn’t have anyone but me because I’m alone? That’s why I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out that I’ve been selfish and have already messed my daughter up.”

“You’re not going to, not beyond what’s normal. You’re already a great mum. I promise. And you’re not alone.” “But I am.”

“I know this might be forward, Emma, but I will always, always be by your side if you let me. You don’t have to be alone.” “You say that now, but what happens when I have the baby, when I’m tired and cranky and have this loud little girl that’s going to take up all of my time. You’re young, you’re kind, and I really don’t understand why you spend so much time with a sad pregnant lady.”

He shrugs. “I like you. I like being around you. And if you let me, I’ll like being around your little girl even when you’re both having meltdowns. You mean a lot to me, love. These past few months just cooking with you and getting to know you and arguing over the merits of British television versus American television – ”

“American is better.” “So you say. But these weeks have been incredible, and I really do consider you one of my closest friends.”

Emma opens her mouth to say something, but then her lips close and she’s leaning forward and wrapping her arms around his middle while she settles herself on his lap. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t respond, just kisses the crown of her head and holds onto her in the way she’s holding onto him.

-/-

Months begin to pass at a quicker rate than they have for his entire life. He’s not entirely convinced that hasn’t entered some kind of time warp because before he knows it, he’s finished with his semester at school and on Christmas break for two weeks. He spends his time between preparing for next semester, hanging out with Robin and Roland as they take Roland around to city to look at decorations, and working in Emma’s spare bedroom to set up the nursery for her daughter. It doesn’t take him long to finish painting and building the crib, but considering that’s all Emma’s bought besides a few outfits, there’s really nothing else to do.

Naturally this means that he drags her out shopping, finding every Christmas sale that he can as he goes down the list of things every newborn needs. He’s put far more research into this than he should have, and as prepared as Emma is with her job, she’s not so much that way in other parts of her life. She kind of just figures that things will work out, that she’ll make them work out, and with what he’s learned about her, she’s not wrong. It doesn’t make him feel better about everything, though, so he helps her go shopping and after weeks of prodding, he convinces her to allow her coworkers to throw her a shower.

It was like pulling teeth, but even Emma will open up to accepting free stuff.

She has off Christmas Eve, and while she apparently had a few offers from some of her friends from work, she’s spending it with him, going to Robin’s house so they can have dinner with he and Roland. It’s not the most festive of celebrations, but for people who don’t have a large friend group or family, having a seven-year-old running around on a sugar high talking about how Santa coming is about as good as you can get for Christmas Eve.

He’s watching Emma talk to Roland about the latest episode of Paw Patrol, showing as much enthusiasm as she does when they’re in a fierce debate over their own shows, and he can feel his smile stretching across his entire face.

“You’ve got it bad, mate.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, not even bothering to look at Robin while Emma quickly glances at him with a soft smile on her face and an elf headband perched on her hair, “I do.”

She falls asleep at his apartment that night, snuggling into his bed underneath all of his covers, and while he’s sure that Emma wouldn’t mind, would probably insist that it’s fine for him to stay in his own bed, he turns on his fan and kisses her forehead, whispering Happy Christmas before he settles down into his guest room, making sure to text Liam before he falls asleep.

January passes in a literal flurry of snow, the new semester starting with everyone having to brush their coats and hats off when they step inside. It’s beautiful yet annoying, and he won’t mind when it finally starts to get a bit warmer.

He decides that he loves Emma like the pathetic fool that he is one night when she comes knocking at his door around two in the morning and asks if he’ll go to the store and buy her bride’s cake ice cream. It’s not at the first store or any of the damn stores he goes to that night, and as frustrated as he is coming home with banana split ice cream since he knows that’s her favorite, he realizes that there’s not a single other person in the world who he’d spend over an hour in the middle of the night looking for ice cream for.

She really likes ice cream.

When he gets back to his apartment, she’s asleep on the couch with the comforter from his bedroom wrapped around her, and he doesn’t even care.

He doesn’t. He just wants her to be happy. They’ll eat the ice cream tomorrow.

“Killian,” she gasps one day when they’re sitting in her living room, the both of them on their laptops doing work.

“Yeah, love? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she promises, looking over at him with her entire face aglow. “You’ve got to feel what she’s doing in here though.” She moves her laptop and grabs his hand, placing it over her stomach where he can feel a definite pressure from where her baby must be doing high kicks. “Do you feel that?”

“How could I not?” he whispers, his voice leaving him with the disbelief that he can feel Emma’s daughter moving inside of her. Emma’s been feeling her for months, but he never has. “That’s incredible, darling.” “It’s insane. It’s like she’s practicing karate or something in there.”

“Exactly my thoughts,” he laughs, moving his hand around her stomach and feeling the movements follow. “Hello, little love. Are you practicing inside mummy? I’m sure that can’t be too comfortable for her, yeah?” He looks up at Emma with a smile that immediately fades when he sees the water that’s forming around her irises. “Swan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she insists, even as she wipes her tears off of her cheeks. “Nothing is wrong. Hormones, you know?”

He doesn’t believe her, but he lets it slide, knowing not to push her right now. “Yeah, little love, I think you really are driving your mum crazy.”

At the end of February she gives him the invitation to her baby shower at work, insisting that he doesn’t have to come, especially since they’re giving it in the middle of the day. But he’s the one who insisted that she accept their invitation to host one, and he wants to always be there for her. So he cancels his classes for the day, citing a family emergency, and heads to her law office with a bag full of small things that no one bought off of the registry but that he knows that she needs.

Seriously, he knows far too much about pregnancy and the first year of a baby’s life.

“How can I help you, hon?” a receptionist named Anna asks him when he walks in.

“I’m just dropping by for Emma’s baby shower.”

Anna’s face lights up, and she immediately gets out of her chair. And comes to stand next to him. “Oh, you must be the daddy. It’s so nice to meet you. We love our Emma, but she is so reserved sometimes. I’m surprised she’s even letting us do this.” “Ah, yeah,” he awkwardly mumbles, reaching up to scratch behind his ear while he’s led to the breakroom. “I’m not – ”

“Killian?” Emma questions, interrupting him from correcting Anna. “What are you doing here?” “You didn’t think I was going to miss this, did you?” He nods to Anna before walking over to Emma and pressing a kiss against her cheek while her perfume invades his senses. She looks absolutely beautiful today, glowing in all of the clichéd ways. “I cancelled my classes for the day. Figured I’d mooch off some of the cake and help you take your gifts home.”

He sees the blush rise on her cheeks, and she just shakes her head back and forth, looking down at her shoes…which are slippers. She must have not bothered changing back into her heels. He doesn’t blame her. Not that he has worn heels. He just can’t see how they could possibly be comfortable.

“You’re ridiculous, but thank you. Ruby’s grandmother made the cake, so you’re in for a treat.”

Emma’s definitely the quietest of all of the people in the breakroom, but it’s nice to see her laughing and spending time with other people besides him and his friends. She may claim to not be the most social of people, but he can tell how comfortable she is laughing and joking around with her coworkers, opening up all kinds of outfits that make jokes about Emma being a lawyer as well as several things that he knows he’ll be unpacking in the nursery.

Emma wasn’t joking when she said he was in for a treat because as Emma wraps her arm around his waist while he carries her last round of presents, he realizes that this has been a surprisingly fun day.

Well, surprising isn’t the right word. He loves any time they get together.

As spring begins, all of the snow fading away and green grass and bright flowers blooming again, he thinks that time really is zooming forward at an alarming rate. At least for him. For Emma, she’s miserable in her last month of pregnancy. He can tell from the look on her face every day when she gets home from work and the way she doesn’t want to do anything, usually snapping at him when he suggests something. He’s completely and totally aware of how odd their friendship is, how he’s basically in a committed relationship without being in a relationship at all, and he really doesn’t care.

Liam thinks he’s crazy, Robin might too, and while he might be, again, he absolutely doesn’t care.

Two weeks before her due date he starts sleeping at Emma’s apartment. She can only get comfortable when he’s wrapping his body around hers, supporting her stomach with his arms while she tucks her freezing feet in between his calves. He’s not even really sure how they figured this out. Like most things with his relationship with Emma, it all just happened naturally.

Emma losing her key and having to vomit in his bathroom may very well be the best thing that ever happened to him.

At three in the morning on April sixth, Emma wakes him up and, through the grit of her teeth, tells him to grab the damn hospital bag because she’s having the baby. He’s never been more terrified of anything than he is hearing those words, and he’s not even the one giving birth. There’s more screaming, crying, cursing, and crushed hands than he expected, but fifteen hours after checking into the hospital, Emma has the tiniest, most precious baby girl in her arms.

Sawyer Reese Swan.

“Hi, my name is Sawyer, and my mummy is a lawyer.” “I am going to hurt Killian,” Emma whispers to Sawyer, running her finger over her face like she’s been doing for the past two hours. “He’s making fun of the name of my sweet baby, and if I wasn’t extremely hormonal and hurting like hell, he would get a nice slap across his face. Yeah, he would, baby.”

He leans down and presses his lips to the crown of Emma’s head, wiping her hair back. “You’re teaching your daughter to be violent from the very beginning.” “Yes, yes I am.” Her eyes move away from Sawyer to look up at him, the green bright even though they’re still red rimmed. “Thank you for being here today, and all of the time. You don’t…you don’t have to be here at all. You don’t have to be so good to me, to us, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you.” “Hey,” he soothes, settling down onto her mattress and placing his hand over her forearm while the other tugs at Sawyer’s hat, “there is never any need to repay me. Since the day you knocked on my door and threw up in my toilet, I have been absolutely thrilled to be your friend and to be by your side. I wouldn’t change any of this.” “Yeah?” “Absolutely.” He wants to tell her he loves her, but he can’t. Not like this. He’s wanted to for months. He is absolutely in love with her, but now is not the time. He’s not sure there will ever be the time, but now is definitely not it. But he’s absolutely besotted with she and Sawyer. “You are my absolute best friend. I would say that you’re my favorite person, but that’s this little girl.” He looks down at Sawyer’s small face, the way her lips twitch, before looking up at Emma, who has a tear falling from her eye that he has to wipe away. “You’re my best friend too. And she is pretty great, isn’t she?” “She’s perfect.”

-/-

“Wow, your daughter looks just like her daddy,” the nurse tells Emma when she’s coming in to check how Emma’s healing, and the more he looks at Sawyer, the more he agrees, which is impossible. He’s very much in love with Emma and would love to be a father figure for Sawyer if that’s what Emma allows him to be, but it’s physically impossible for him to be Sawyer’s dad. Emma went to a sperm bank, was artificially inseminated, and besides that, they’ve never even slept together. There’s no physical way for him to be her dad. Emma probably just has a type, dark hair and blue eyes, and that’s all.

But it nags at him for the next few hours as Emma sleeps and he cuddles with Sawyer, walking her back and forth in the room, admiring the petite features and relaxed face that she’s miraculously keeping, the crying at a minimum so far except when she struggled latching the first few times. It couldn’t…there’s no way. He’d donated sperm a few years ago, just the one time, and it had been a desperate attempt to pay for his rent when he was in between jobs right after getting his Masters. It’s not something he was proud of, not wanting to have a child out in the world he didn’t know about, not wanting to be like his father in any way, but Sawyer…she looks like him. He can see a bit of Emma, but he mostly sees himself.

Which is all crazy. Newborns all look the same.

Is he crazy? Is this just some kind of desperate attempt to be the father of his best friend’s baby? Because that sounds like something a lunatic would do.

He is not a lunatic.

Maybe he is a lunatic.

“Hey, little love,” he coos when Sawyer stirs in his arms, her small blue eyes opening up to him, “are you sleeping well? Like mummy? Yeah? You’re already doing so well. An overachiever, I tell you.” Her small arms reach up to him as much as she can, which isn’t saying much, and he gives her his finger, letting her tiny fingers grasp around his larger one.

“I want a picture of you two.”

Emma’s voice shocks him, making him turn to look at her in the bed. She looks exhausted, beautiful but exhausted. She did a lot today…or yesterday. It’s probably five the next morning now, but he’s honestly not sure. He hasn’t checked his phone or watch in awhile.

“Why, love?”

“Because moments like this need to be documented. Come here.”

He steps closer to her, sitting down on the side of her bed while she gets her phone of off the side table and begins taking pictures, just a few before she asks for him to hand Sawyer back to her.

“Emma, love,” he begins, reaching up and scratching behind his ear, “can I ask you something?”

“As long as I don’t have to get up out of this bed, you can ask me anything you want.”

“Where did you go…to have her?”

“Huh?” “What sperm bank did you go to?”

“Weird question but okay,” she hums, looking down at her daughter while she talks. “Um, I went to the New England Center.”

Is this…there’s no way. He’s crazy. He has to be crazy. Babies all look the same. How could anyone even tell who Sawyer looks like? He’s just tired and overwhelmed. That’s all. There’s no way that she would have chosen him. There was an entire book full of donors when he was there.

“Do you remember anything about your donor?”

“Yeah,” she cautiously sighs, eyeing him while helping Sawyer latch on to her breast, this time going easier than the first few times, “of course I do. I spent forever picking one out.”

“Describe him to me.”

“Killian, what’s this about?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” “Then tell me.”

“Um, okay,” she sighs, running her finger over Sawyer’s dark shock of hair peeking out beneath her hat, “he had black hair, blue eyes, and I think he was 6’1. I’m not sure though. The details are a little fuzzy right now. He went to college at Oxford, which I thought was super cool. He never had braces, his family didn’t have any hereditary diseases. His mom did have cancer, but it was because she was a smoker, not something he could have passed down. It didn’t say where he grew up or anything, but I figured that didn’t matter. I’m sure there was other stuff, but I felt like those were the highlights. Good genes, smart, healthy.”

His heart is practically beating out of his chest, threatening to break the skin, and he has to take several deep, calming breaths in an attempt to get himself back to normal. He’s not sure he’s ever going to feel normal ever again, especially as his stomach continues to drop only to rise again.

“Did you know his age?”

“I think he was twenty-five-ish when he donated.”

Holy shit.

He thinks that he’s Sawyer’s father.

[daughters-and-winsisters]

Huntress- Part 20: It’s Cold

Sam x Daughter!Reader, takes place in S12 E20 so warning: SPOILERS

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen Part Fifteen Part Sixteen Part Seventeen Part Eighteen Part Nineteen

 “So that Super Mario power up thing last night, what was that?” Uncle Dean asked. He was pacing the room as he tried to grasp a hold of what had happened. When you passed out thankfully you also woke before them so no questions were asked. “I mean,” Uncle Dean continued when no one answered, “I don’t know who that was, but it sure as hell wasn’t Cas. What was it he said? That he had faith in Lucifer Junior? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You shared an unsure look with your Dad. “I don’t know.” You shrugged. “Look,” your Dad sighed, “this doesn’t make any sense to me either, Dean. I mean I guess we just have to think like him.” “I don’t know how anymore, Sam.” Dean threw his hands up in the air with frustration. The three of you fell silent in thought, turning your attention to your Dad as he unwrapped the colt. It was in pieces, singed and burnt and by the looks of things never to be used again. “Can you fix it?” Uncle Dean asked. To your surprise, Dad gave a little nod, “Maybe.”

Just then a vibration cut off whatever Uncle Dean was going to retort with. “It’s not me.” Dad said, feeling his pockets to double check. Without even looking at his phone, Uncle Dean shrugged, “Not me.” “Not me, either.” You added, looking around the room. You got up and headed towards where the noise was coming from. Under a few books scattered on the side table lay a silver grey phone, buzzing against their spines and pages. You held it up in question. “Must be one of Moms.” Your Dad said to his brother. You didn’t want to answer it so you just held it out for them to take. Dad took it from you, “Hello?...Uh Alicia, hey…” he put it on loud speaker and you all leaned in, Alicia was one of the Hunters at that guys funeral a few weeks ago. “Hey so uh our Mom went on a Hunt a few days ago and she usually contacts us by now. We’re a little worried so we thought-“ “Woah,” Her brother interrupted, “no we didn’t.” “-Okay, I thought that maybe you guys could help.” “You’re over reacting! Mom’s fine.” The brother continued to object. Dad cleared his throat, “Hey uh why don’t you text us your address. We’ll come and help.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Uncle Dean said the moment Dad hung up. For once, you had to agree with him, the spawn of Satan was probably the priority for now. “Yeah, Dad, we should probably find Cas…” “Jodie has people looking. There’s not really much we can do so we might as well help Alicia.” He had a point so you nodded, not wanting an argument. Only, you couldn’t help but worry. All these pains you kept getting were getting worse and worse very day…what if something happened whilst on a hunt? You knew you probably should have told Dad, but you knew they had worse things to worry about. Besides, you were handling it. An overprotective parent is almost worse than an under-protective one.

You all parted ways to pack your things and get ready for the trip out, however you noticed Uncle Dean was hanging back. When your Dad turned the corner to his room you crept back and saw Uncle Dean hold his phone to his ear: “Hey Mom, uh I just wanted to tell you that me and Sam are heading out to help those Witch twins, Max and Alicia, if you can help that’d be great, but uh…I get that the Brits have sorta got your work covered. Maybe just at least…call me back?”, his voice broke just a little and you found your shoulders dropping in sympathy, “It’s just some stuff…it’d be good to talk to you.” He hung up and you hurried back to your room, grabbing supplies and stuffing them in a bag.

Your head swayed a little, making you stumble and shoot your hand out for the desk to steady yourself. “No…not now…” You hissed at nothing, staying still as thought that would help whatever this was go away. Thankfully, it didn’t come to anything.

“Hey guys.” Dad called out at the twins who were staring off into the distance. You smiled at their dramatic stance and how happy your Dad was to be working with other hunters. But, glancing over to Uncle Dean, you could see the hurt in his eyes and you knew Mary hadn’t called back. “What have we got?” Uncle Dean asked bluntly. You tore your eyes away from him and tied your hair back from the wind. Wrapping the hair-tie around your pony tail, you felt it. Just for a split second, not even that. A little blackout in your mind where your body felt like it was about to shut down. It wasn’t long enough even for you to react, but it was just long enough that you noticed it. Alicia explained that their Mum was hunting a Borrower Witch, the ones that have their power because of a deal.

“Dean, sweet car.” Max whistled at Baby and you shared a look with Alicia. “Come on man, I’ll give you the tour.” Uncle Dean smirked before they headed towards the Impala. “He’s in some serious denial.” You noted. “He’s always been that way, thinks he knows Mom best,” Alicia sighed, wrapping her arms around her jacket to stop it flapping in the wind, “they’re both naturally magic so I guess it’s normal.” “You’re not?” You asked. “No, magics just a load of noise to me. It’s their thing, you know?” “I had a similar deal growing up,” your Dad began, “Dean and our Dad had that sort of bond thing going on with hunts.” “What about Mary?” “She get’s a case and she just sort of…disappears.” Dad admitted with a shrug. “What about you?” Alicia asked you. The way her eyebrows raised and her mouth hid a curious smile told you she actually wanted to know. “I don’t really have a set pattern. I’ll do whatever’s easiest. Work alone, work with Dad, work with ten, fifteen, three hundred people. Whatever’s easiest.” You said. You hadn’t really thought about it before…you were trained for everything. To be adaptable above all. “That’s smart.” Alicia nodded. “Come on,” Dad put an arm on her shoulder, “let’s go find your Mom.”

“Max…Alicia, what are you two doing here?” The five of you had entered the building where their Mum’s car was outside. Expecting a fight or at least some arguing, it was safe to say you were all a little taken back that their Mum was just…fine? “Mom!” Alicia ran over to her and threw her arms around her, “I’ve been texting and calling you all this time!” “I’m sorry sweetie my phones been charging.” “Mom,” Max cleared his throat and took a step forward, “this is the Winchesters. Did you know Alicia called them because she was that worried about you?” “You know,” You said quietly, “it’s not a weakness to show a little consideration.” You weren’t trying to be mean, but you wanted to make it clear to Alicia she was okay to be worrying. In the world of Hunting everything was worth worrying about. Embarrassed, and perhaps shocked, Max shrugged, “Yeah, I know.” “I like this one,” the Mother smirked at you, “you must be Y/N.” You nodded. “Well, come on in everyone. I have wine.”

At the table, Tasha, their Mum, opened the wine bottle and handed it to your Dad. You watched her turn around and fumble about before sitting down opposite you. You were a little concerned as she didn’t quite seem to be behaving normally, but in all fairness,  you’d never met a Witch family that hadn’t wanted you dead before. You were sandwiched between your Dad and Uncle on the sofa, looking between everyone and waiting for them to talk or something. “I would’ve had the food from that vegan place delivered, but they don’t do that-“ “That’s okay,” your Dad stood up way too fast and something told you he’d been racking his brain for an excuse to leave this whole time, “I’ll get it. Dean, drink. YN, come on.” You glanced up at your Dad before patting Uncle Dean on the shoulder, shooting him a smirk when no one else was looking. “Good luck.” You mumbled to him and he shot you a sarcastic smile in response.

Dean glanced at his phone: no new messages. With a sigh, a hand through his hair and an adjustment to his posture, he turned his attention back to the family. Tasha sat down next to him, “You expecting a phone call?” She asked. It wasn’t nosy, but rather a display of concern. “Guess not,” Dean smiled, turning to face her, he then nodded towards the twins, “I gotta say you did a bang-up job with those two.” Tasha laughed dismissively, “I did the best I could with Max and Alicia.” “I see how you are with them,” Dean gripped his wine glass, “they’re happy.” “Alicia said you grew up in the life?” Tasha said questioningly. “Yeah. My Dad raised me and Sam.” “And your Mother?” Her head titled. “It’s uh, it’s complicated.” “Family always is…and what about Y/N? Did you bring her up to hunt?” “Uh…yeah that’s pretty complicated as well. We haven’t known her all that long. A little over a year, is all. Her Mom raised her in England. Raised her to Hunt…hell, she’s good at it. Better than I was at her age.” Tasha looked at Dean, she had that motherly look, “You don’t seem happy?” Dean looked between her and the carpet, placed his wine glass down and spent a good few seconds opening and closing his mouth…”Well…” he found the words carefully, “I just wonder if Sam would’ve done things differently.” “There’s no use focusing on the could haves of life,” Tasha smiled at her children from across the room, “she’s a good kid, Dean.” “We didn’t exactly raise her, though. I mean she knew everything already. We haven’t taught her anything. It just doesn’t feel right.” “I think you’ve taught her more than you notice.” She smiled, gripping his shoulder and heading over to her kids. Dean sat back twiddling his thumbs and thinking it through.

“Uncle Dean’s in his element.” You commented, getting out of the car. Dad shot you a frown so you elaborated, “Wine? Chit chat? Waiting on vegan foods. I’ve never seen him so happy.” Dad laughed, “Yeah, you’re right.” The restaurant was surprisingly busy, but then again it was the only vegan one in town. You stood just a little behind your Dad as he took the food. You glanced around at everyone, they were all talking loudly and drinking loudly and every bit of cutlery and crockery was loud. Everything was loud. Loud. Too loud. The cacophony of human interaction filled your ears over the muffled sounds of the white noise piercing over the top. You felt yourself sway a little when the pain struck again. It shot over the noise, over the smells and the sights and was all that filled your mind for just a few seconds. It was enough to make you wince, throw your hand up to your head and almost lose your balance in the process. And then, it was gone. “Sweetheart,” the southern twang of the cashier sounded normal again, “you alright?” You looked up, taking your hand away from your head, “Yeah,” you then blinked a little in attempt to balance reality back up, “just something in my eye.” “Arighty then.” She smiled sweetly, but her tone said she didn’t believe you. You didn’t’ dare look at your Dad who’s stare you could feel on you like a hawk. To your surprise, he didn’t say anything.

“Hey, Y/N,” he pointed to a MISSING poster on the door, “isn’t that that guy we saw?” “It says he’s been missing a month?” You read, taking it off the window and folding it up for your pocket. “Okay, come on, Bug. Let’s go.” He took you arm and you were half dragged to the car.

You, your Dad and your Uncle Dean crept down towards the door where the man had come from. It was a sort of hatch, closed by a padlock which your Dad was busy picking. Clicking your torch on, you stepped next to Uncle Dean and prepared yourself for whatever might be inside. All three of you made the same mistake when it opened. You leaned forward to have a look. The stench of rotting bodies and sewage and anything else revolting was overbearing. “You first.” Uncle Dean coughed at his brother. “No way,” Dad winced, “you.” You watched them go back and forth and sighed, “Move.”. The steps were uneven and the smell did nothing but worsen as you neared the base. “Be careful.” Dad warned, but couldn’t take it as he soon followed you down.

The three of you stood back to back, torches outwards and guns at the ready, but it was soon clear no one was about. No one alive, anyway. Leaving them to the corpses at the side, you neared a table curiously where a body lay under a white sheet. It didn’t smell as bad which told you it was fresh. Your Dad looked up and watched as you carefully took the sheet away, revealing the face. It was her. There was no doubt about it. “Dad…” You said quietly, unaware he was already looking. He came over to you and put an arm on your shoulder, “I know…her hearts been ripped out…” “This is everybody in the house.” You added, shining your torch over the faces. “Okay so who the hell were we just talking to?” Uncle Dean asked the air.

Footsteps sounded and three guns cocked, your Dad taking a step in front of you. “Hey,” said a voice, you shifted your feet so you could see who it was, “I saw the light. You guys find some trouble to get into?” It was Max. Oh God. “Nah, no no-“ Dad stuttered, putting his hand on Max’s chest to stop him from going any further. Max locked eyes with yours and frowned at your fearful expression. He barged through Dad and Uncle Dean, coming to a halt in front of the body. “I was just…I don’t…no…”

You backed away and stood next to your Dad, your eyes not leaving her body. Tears began to fall from Max’ eyes as he knelt down next to the body. You felt awful for him, knowing all too well what it was like to find your Mother dead and alone, cold. You looked away, turning to leave and went back up the steps. It was cold out, but at least the smell didn’t follow. You clutched your jacket round you opened up your phone. It was strange that Mick had stopped calling you, even though you’d asked him to you never thought he would. He was your step-Dad after all. To him that meant family. But not to you and certainly not to Max. “Y/N, hey. You alright, bug?” Dad asked, hopping up the steps and taking a stance at your side. “Yeah…” You nodded blankly, putting your phone back away and shivering a little. “You sure?” He pushed. “I don’t know…it just- “, but before you could start explaining Max ran past, Uncle Dean following afterwards. “Max!” Uncle Dean shouted, racing after, “A little help?!” He then called back to you and your Dad, who then raced after him. He was no doubt expecting you to do the same, but you were stuck in place.

You couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened to you. The death of your sister, your Mum and then suddenly finding your Dad…it seemed unreal. Part of you expected to wake up and find out that this was all a dream. That’s why you needed to call Mick. As irritated with yourself as you were, he was the only consistent person in your life who’d been there from day one. He wasn’t exactly a good step-Dad, but neither was he a bad one. He was just confused. Not meant for the Men of Letters, really. Your finger hovered over the call button, before pressing down. To your surprise and disappointment, he didn’t pick up. It rang and rang, but no one picked up. “This is Mick Davis, leave a message.” You didn’t have anything to say so you let in run silent for a few seconds before hanging up.

The cold night air became more and more unbearable, making you shiver. Then, out of the blue, one more sharp pain hit. It was much worse than any of the ones before. It was loud and quiet. It was heavy and light. It was dense and airy. It was too much. Harsh voices whispered through your bones and hovered around your eardrums and it all became too much. You collapsed to the hard ground, clutching your head as though if you held it hard enough everything would go back to normal. Your eyes drooped and the sound subsided along with consciousness.

You woke up running. Sprinting, even. Racing through the forest, your heart beat so fast you thought it was going to stop all together. Like an idiot, you looked back. You looked back to see nothing chasing you…nothing at all? But when your head turned to face the direction you were running you skidded to a halt. There it was. The Hell Hound. It pounced on you, it’s sharp ravenous claws slicing through your skin. You screamed in agony, flailing your limbs abut helplessly as it tore into you. The pain was all you could sense. It was the smell and the taste and the sound. All pain. And then nothing.

“Brooks how are you supposed to outrun a real Hellhound when you can’t even outrun one that’s half the speed?” Mr K tutted, taking the replicators off your body and face. They were pain replicators, used to put Hunters in a simulation where everything was very much real. “Sorry…” You managed, out of breath and still able to feel the aftermath of the Hound. “Wait here.” He ordered, leaving the room. You waited a few seconds before following quietly after, peering round the corner of the corridor to eavesdrop:

“Well,” Ketch began, “they still don’t’ seem to be having any affect on her.” “That’s impossible. These injections are designed to rework you into a cold killing machine.” You felt your body tense…so that’s what they’d been jabbing you with? “Well she’s just as irritatingly Y/N as always. We might have to try her Mother, see if it’s genetics or just her.” “Rebecca doesn’t need them. She follows the rules just fine.” “Does she?” Ketch snapped, “Because I happen to be aware of just how many monsters she leaves unharmed. She’s as disobedient as her daughter is. Get me those shots.” “Yes sir.”

Part Twenty One: Realignment 

Masterlist I do not own these gifs (Tag list after cut)

@bellero

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[apiratecalledav]

Name Them (Sandor Clegane FF)

A/N: A couple of years ago, I made a dumb post about how work was so boring that my brain went, “Hey, wouldn’t it be hilarious and adorable if Arya and Gendry’s kids called Sandor Clagane ‘Uncle Sandy?’”

I got some requests to write a fan fic and I started a one shot but never finished it.This is more the GOT universe, since it’s fresher in my mind than ASOIF and there’s more “room to play” with backstories and such. Plus Rory McCann would totally own being “Uncle Sandy.” ;) 

Please keep in mind that I haven’t written anything in forever and this is way out of my comfort zone.

It’s Sandor’s POV, so there’s a good bit of language.

Sandor Clagane spots the daughters first. They’re a fair distance away and it’s been well over a year since he’s seen them, but he’d know them anywhere. They may have their father’s hair and eyes, but otherwise, they are entirely their mother.  The older one must be seven or eight.  She’s called Nell but that’s short for something Sandor can’t remember. And the younger one is… Brenna? Branna? Brenna. She looks about five.  

He looks around for their mother and father, the Girl and the lad. It strikes him now how stupid it is that he still thinks of them that way.  The Girl would be about twenty-eight by now and the lad is maybe thirty-three? They are long grown and haven’t been a girl and a lad for many years now.  

But… old habits. The Girl, the lad, Little Bird, the prince, the king… the butcher’s boy.  Titles, epithets, those are easier than names. That’s how it’s been for ages. Almost his whole life, ever since—

“You mustn’t name them, Sandor. You’ll get too attached.”

He clenches his teeth and shakes his head, needing to make that sweet little voice quiet.

“If you name them, it will make you sadder to lose them.”

It’s true. Death is sadder when they have names.

Having names can also make it harder to kill them.

He sees the lad first. Gendry.

The corner of Gendry’s mouth turns upwards in surprise and he makes his way over to Sandor. They don’t speak; merely grasp each other’s hands briefly and nod.  

Gendry turns in the direction to where his daughters are playing. “Girls?” he calls, cupping his hands around his mouth to make himself louder. “Come see who’s here!”

The children’s heads snap up in unison at the sound of their father’s voice.  “Oh, look!” the older one cries. Her voice echoes incredibly loud and shrill in the way only children can manage. “Do you know who that is? It’s Uncle Sandy!”

Sandor’s mind goes blank for a moment, unable to comprehend what he just heard.  He feels an eye twitch and his upper lip curl. He’s not surprised they called him “Uncle.” The last time he was here, the Girl— either unwilling or unable to explain their affiliation to her daughters—had referred to Sandor as her uncle.  But Sandy? Uncle Sandy? Seven fucking hells!

It’s worse than the Hound.                                                                    

He once heard that wheezing, old grand maester refer to a condition where something bursts in a man’s brain and blood leaks inside his skull. Sandor wonders if that’s happening to him now. His eyes dart over to the lad, incredulous and silently demanding an explanation.

Gendry smiles ruefully and opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a loud, almost manic giggle cuts through the air.

Sandor whips his head around to find the Girl standing at his other side, an infant in her arms. It’s a boy, he thinks, but he can’t be sure. He hadn’t heard that she’d had another child. She makes no move to further greet him, even as her laughter dies down into quiet chuckling.

“Er, Nell likes to tell the other children stories about your adventures with Arya and me,” Gendry says when he can finally make his voice heard. “A few of them said that Sandor Clegane sounded like…”

“—A villain,” the Girl offers, her laughter flaring up again.

“Right, so… Er, you became—”

“—Ser Sandy!” the Girl manages to gasp between fits of snickering.

“And whose idea was that, I wonder?” Sandor grumbles, eyes narrowed.  

The Girl raises and lowers one shoulder, still smirking.  

Looking at her shit eating grin, Sandor realizes that he got off easy. Knowing the Girl, she probably entertained the idea of telling her children to call him Ser-Shit-for-Brains or Grand Maester Piss Crumpet.  “Fuck’s sake.”

When the Girl speaks again, her voice is warm and her face has softened into a more welcoming expression. “This is Daren,” she says, adjusting the boy so that Sandor can get a look at his face. Anyone else would now crow about how beautiful he is or ramble on about which parent he looks like more. But aside from his black hair and blue eyes, he is as nondescript as a peeled potato as far as Sandor is concerned.

“He— looks like a hearty little fellow.”

Sandor is spared from saying anything else as something small and fast collides with his middle. He looks down to see that the older daughter has thrown her arms around him. He stares down at Nell in helpless confusion for a moment before awkwardly patting the top of her head.  “You’ve gotten tall.”

“I have!” Nell says proudly. She releases him and peers over her shoulder, realizing that Brenna has kept her distance, awkwardly twisting the sleeves of her dress. Nell turns and takes her sister’s hand. “Don’t be shy! You remember Uncle Sandy, don’t you? He saved you, remember?”

A smile slowly forms on Brenna’s face. “I ‘member.” She releases her sister’s hand and tentatively embraces Sandor as well.  “Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t call it saving,” Sandor says gruffly, recalling the incident the children are referring to.

Though perhaps not as prissy and dainty as the average girl, Brenna is not nearly as rowdy or wild as her sister and mother.  She prefers to wear dresses, insects send her into panic, and she utterly loathes filth.

The last time Sandor visited, Nell and Brenna raced around in the early spring with other youngsters. The melting snow and ice turned much of the grass into a damp, muddy quagmire.  Brenna with her shorter legs was already lagging behind the other children when she slipped down one of the hills and tumbled into a pile of muck. She lay there rigid, her face frozen in a blank sort of horror Sandor associated with men who were slowly bleeding to death.

Sandor reached her first. He perfunctorily scooped her up and carried her away, back to solid ground and into her father’s arms.

Gendry peered into Brenna’s face anxiously while the Girl tentatively probed her, looking for any serious injury. Sandor felt certain that the Girl must have been thinking about her brother who had been thrown from a tower, his body left shattered when he wasn’t much older than Brenna.

After a long, terrifying moment, Brenna blinked and let out a pitiful, “Blech!”

Her parents half laughed, half sobbed in relief and brought her home to get cleaned up.  

Sandor looks down at Brenna now, noticing that her dress has been tied into knots around her calves, presumably to spare it from dragging in the dirt. Her alterations reveal that she’s also wearing tall, sturdy boots. Sandor almost smiles. Any other mother would be horrified by her attire.

“Did you bring us presents?” asks Nell hopefully.

“Elyn!” the Girl says at the same time Gendry says, “Don’t be rude.”

Nell grins sheepishly. “Well, he always brings us presents…”

Sandor rolls his eyes and reaches into his pocket and hands Nell a roughly made ring. “You won’t be able to wear this for a few years.”

“Pretty!” she says, taking it from him and examining it.

“See the hinge under the stone? There’s a compartment and you can put poison in there.”  

“Ooh!” she says with much more enthusiasm and slips the ring onto her thumb but it’s still quite loose.

The Girl chuckles and tells Nell that she can wear it on a chain until she grows more. Nell looks disappointed by that.

Less sure of Brenna’s tastes, Sandor hesitantly hands her a wooden knight but her eyes light up as her small hand closes over it.

“He can look after my dolls,” she says excitedly. “Like you did for Mummy and Auntie Sansa.”

“That’s right, little one,” he says. “He’ll take good care of them.”

“What do you say?” the Girl prompts.

“Thank you, Uncle Sandy!” Nell and Brenna say in unison.

Sandor doesn’t answer them, simply scowls at the Girl, who muffles her laughter into her husband’s shoulder.

Something dull digs into Sandor’s side and he opens one of his eyes the smallest of fractions. He didn’t realize that he fell asleep.  He sat on one of the low wooden tables to watch the sunrise before breakfast. It was the first morning that felt like summer in over a decade and he closed his eyes instinctively as he felt the sunlight touch his face. He turns his head this way and that, feeling stiff and sore. He can’t remember the last time he slept outside.

Nell grins at him, a wooden sword clutched in her hands. That must have been what she prodded him with. “Sorry but you missed breakfast and Mum says that you’re so old now that we should make sure you’re not dead.”

“Not dead,” he confirms, even though he feels like he might not be far off.

“Hey, I’ve been wondering. What was your horse’s name? The one you had when you and Mum tried to get to the Vale?” Nell asks suddenly. “Because when I tell the stories, I’ve been calling him Grey Wind, like—”

“Stranger,” he says slowly. A name he’d partially chosen to irritate his father and also partially meant to sound unfriendly, to inspire distance.  The plan was both success and failure; Sandor loved that horse and yet by some glorious miracle, managed to keep him for more than twenty years, until he mercifully, peacefully succumbed to old age. The one constant in Sandor’s life besides misery. Sandor buried Stranger himself, refusing all offers of help, even Ray’s. The only living creature he’d ever properly named. With one exception.

Before he can stop it, he sees a flash of that fat barn cat with its litter of kittens and he can almost feel her hand in his.

“We should call that one Shadow!” he exclaimed, his free hand pointing to the kitten with all black fur.

“No! You mustn’t name them, Sandor,” she said despairingly. “You’ll get too attached to them.”

He looked up at her, confused.

“It’s just… they are very small and fragile. Something might hurt them. If you name them, it will make you sadder to lose them.”

On some level, she must have suspected their fate all along because something— or more accurately, someone— did come to hurt them a few days later.  He clenches his fist and forces away the memory of those dead kittens, their little bodies lying broken while their mother yowled.

Why is it that he remembers that so clearly and almost nothing about his sister? (Because yes, she was his sister and fuck his father for trying to tell him she was just some childhood playmate.)  The only things he can remember about her is how her hand felt in his, that she was the middle child, and how she begged him not to name those damn cats. But nothing else. Not her face, not her age, or the things she liked to do. Not even her name.

“‘Stranger’ doesn’t sound very nice,” Nell says, her voice bringing Sandor back to the present. She wrinkles her nose. “I think I’ll keep calling him Grey Wind.”

“You do that, child,” he says, absently. “The horse doesn’t give two shits what you call him.”

“You said shit!” She giggles and she sounds so much like her mother that a shiver claws its way up Sandor’s spine. It’s surprisingly eerie to hear the Girl’s voice come from this younger, slightly discolored version of her.

“I’m sure you’ve heard worse— from your parents.”

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly. “But not from other adults. My friend Maris asked me if it was true that Auntie Sansa killed Mad King Joffrey. I told her I didn’t know but if she did, he deserved it because Mum said he was a rat-faced cunt!”

Sandor nearly chokes on a laugh.

“Her mum got really angry! And looked at me like I just kicked a baby! But Jon Tarly’s mother said that if the worst thing that ever happens to your child is that she hears some curse words, you should stop complaining and be grateful.”

“Fair point,” says Sandor.

“The complaining part or the rat-faced cunt part?”

“Both.”

Nell giggles again. This time, the laugh is her own. “I’m going to practice now.” She gestures with her wooden sword, further down towards the trees where Brenna is gathering up blossoms into a long chain. “I’m getting good,” Nell says and turns on her heel and flounces away.

Hearing her sister’s approach, Brenna looks up then sees Sandor in the distance. “Hullo, Uncle Sandy!” Brenna chirps.

He raises his hand in greeting.

“You’d have knocked me on my back if I called you Sandy.”

“Aye,” Sandor says, not bothering to look around, no longer taken aback by the Girl’s stealth. “But you were never half as a sweet as those two.” He tries to make his voice sound as offhand as possible and looks away.

“True!” the Girl agrees as she settles down next to him, cradling her son close to her. “They get that from their father.”

“From him? He’s the only one I’ve ever met more sullen than you. Quieter, though.”

“Well, I guess you don’t bring out that side of him.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

She snickers. “I didn’t tell them to call you Sandy,” she says, suddenly serious. “Well, not exactly.  When Brenna was learning to talk, Nell wanted to know why we all suddenly had that ‘eee’ sound at the end of our names— Mummy, Daddy, Nellie, Auntie Sansa, Uncle Jonny. I didn’t know. It’s just how you talk to small children.  But I said it was to help babies learn who their family members are. Who is part of the pack and who isn’t.  So when their friends said ‘Sandor Clegane’ sounded scary, I think Nell wanted to make sure everyone knew that—”

There’s a screech and Brenna screams, “Nell! NELL!”

Sandor and the Girl both tense, ready to spring to their feet until their eyes fall on Brenna and see that there is no real danger. While winding her way in between the branches of trees, Brenna somehow managed to walk face first into a mass of cobwebs.

“Nell!” Brenna cries again, tearing at the webs. “Are they in my hair? I think they’re in my hair!”

Nell, who seems to have dropped her sword, reaches Brenna’s side. “It’s all right. Stay still.”

“It’s astounding that you managed to produce someone so”— the word “fussy” is at the tip of Sandor’s tongue, closely followed by “girlish” but those seem too harsh so he changes direction —“gentle.”  

“I know,” says the Girl, her voice full of affection as Nell combs her fingers through Brenna’s hair and plucks out a live spider. “I’m glad Nell dotes on Brenna. But I always worry that it won’t last. They’re so different. Every day, I wake up and wonder if today’s the day: that from now on they’ll be like Sansa and me when we were younger. We were so awful to each other… I don’t know how our mother stood it. I don’t think I could.”

“It’s different. There were six of you, and then the Greyjoy boy. It was only the two of them for a long time... I’m not saying there won’t be days when they’ll want to tear each other’s hair out but…”

He waits for her to laugh at him, to make a comment about him getting soft in his old age but she takes him by surprise.

“Thanks,” she says, actually heartfelt and he finally meets her eye. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment.

“Hold out your hands,” the Girl says suddenly.

Sandor looks at her blankly then realizes that she wants him to take the baby. She can’t be serious. “Oh, fuck off.”

She raises an eyebrow and glares at him but doesn’t say anything.

Sandor eyes her, surprised to see that his refusal hurt her. But then he thinks about the butcher’s boy, the oldest and deepest wound between them, and what it means that she was willing to let him hold her son.  A lump starts to form in Sandor’s throat. “Go on then,” he mutters, extending his arms. He can’t help but add, “Even though you’re only doing it so you can take the piss out of me.”

“He’s not a loaf of bread! There, that’s it. See?  Not so bad is it, you miserable old shit?”

“He’s better company than his mother,” Sandor retorts.  

Even though he feels utterly ridiculous, he has to admit that there is something miraculous about holding this tiny, delicate human being in his hands. After a moment, Sandor’s novelty has worn off for the baby and he starts to fuss.  

Sandor grimaces and holds the boy out to the Girl.

“You could try rocking him.”

Sandor grunts and the Girl smiles as she takes her child back, expertly soothing him.

“Oooh, Nell! Nell, I can feel one near my ear! Get it!” Brenna wails. Then adds quickly, “But don’t hurt it!”

Little Brenna’s screams for Nell echo in Sandor’s ears, distorting into a slightly deeper, more panicked, more desperate voice. His own.

As the fire drew closer and closer to his face, he started to yell for her, his sister. Even though she’d been gone for ages, ever since their father told her to go find their brother and make him come inside for dinner. Sandor couldn’t help but call for her. Because she was always the one who saved him. She was the one who punched their brother’s shoulder when he held Sandor in a headlock for too long, when he knocked Sandor over and wouldn’t let him back up.

“Nell! Nell!”

Even when he could no longer do anything but scream incoherently, her name continued to ring through his head: Nell, Nell, Nell.  

Eleanor. Eleanor! His sister’s name was Eleanor. She didn’t like Nell after Gregor started calling her “Smelly Nellie” but Sandor slipped when he was frightened.

“She’s a good girl,” Sandor says abruptly, watching Nell continue to carefully and patiently peel off strands of spider web from her younger sister. “And a good big sister.” He swallows. “Like my sister was.” His voice is steadier than he expected but also much quieter.  He’s not even sure if the Girl heard him. “Nell,” he murmurs.  But whether he meant Nell Clegane or Nell Baratheon, he isn’t sure.

“Your sister was— real?” the Girl asks.

He swallows and nods. “Eleanor Clegane.” A pause. “First name on my list.”

“Your ‘list’? Is it like my list?”

“The opposite of yours,” Sandor says. “It’s the list of people…” I’d die for. “The list of people I’d kill for.”

The corner of her mouth turns up. “Without having to pay you, you mean?”

“Aye,” he says. “No payment required.”

“Interesting. How many people are on that list of yours?” she asks.

He looks away from her. “About ten, still living.”  

“I’d like to hear who’s on it. Do I know any of them? ”

Sandor turns his head and sees something truly astonishing: Arya Stark smiling at him.  “All right,” he says. “If it will shut you up, I’ll name them.”

A/N ii: In the books, I feel like Sandor does have some attachment/detachment issues with names (threatening to beat Arya if she said Mycah’s name again has stayed with me) but in the show, it’s dialed up to eleven. He almost never uses people’s names, and when he does it’s almost always mockingly.  I don’t know if it was intentional or not, but I always liked the contrast between Arya’s obsession with saying names and the way Sandor avoided them. I also thought it would be cool if he made a list that was the opposite of Arya’s; the names of people he wants to protect.  

I had the majority of this written in like, 2017 but I wasn’t sure what to call the Clegane sister. And then Eleanor hit me with it’s nice “-or” ending. Of course, like 2 days later, I discover that it’s a pretty popular fanon name for her. Also Nell is an old nickname for Eleanor and the coincidence gave me chills and a better reason for Sandor to remember her name.

As for the kids names— Elyn/Nell for Catelyn and Ned, Brenna for Bran, Brienne, and Sansa, and Daren for Davos and Yoren. I wanted them to have names that honored people important to Gendry and Arya without going full Albus Severus Potter.  :P

[edales-drabbles]

#5 Angel

There was a star on top of the tree. It made the cold bite of homesickness more visceral than ever. It snapped at the tips of his toes and fingers and made his teeth ache. Only the warmth of the gingerbread latte in his chest fought off the impending rush of sadness that was sure to come. Once the feelings of the nostalgia faded and he was at home alone in the grey empty room, it would flood in uncontrollably.

One year, he'd decorated. The first year he'd been ... away from home. A plastic tree with plastic decorations. Thinking about it, even that he'd made sure to put an angel on top despite the tackiness of the one he had found. Cheap pound store tinsel pinned in awkward lengths around the room and snowflake stickers pressed to the windows so the light passed through them. He hadn't had much money at that point but he had done his best to get in the holiday mood. He'd invited his friends to come on Christmas eve. Christmas day was too hard after all. most of them still had family who would talk to them, who cared about them enough to ensure they weren't alone on the happiest day of the year.

None of them had come. He had sat alone at the table with a chicken dinner fully prepared as excuses poured in over his phone. Hangover. Needed to travel early to make a family meal. Something had come up. Feeling sick. He hadn't taken the decorations down as much as he had torn them down. A sobbing mess as the last hint of childish magic disappeared.

The blood had taken a long time to get out of the rug.

He had thrown out the tree and tinsel, the baubles and the snowflake stickers. But not the angel. It wasn't his angel. It wasn't the handmade glass figure that had decorated the top of his family tree for the first seventeen years of his life. A vintage piece from Germany that had been handed out from generation to generation. It was beautiful. He spent many nights as a child looking at it as his grandmother told old stories, heart full of awe. It wasn't his angel but throwing out any angel was almost impossible in the season.

A few years later, Anthone was used to the Christmas season hurting. Ignoring days like today where he wasn’t working, he did his best to avoid the whole thing. He took another long sip of his cup, watching the people outside the coffee shop window.

It was warm and bright. The orange hue of lights making the world tolerable if only a moment. The daggers of winter held at bay by happiness and joy for all those who still felt it. Ice was pretty and fascinating, hiding the cruel darkness from the world. Scents of burning fire, gingerbread and chocolate filled the shop as several carefully placed scent had been placed. All to make the shop feel comfortable. 

He didn’t want to leave this moment, this spot. He didn’t want to go back to his grey home. He gulped and placed his cup back on the table and checked the time. Another hour before the shop closed. He settled more on his seat and tapped his fingers against the table, not really thinking as he basked in the warmth. 

Teenagers entered the shop, loud, bursting with life and happiness. Anthone didn’t take much notice until one paused next to him. “Anthone?” a voice said hesitantly.

Krish took after their grandfather more than Anthone did, a cool fawn colour with pink undertones that spoke of a heritage more complicated than simple British. Anthone mostly passed as a white for all intense purposes. The idea he had any other heritage was foreign to most people but then again, a quarter Indian well masked from untrained eyes. The fact it was his mother’s father too meant his surname was British too, Baxor. 

All of this to say, his younger brother was looking at him with hesitation in their shared deep brown eyes. An uncertain smile broke out on his face and he stepped closer, a part of a world Anthone had lost many years ago. “It is you, Anthone,” he greeted, sitting on the chair opposite, pulling out his phone. “I can’t believe this! Rhea said you stopped messaging her! We were worried.”

“It’s nice to see you,” Anthone said, carefully placing his words as his heart throbbed. “You look well.”

Rhea was between Krish and Anthone. Anthone, Rhea, Krish, Asha and then Tara, unless his parents had another child in the last five years. Unlikely but possible, he supposed. 

His chest was icy now, barely listening as Anthone introduced him to his friends. He nodded at him calmly, wondering how quickly he could escape this. Krish was looking at him expectantly and Anthone felt his cheeks heat from reaction rather than feeling. Had he missed a question? He wasn’t sure. 

“Don’t you have a phone?” Krish asked, disappointment filling his eyes. 

“You realise if mum and dad found out that you talked to me, they’ll disown you too, right?” Anthone said. Possibly a little to bluntly if the hiss from Krish’s friends was anything to go by. Krish also had a look on his face. A little more pitying than Anthone was expecting. 

“It’s been five years,” Krish pointed out. “I’m entitled to talk to my older brother if I want to. If you want to.”

“You’re not an adult yet. Don’t risk it,” Anthone said, forcing his voice to be less harsh, less bitter. His younger brother wanted to talk to him. That was something he hadn’t had before. Rhea used to message him but truthfully it had been Rhea who stopped not Anthone. Anthone had spent weeks waiting for a message but none had come. The idea that Krish might do the same was a little too hard right now.

“I’m adult enough,” Krish smiled crookedly. 

Anthone tilted his head, taking in his brother. It was strange. He could still read him after all this time. Krish was taller, his face more angler and mature though still very much young. Not the gangly thirteen-year-old who had hidden in his room while their parents had screamed at Anthone. “What happened?” he asked.

“I may have got a girl pregnant,” Krish admitted, fluttering his eyes sheepishly. “She had Davina a couple of months ago, see,” he said, offering the phone to Anthone. 

He took it and found a picture of Krish holding a sleeping baby. Krish looked rather bewildering holding the small thing.   

“Cute,” Anthone said, not really sure what to say. He had a niece. 

“She is. Um. Sandi ran off so I’m looking after her. Dad reckoned if I could get a girl pregnant, I’m adult enough for the job,” Krish shrugged. “Rhea’s looking after her at the moment. Did Rhea tell you about her two?” When Anthone shook his head, Krish just nodded and carried on. “She got married when she hit eighteen.  Larmar, do you remember him? Anyway, she has two littleuns. Bianca and Karin. Then Larmar died so she’s back in the house too so. Er. It’s been busy,” Krish looked at the table. “How have you been?”

He didn’t have one niece. He had three. That was a headrush. His younger brother and sister were parents. 

“Ok, I guess?” Anthone offered. Larmar had died? His heart ached a little. Rhea had been starry-eyed for Larmar from the moment they meet. It wasn’t that surprising to hear things had developed between them. Marriage at eighteen and two children by twenty was a little unexpected though. Death, even more so. “No kids. No dead partners either. I have a job, I have a flat. I’m ok.”

“Children would be a touch surprising,” Krish tried to tease only the joke didn’t land right. His voice was too tight and there was too much awkwardness in his words. “Any live partners?” he asked with the same tone of trying to keep the conversation light. 

“No,” Anthone shook his head. “Not for a while.”

“I see,” Krish nodded, awkwardly sitting there. One of his friends called over. It was time to go. The bus was coming soon not to mention the serving staff were starting to clean up. Krish looked reluctant to leave, biting on his bottom lip. Anthone gave him his phone back. 

“Merry Christmas, Krish. Give Rhea a hug from me,” Anthone smiled gently, wanting him gone. 

“And Asha and Tara?”

“If they remember me, Krish,” Anthone half-smiled. His other brother and sister, they had been seven and eight when it all happened, somehow Anthone doubted they had real memories of him. Maybe shadows but not memories. Krish stood up and hugged Anthone for a brief moment. A flood of warmth filling Anthone for the split second as Krish held him tight. 

“I wish you could come home,” Krish muttered. “If anything got taught this year it was the importance of having a family.”

“If Mum and Dad could get over their bigoty, maybe it would be possible,”Anthone shrugged.

Krish left. Anthone left too, making sure to go the opposite way. He dialled a number. He didn’t want to be alone tonight. A sudden urge grew in him. Maybe he should get a tree again this year. He did have that angel after all. 

[how-to-survive-a-factory-tour]

How to Survive a Factory Tour - Chapter 1

A Sanders Sides / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory FanFiction

—————

”Hey, what can I get you?”

”The usual, Virge. To go.”

”Oh, hey Remy.”

I turn and grab a plastic cup from one of the many stacks.

”You okay?” the guy on the other side of the counter asks, looking over his sunglasses at me. I just sigh as I turn back around. Remy Sleep can’t tell if the dark marks under my eyes are eyeshadow or tired bags.

”I’m not okay (I promise),” I reply.

Remy rolls his eyes, pushing his sunglasses onto his forehead. “Virge, I want a serious answer. I haven’t been able to check on how you’re doing as much since you dropped out.”

”You know I had to. I’ve told you before.”

”I know. You had to get a job, so you can pay for Thomas’ university fees.”

Thomas is my twin brother. Our family is in a rough position. We live in a run-down shack with only our mother, our father having passed on when Thomas and I were five. The only income we have to support us is the small amount our mom earns from her job as a dishwasher at a restaurant, which is not nearly enough. As our eighteenth birthdays had drawn near, I had realised there was no hope of us both being able to go to college with the money we had. If we did, we’d never eat again, and there’s not much you can do with an education when you’re dead. So, instead of completing my final year of high school, I decided to drop out and get a job. That way, Thomas will be able to go to university, get a good paying job and be able to live the life he deserves.

I don’t care if I lose the chance for a future. As long as Thomas is happy, I am too.

”Anyway, did ya hear the news?” Remy asks, changing the subject.

”What news?” I question.

”You don’t know?” Remy gasps. “It was everywhere! All over the internet and TV!”

I raise an eyebrow at the guy on the other side of the counter.

”Oh, right, you don’t have a TV... or a phone... or laptop. Anyway! You’ll never believe this, but Wonka is opening his factory again!”

”No fucking way!”

”Yes way! Look.” Remy pulls out his phone and holds it in front of me. I read it over.

Willy Wonka is the most famous chocolatier in the entire world, and his factory is situated in our town. He has created things that had previously seemed impossible: ice cream that never melts, sweets that allow you to spit in seven different colours, gum that never loses its flavour and so much more. About seven years ago, he hosted a competition in which he sent out five golden tickets hidden under the wrappers five chocolate bars. Five kids won them and got to go on a tour around his factory. Afterwards, four of them left, all in... interesting states. I remember, one was really thin and covered in melted chocolate, one was blue from head to toe, one was covered in trash and the last was paper thin and twelve feet tall. The fifth kid was never seen again.

Rumours spread about what happened to them. Many thought the four kids were insane because of the stories they told. Pipes, chocolate rivers, defective gum, giant blueberries, squirrels, garbage chute, televisions, cameras... I won’t bore you with the details when there’s a book based all around the stories they told. Just go read that. It’s called ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’, I think.

But, anyway, back to now.

According to the article Remy’s showing me, Wonka’s sent out five more tickets. This time, however, he’s specified the winners have to be seventeen to twenty one years old.

”You know what this means?” Remy grins. “The age restriction mans there’s a higher chance of us winning tickets!”

”A higher chance of you winning a ticket, don’t you mean,” I correct him. “I can’t waste anything.”

”Seriously? Not even a dollar for chocolate?” Remy raises an eyebrow. “Here.” He pulls five dollars from his wallet and places it in the tip jar. “For a few Wonka bars. Treat yourself for once.”

”Thanks,” I nod as I hand Remy his drink. “That’ll be four dollars.”

He hands over the money, which I place in the register.

“Good luck,’ he wishes me, pulling his sunglasses back down over his eyes. He gives me a wave before turning and leaving.

I let out a sigh as I glance at the tip jar. Maybe I can spare at least one dollar for candy...

-

”Ma! Pa! Emile! Did ya hear?!”

I run through the house, newspaper in hand. I speed into the living room, where my Ma’s ironing and my Pa’s playing Mario Kart against Emile.

Emile’s my younger brother by eight years. Once I asked why my parents why the age gap was so big, and they said that it took them a long time to decide that they wanted another child. According to my gran, however, Emile wasn’t planned. It doesn’t mean they love him any less, though. My family and life’s pretty much as great as I’d ever want it to be.

I’ve lived in Ireland my whole life. I really like it here, but I’ve always wanted to travel. I don’t want to go yet, however. Gran’s been having problems with her memory; Alzheimer’s, my parents say. I don’t want to go away for a long time and come back to find Gran’s completely forgotten about me. I guess I’m going to wait until... Well, you know.

My parents and Emile all look up as I enter the room, grinning ear to ear.

”Willy Wonka is opening his factory again!” I announce as I hold the newspaper above my head, showing the headline off.

”Really?” Emile gasps, pausing his game and leaping to his feet. He runs towards me, jumping up and trying to grab the newspaper. “Come on, Patton, let me see!”

I hand Emile the paper, and he reads it over, face lighting up with excitement. “It is! It’s true! Aw, but it’s only opening to people between seventeen and twenty one...” Emile’s ten years old. “Oh, wait, you’re eighteen, Patton!” Before I can say a word, he grabs my arm, trying to pull me from the room. I laugh at his eagerness before turning to my parents.

“Be back by dinner,” Ma says, folding one of my blue polo shirts.

“Okay. Bye!” I let Emile pull me to the front door. I grab my wallet and pull on my coat before the two of us step outside. Emile starts running down the pavement ahead of me.

”Be wide on the road!” I call after him, running up to him and taking his hand. “Ma and Pa will kill me if you get hurt.”

”Sorry, I’m just excited!” Emile grins. “You’re gonna go to Willy Wonka’s factory!”

”Emile, it’s really unlikely I’ll actually get a ticket,” I reply. “It’s, like, super super, near impossible.”

”Well, with the age range, it’s even more likely!” Emile points out. ‘”And you deserve it for being the best brother ever!”

I pull Emile into a hug. He’s lying. I’m not the best brother ever, he is. I wish he could go to the factory, he’d love it.

I’m going to try to win a ticket, not just for my own enjoyment, but so I can share the stories with Emile and so he can experience it, even if not in person.

-

Well, this is a new low. Usually they at least leave a note at least.

I chuck my schoolbag onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I check one more time to see there isn’t a note anywhere. No, there definitely isn’t. Great.

I open the fridge and grab a jar of Crofters Wild Blueberry Jam. I retrieve a spoon from the cutlery drawer and sit down at the table. I pull my book from backpack and start reading. It’s relaxing for a bit... until the front door slams open.

There’s the sound of footsteps running and into the room come my parents and my brother, Robert, all of them carrying two shopping bags each.

‘Salutations,’ I greet. Not that they notice me at all...

My parents neglect me. There’s no other way to phrase it. Mum and Dad are sports fanatics. Football, Rugby, Cricket, they’re invested in it all. And with Robert being captain of almost all the sports teams at his university, they love him and praise him like he’s a God. However, I myself am more academically inclined. For example, I am currently taking physics, chemistry, computer science and mathematics at college. This basically resulted in my parents not caring about me at all. It doesn’t matter I got all A*s and A**s at GCSE, it doesn’t matter my prospects are Oxford or Cambridge, it doesn’t matter I have an IQ of 200. No, because I can’t play sports, but Robert can, so he’s automatically better than me.

Multiple times, my parents have forgotten I even existed. Once, them and Robert went on a four-week holiday to Australia and left me behind. If I didn’t know how to effectively look after myself, I’d have died.

I was seven at the time.

They all take seats at the table and unload the shopping bags, placing the purchased items onto the table. They’re Wonka bars. They didn’t buy anything else. I raise an eyebrow.

”May I inquire why you bought so much chocolate?” I ask as Robert and my parents start unwrapping the bars.

None of them respond, they just continue what they were doing. I sigh, getting to my feet and leaving the room. I head upstairs and go into my bedroom, sitting at my desk and opening my laptop. I google Wonka’s name, and the first article that comes up immediately makes me slightly intrigued.

It says Wonka’s opening his factory again. Just like the last time, he’s hidden five golden tickets under the wrappers of five Wonka bars, and those who win them get a guided tour and a lifetime supply of sweets and chocolate. The only difference is, this time, it’s for seventeen to twenty-one year olds.

To be completely honest, I don’t really care much about it. Yes, I’m slightly intrigued, but not enough that I’ll waste money on buying a bunch like the rest of my family. Even with the new age requirements, the odds of winning are pretty much infinitesimal. There’s really no reason to try.

I go back downstairs and take a seat on the sofa, reopening my book.

“It’s got to be here somewhere!” I overhear my brother growl as he furiously tears the wrappers off chocolate bars.

“No, it doesn’t,” I respond, not even looking up. “There are over seven point five billion people looking for these tickets, and even more Wonka bars than that being sold a day. You can’t expect to win on blind luck on your first try.”

I hear footsteps coming up behind me and a shadow looms over me and my book. I close it before turning around and making eye contact with Robert.

“Listen here, you little smartass,” he growls. “I will win a ticket, because I am winner, unlike you.”

He gestures to the trophy cabinet in the corner of the room, where he has a bunch of sports trophies. I resist the urge to remind him of the box of academic awards I have in my room.

“You may as well not bother trying,” Robert continues. “Smarts aren’t going to help you get a ticket. You’re not even that smart anyway.”

How fucking dare he.

I wasn’t going to take part in the contest, but I sure as hell will now.

“Okay then. You go ahead and tell yourself that,” I reply, standing. “Meanwhile, I am going to go to my room and use maths, science, geography and research to find the exact location of the tickets.”

Before Robert can reply, I turn and leave the room. I have a ticket to find.

-

“Yo te quiero enseñar Un fantástico mundo Ven Princesa y deja a tu corazón soñar!”

I use my hairbrush as a microphone as I continue performing to the handsome man in the mirror. Oh wait, that’s me!

I can hear your judgement. Shut up, I’m beautiful.

As I make sure my hair is perfectly styled, ready for Valerie’s party later, I suddenly hear a yell from downstairs.

“Roman!” Pa calls.

“Yeah?!” I call back.

“There’s some news I think you might want to hear!”

Intrigued, I leave the bathroom and head downstairs. What is it? New Disney movie announced? Surprise Steven Universe episode drop? Gravity Falls is coming back?! TICKETS TO SEE HAMILTON?!

I head into the living room, where my Dad and Pa are sat on the sofas, Dad reading a book, Pa holding the TV remote. The TV’s showing...the news? Why would I be interested in the news? I’m not really the most topical or political person.

Nevertheless, I take a seat next to Pa.

“So, what’s this thing you wanted to show me?” I ask, checking the time. I promised I’d help Val set up, so I’ve got to get to her place early. This hopefully won’t take long.

Pa presses play on the remote. As I watch the report, I leap off the sofa, punching the air.

“¡SI! ¡SI!”I say, slipping back into Spanish, despite Dad saying that we were going to stick with using English until exams, so I’m as prepared as I can be for my English-speaking exam. Don’t see why, though, I’m already fluent.

But the news! The news! It’s amazing! Wonka’s opening his factory yet again! I tried so hard to get a ticket seven years ago. When the tour was announced, eleven-year-old me was quaking! But now it’s my chance! I can finally go and see the what lies inside that mysterious building. I bet it’s full of wonders beyond my imagination...

“I gotta go!” I call to my parents as I run from the room. I pull on my jacket and run from the house. I’ve gotta step into a candy store and buy some Wonka bars before I head to Val’s.

Yep, that was a Heathers reference.

“Honey, what you waiting for? Welcome to my candy store You just gotta prove you’re not a loser anymore And step into my candy store!”

----------

NEXT

[everyonesawhoregrace]

Mrs. Shelby

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - 

Ten - Business as Usual 

The next few days consist of me dealing with Peaky and Shelby business. Thomas's days were busy, filled with so many things. I never really realized all of this until now. From dealing with employees cheque's to making sure that shipments are still going out for our liquor.

I watch as Michael puts some cocaine on the table, and takes a swipe of it. Pulling back, he lets out a long sigh. "–Sorry, go on Misty."

"I don't like that you have cocaine in our building." I say flatly. Hoping that's all the man needs to stop doing what he's doing.

"I don't like that you run the building." He scoffs, wiping his nose. "Alright? Besides, everyone is using snow. Even the factory workers."

Snow. I lean back in my seat. Thomas's throne that absorbs my small body.

"Get rid of it." I instruct. "Now, we need to talk about giving the employees of the factories a higher pay."

"That's not possible." Michael snaps.

"I'm running the damn business." I shake my head, "Anything's possible."

He gives me a look that tells me just how annoyed he is with me. Michael is stubborn now, he's got all of this pent up aggression. I'm assuming it's because he thought he was going to get a third of the business and not a tenth. Poor lad.

Now I have a dog with me. My companion. A white thing that looks like mop, Charlie told me her breed but I don't recall. She is called Wanda. She's gentle and fiercely dedicated to loving me. I take her on long walks and feed her too much. Marcus was right, she is a damn good distraction.

Wanda, who sits by my feet tilts her head and whines. She doesn't like Michael either. Smart girl.

Once the paperwork is filled, and we agree both male and female workers get enough money to move them from out of the lower class to middle, I rid my hands of any other business.

"Come on, girl," She obeys me, following after me. I stop at the door, "Oh and Michael– if I see or hear of you using cocaine again, whilst in any of our facilities, I'll be sure to rip that stupid contract with your name on it up."

Wanda doesn't even need a leash, and she's pretty amazing in public. Doesn't bark, doesn't disobey me. She's civil.

I paid the rent for Thomas's places of business, unfroze Polly, Michael and Arthur's accounts. Still trying to wrap my head around the fact that they wanted us dead. Bastards.

I've kept Thomas Shelby's truth hidden. Keeping my promise to him.

Ada finally got around to visiting me a week ago. She was shattered, sobbing her eyes out. She and Karl stayed over at the house. It was nice filling it up with people, especially people like Ada. The kindest Shelby there is. I adored Karl's company too. He wore glasses and fitted suits, definitely too posh to be around the likes of most kids his age. Karl loved Wanda, he had been the one to name her, after all.

We stood in my backyard, "I'm thinking about learning to use a gun." I say, grabbing my glass of whiskey.

"Jesus Misty, you really are turning into Tommy."

I smile, looking at Karl and Wanda play. The beautiful green backyard perfect for the dog to just run around and be as free. The horses are being fed, walked, cleaned too. I had hired a few women in the town who needed the money. Things were beginning to finally feel alright. Life is beginning to look brighter, that's for sure.

"I guess you're right, I used to so against it. And Thomas was so... not."

She giggles. "Well you can always learn. Arthur taught me how to use a pistol when I was a kid. I still can't really shoot without thinking I'll blow off my head."

I grimace, "You reckon I'll be any good as a thirty-two year old?"

"Of course!" She nods, "Perhaps you can ask Arthur."

"Nooo, I think I want to ask Charlie or Curly."

She looks out at Wanda and Karl playing. "Do you wish you could have carried his kids? I know you never really spoke about kids but-"

"I never saw myself as a mum, no matter how much I like children."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," I shrug, turning to look at Ada. I think that was our number one argument. Having children, or not having children.

Thomas was all for it, he knew he could afford a family, he felt safe knowing that I would be a good mum too. But I was way too hesitant. Too scared of the what if's.

Knowing my husbands career, I knew we were always in danger. It meant I wouldn't allow them into public school, just out of my own paranoia. What if someone shot and killed us before the kids were adults? Then they would be forced to live with the likes of Arthur and Linda or subjected to an orphanage, like me. When my parents died, I didn't get any nurturing as an orphan. I could only imagine how lost my children will be. How different things would be.

I still remember Thomas following me as I stormed into the house. His company Christmas party had finished, and of course Linda had brought up the topic of when we were going to have kids. Our marriage was sitting at a comfortable six years at that point.

I believe she called our marriage pointless without children. I drowned out my thoughts with the bubbly. As Thomas answered her in such a way that broke me in two...

"Misty," He calls, shutting the front door behind him. "Misty, don't walk away from me!"

"Why did you lie?!" I hiss, kicking off my heels. "Why would you ever think it's okay to lie about us?!"

"What else was I going to tell them, ey?! I don't want to tell that my wife is scared of having a child!"

"You don't tell them anything at all! You made it seem like I was barren!" I scream at him. Instantly regretting it. I never raise my voice, even if I want to scream, I never do. The alcohol between Thomas and I could consider us to be drunk. We were definitely drunk.

"I don't understand you," He raises his hands and walks away.

I follow him into the kitchen, he's at the bottle, pouring himself a glass with one hand as he loosens his tie.

Thomas Shelby doesn't just quit on conversations though, "You know what," He spins around. "If I had known you didn't want children I swear I would have-" He catches himself.

I freeze, my eyes watering instantly. I rest my hands on the cold marble, looking at him.

"You would have what?" My voice is but a whisper. My heart sinks to my stomach, as my eyes fall on the man I vowed to love endlessly.

"I didn't mean it-" he starts to approach me.

I take a step back. "But you said it." I whisper. "Which is all I need to know."

"Misty, please, babe." He grabs my hand and before I could stop him, or myself, my hand comes flying up, my palm stings as Thomas holds his cheek.

I've slapped my husband and he looks fucking furious.

"It just wasn't meant to be, but I knew Tommy would have been a wonderful father." I smile, nodding so. "He always told me he wanted to name his little girl Martha, and his son something ridiculous, so that he wasn't tied to the family business."

She looks down, her eyes watering. I feel bad that Ada doesn't know the truth. She's the only decent one, next to innocent Finn.

"Oh Ada," I put my hand on her leg. "It's alright, dear."

She puts her hand over mine and meets my eyes. "I never thought I could miss him so much. Thomas was the glue to this family. And I feel like I never really got to tell him that."

"He knew." I nod, "Thomas always said you were going to do great things. Outside of the business. And you did, you raised a baby who has no clue about this life. Unlike the other Shelby kids."

She rubs her eyes and laughs. "Thorne."

I smile, pulling back, "Thorne."

"If you could take it back, would you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you have kids? If Thomas were alive?"

I think about the idea. The fake death of my Thomas has led me to see the world completely different. And now that I know that he's actually alive, I know that I would want a piece of him with me at all times. A baby.

"Yeah. I think it would."

an: to those wondering Wanda is a west highland white terrier

[nonasuch]

continued from here, some more of this rambly and, now, less-abbreviated AU:

for obvious reasons, Harry does not get a lot of sleep that night.

he wants the whole story, and Sirius-- without quite meaning to-- tells it to him.

in another life, he might not have done so. in another life, there might have been things he’d been told Harry shouldn't know, and things that he’d simply forgotten over the years, and things that still hurt too much to talk about.

but in this place, and at this time, none of those things are true. Sirius spent two awful years in Azkaban, and five years free.

since the day he found Harry, he has been saving up all the things he wants to tell his godson.

so he starts at the beginning:

“I met James and Lily on the train to Hogwarts, when we were eleven. that's the school for witches and wizards; you'll go there too, when you're older.”

for the rest of his life, Harry will remember how his first impression of the wizarding world was formed: his godfather’s hoarse voice, full of affection for the dead, the only sound in the silent house. the darkened kitchen, the wandlight Padfoot casts throwing his too-thin face into sharp relief.

that light and that warmth, keeping the dark at bay.

when he gets to the part about Harry’s aunt and uncle, he hesitates. he’s plowed through the telling of the awful night that James and Lily died, Wormtail’s betrayal, his own mad grief, and it’s only now occurring to him that much of it was not a story an eight-year-old boy ought to hear. no matter how much of a right he has to hear it.

so he says: “you were supposed to go to live with your mother’s sister. I don’t know why, exactly, but you ended up here instead. no one in the wizarding world knew how to find you.”

(this is only very slightly a lie: four years ago, he and Remus tracked down the police report filed by the officers who took Harry away from the Dursleys. then they destroyed it, so that no one else could follow the same trail to Harry.)

he tells Harry, “in Azkaban, five years ago, a visitor let me have a newspaper. I saw that your aunt and uncle had died, but you were missing. so I escaped, and I found you.”

Harry asks, “but what happened to them?”

Sirius says “I don’t know. not for certain.”

(this is rather more of a lie. he has some very good guesses.)

this is clearly not enough of an answer for Harry, but he is eight years old and it has been a very eventful night. he’s yawning, his eyes drooping shut.

“I’ll tell you the rest, but not tonight,” Sirius says. “can you sleep on the sofa?”

Harry makes a face. “it’s too squashy,” he says.

so his godfather transfigures the sofa into a decent approximation of Harry’s bed upstairs, and tucks Harry in. he turns back into Padfoot and flops down across Harry’s feet.

just before he falls asleep, harry murmurs “you’re my godfather. and you’re a dog. you’re my dogfather.”

this is the funniest joke in the history of eight-year-olds, and Harry falls asleep mid-giggle.

in the morning, Harry wakes up to find the sofa has gone back to being a sofa and his dog has gone back to being a dog.

his mum is putting on her earrings in the hall mirror, and whistling to herself. his dad is making breakfast noises in the kitchen.

but: there is a large tawny feather on the end table. Harry recalls, vividly, watching the owl preen itself while Padfoot read his letter at the kitchen table.

he looks at Padfoot. Padfoot holds his gaze for a long, deliberate moment, and then he winks.

that whole day, Harry is full of restless energy. he and his dad finish painting the spots they missed the day before, and put his furniture back where it belongs. but his heart’s not in it.

all day he is wondering: am I really magic? what does that mean? what kind of magic can I do? do I need to have a magic wand? how do i get a magic wand? will Padfoot let me borrow his? can I do magic without it?

his parents notice his distraction, of course, but they let it pass. Harry will tell him what's wrong when he’s ready to. he always has before.

by bedtime, Harry is practically vibrating. Padfoot flops down across the end of the bed with a little more force than usual, and fixes Harry with a doggy glare until Harry settles.

his mum reads him a chapter of The Sword in the Stone, and Harry lets her sing him a lullabye even though he’s started saying, lately, that he’s too old for lullabies.

she sings, to the tune she made up when Harry was a baby, come away, o human child, to the waters and the wild, and Harry does his best to act sleepy as she goes through the verses.

when the house is finally silent, Harry sits up in bed.

“now?” he asks. Padfoot sighs and grumbles and jumps down from the bed and turns into a human being again.

“try not to explode,” says Sirius, and Harry’s eyes get very big.

“can that happen? to wizards?” he asks, and Sirius has his first really good belly laugh in about seven and a half years.

once they have both calmed down a little, Sirius answers as many of Harry’s questions as he can.

he tells Harry that, yes, most wizards need a wand to do most magic, but that children sometime will do wandless magic by accident. that there are wizarding banks and shops and bureacrats. that there is owl post and order-by-floo. that there are wizarding towns and magical neighborhoods hidden all over the world.

that while werewolves are real, reverse werewolves are not.

harry remembers to ask, then: “who sent you the owl last night?”

so sirius explains that there is one other wizard in the world who knows where Harry is, and who knows that Sirius was wrongfully convicted, and that he is using the Fidelius charm to protect them.

Sirius has not seen Moony in person for more than a year, and misses him like hell. the last time had been when Harry and his parents had gone to visit a family friend with very bad allergies, and been out of the house long enough that Sirius could Apparate away.

the flat where Moony was staying was shabby and awful, of course. even though, years ago, Sirius had given Moony the key to his bank vault and all but ordered him to use it.

the shabby, awful flat had not actually mattered very much to either of them. it had a table where they sat side-by-side for an hour or so, shoulders pressed together, and went over what Remus had found in the course of hunting for Wormtail.

it also contained a bed, where they spent the rest of the day.

and that was all, for year. writing letters helps, a little. a very little.

(none of the above is included in Padfoot’s explanation. that is most definitely a conversation for the future, when Harry has known his dog is a wizard for more than twenty-four hours, and Sirius had worked out what to say without using horrible euphemisms or embarrassing them both to death.)

once Harry has run out of questions, or at least paused to pick out the next set, Sirius says, “we should talk about your mum and dad. what are you going to tell them?”

(he’s read all the parenting books in the house. they mostly recommend that parents should do the exact opposite of whatever his own parents would have done, so he thinks the Muggles might have the right idea on this particular front. and they’re all very big on honesty and communication.)

“well,” says Harry, and falls silent, thinking. “should I tell them I’m magic?”

“that’s up to you,” says Padfoot. “I think you’ll want to, sooner or later, and you’ll have to, before you go to Hogwarts.”

“wait,” says Harry, “if no wizards know where I am, how can I go--”

“don’t worry about it,” says Sirius. “Moony and I are working on that.”

(this is not a lie because they are, in fact, working on it. they just haven’t actually found a solution yet.)

“okay,” says Harry. “then I want to tell them soon. and they should meet you. but, um. you should get some not-magic clothes?”

“what’s wrong with my clothes?” asks sirius, who is fully aware that they are basically rags, but he spends ninety percent of his time as a dog, nine percent alone, and one percent with Moony. so he only really wears clothes at all for that nine percent.

(sometimes, as Padfoot, he condescends to wear a red bandanna.)

“they’re a bit, um.” says harry. his trying-not-to-disapprove-and-failing look is so perfectly Lily’s that Sirius cannot bring himself to disagree.

“all right, all right, I’ll smarten up a bit,” says Sirius. “think about how you want to break the news, eh?”

Harry agrees, and now the day’s nervous energy is entirely used up. he is asleep before Sirius has even changed back to Padfoot.

so Sirius nicks some of Harry’s dad’s clothes from the laundry and charms them to a) fit and b) not look obviously stolen.

also he cuts his hair. it makes his ears feel cold but he does look less like a crazed escaped wizard murderer, so ten points to Harry on that one.

the next night Harry says “oh that’s much better” in deeply relieved and deeply Evans-esque tones, the moment Padfoot turns into Sirius.

Sirius is too happy to be insulted, much.

[shalegas34]

Smelteon: Origins

“Lydia, get away from the wallaby grass!” a throaty voice sliced through the heat haze.

That was my dad, Sproggo. His voice wasn’t usually throaty; he must have been dehydrated.

“You can’t keep me cooped up inside all day, darl,” my mum yelled back.

“You’re going to start a bushfire.” Dad’s voice was getting fainter as he wormed deeper into the old tin shed. He always seemed to know exactly where mum was, even if he was nowhere near her; he claims it’s because he’s an Espeon and he has special powers, but we think it’s just an abnormally perspicacious sense of smell.

Mum sniffed and held up her tail so it wouldn’t singe the wallaby grass, and continued sorting through the scrap metal stacked in front of her. She loved to bemoan the fact she never asked to become a Flareon, but being caught in a bushfire during evolution kind of precluded any other outcome.

I turned back round to continue my lethargic survey of the steelworks in the distance. School holidays sucked.

My name is Nicky and I am an Eevee. For those of you who don’t know, an Eevee looks like a fox, it’s small and brown and boring, and this part of the bush is completely swamped with them. There’s actually nothing else at my crappy regional school; it’s a miracle the teachers manage to tell any of us apart.

Growing up, most Eevees evolve into one of a number of variants; Flareon and Espeon, my parents, are only a couple of examples. Knowing my luck, I’ll probably catch the once-in-five-year flash floods and become a Vaporeon, then I’ll be instantly vaporised when the sun comes back out.

“Nicky, run time,” mum drawled, lighting a durry with her tail.

“Stop smoking, it’ll give you cancer,” dad yelled, his voice muffled by the walls of whatever contraption he had his head up this time. See, it was definitely the smell.

“Well, not all of us can amuse ourselves playing with toys all day long,” mum replied, taking a deep drag. Dad went back to sulking. She wasn’t wrong.

Mum harnessed me up, then I did her, and we began pulling our barrow-loads of scrap metal towards the steelworks. This is what we did for keeps around here, everyone knew that, including Sproggo – though he liked to fantasise about making his millions from his next great invention.

“So you’ll be done with school soon,” mum started, her breathing steady despite the tonnage of steel laced to her back and her chronic abuse of her lungs. “What are you gonna do next, chook? Take over the family business?”

I just managed to restrain myself from asking, ‘Which one?’ There was a dry thunderstorm forecast for later; we didn’t need to burn down the whole state.

“I want to go to the city,” I wheezed, doing my best to keep up.

Mum’s mouth puckered up in distaste, and she paused to incinerate a cluster of blowflies which had ventured too close to her face.

“You’ll get run over. There’s too many cars in the city,” she sniffed, as if my aunt hadn’t just been flattened by a road train minutes from our house. “Besides, they don’t want people like us out there. No use knowing how to sort scrap or tap a blast furnace in an office, kid.”

I wondered if she was right, if I would be stuck in this Satan’s armpit for the rest of my life.

“I could learn computers.”

“It ain’t the same, chook. Shit happens; you’ve just got to learn to suck it up.”

I furrowed my brow. I couldn’t think of anything particularly shit that had happened recently, because nothing at all ever happened here. Maybe she was referring to my being born.

We pulled up to the eastern entrance of the steelworks. Mum waved to Dazza, the burly Dodrio who manned the boom gates. Nobody ever got past those gates unnoticed.

“G’day Daz,” mum said.

“Hey Lydia,” one of his heads said, and the boom gates flew open.

After weighing and dumping our steel, mum went to collect $21 from the office, puffing on another stinky cigarette. I could picture her counting notes, durry hanging from the corner of her mouth, but unfortunately we could never haul enough scrap to fetch multiple notes.  

“Wanna watch that round the wallaby grass,” one of the blokes called, nodding at mum’s cigarette but looking at her bum. I rolled my eyes, and tried to picture tolerating these vapid inanities for the next fifty years. If I stayed here, I would end up pushing scrap at the steelworks for life.

Mum handed me my share of five bucks and turned me loose for the rest of the day. I decided to crash at my mate Shanny’s place; his uncle was in the habit of brewing bathtub gin and selling it illegally, including to minors.

Shanny lived at the very edge of town, and I’d picked up about six other bored kids from my class by the time I waltzed up to his door.

“Nicky.” Shanny sighed when he saw me. “This is getting out of control. My uncle’s trying to get a proper job, you know, before someone rats him out to the cops.”

In the end, though, he couldn’t turn seven of us away, so we all spent the afternoon getting day drunk in his living room. I wouldn’t have liked to know what we looked like through the window, eight sweaty Eevees draped over the furniture slurring along to Jimmy Barnes in the wrong key.

After the sun had set, someone had the stupid idea to sneak into the steelworks, and because we were drunk, we all agreed enthusiastically. Eevees are brown, we reasoned, so we would blend in with the ground. No fault was found with the plan. We crept up to the eastern fence, waited for Dazza to piss off on a toilet break, then ducked underneath the boom gates.

Liv immediately began to giggle hysterically. Shanny tried in vain to shut her up, and she wasn’t having a bar of it. “Someone go and cut our names into the top of the blast furnace,” she said.

“That’s a sick idea,” her brother Johnno said, as Shanny desperately herded us into the shadow of a workshop. “Not gonna be me though. It’s like five thousand degrees up there.”

It was actually just over a thousand; didn’t anyone pay attention in chemistry?

“Nicky’s mum is a Flareon,” some asshole pointed out.

“So what?” I snapped.

“Nick-y! Nick-y!” It was too late. The inebriated Eevee tide had already raised me off my feet.

“Put me down,” I roared. I was starting to regret all that bathtub gin. The blast furnace was at least thirty metres tall. I was punted onto the stairs leading up the side of the giant cauldron. They only went up the control room; I would have to climb the rest of the way via the maintenance ladder.

“Do it,” Johnno said, fishing a pocket knife out of his fanny pack. I gripped the handle between my teeth and began the garish ascent, wobbling ridiculously on my feet. There was no backing down from a challenge, especially when the drink made me incapable of thinking through a single consequence.

I very almost made it. I’d lodged myself on the chute which chucked iron ore and limestone pellets into the furnace, because the heat was bearable there. I’d etched three names into the rusty metal – mine, Shanny’s, and Liv’s – and was about to start on the next (definitely not Johnno’s), when a shrill warbling from below unnerved me and made me drop the knife. It fell down the chute. Instinctively, I dived after my lost possession, and out of the corner of my eye I watched my mates on the ground scatter, busted by Dazza, as I fell into the blast furnace.

---

“Wh- what is that?”

“I don’t know. I have never seen anything like that before in my life.”

“Is it alive?”

“I don’t know.”

I knew I was dead; nobody could possibly survive falling into a blast furnace. There was a reason they called the coke in there the Dead Man. (I’m actually not sure if that’s the real reason, but it seemed fitting at the time).

I tried to prise open my eyes to take a glimpse at hell, but all I could see was a sort of white haze.

“Nicky?” mum’s voice was shrill. Why was my mum here?

“Mum?” I rasped.

“It’s Nicky!” she shrieked. “Nicky, you bloody idiot. You scared the shit out of me and your father. What happened to you? What’s all that crap on your back? Does it hurt?”

I narrowed my eyes in confusion. Was I still drunk? I could imagine worse things than spending the whole of eternity pissed. At least the squinting helped me bring my vision into focus, and eventually I could make out mum, Dazza, and a gaggle of strangers hovering over me. I wiggled my limbs experimentally. They felt heavy, but otherwise normal.

“I feel fine,” I said.

Two Machoke reached down to grip my legs.

“Oi,” I protested weakly. “Hands off.”

They helped me off my back, and it looked bizarrely like they struggled to do so. Machoke could lift tons of steel, so it was preposterous to suggest a pair of them would have trouble flipping a scrawny Eevee over. Perhaps I had been welded to the side of the furnace.

I averted my eyes to look at my feet and screamed. My fur was short and sandy-coloured, instead of shaggy and brown. A band of shiny metal wound its way round each of my legs. Was this a joke?

“Good one, Shanny,” I yelled at nobody. “Really took the piss there, didn’t you.”

Dazza’s three heads stared at me, concerned. I looked past him and realised the blast furnace had been completely emptied. The tap hole was open, but no molten iron was gushing out as it usually would.

“So, I’m not dead?” I checked, just to make sure.

“I don’t think so, mate,” Dazza said. “I mean, you’re talking and everything.”

“You look like… Just look,” mum said, lighting a cigarette and sucking on it violently while tossing me her pocket mirror.

I sussed out my new appearance. I had acquired a helmet and a shield along my back, of the same metal which adorned my legs. I shook out my ears and they flapped satisfactorily, so my muscles still worked.

“Do you reckon,” Sproggo piped up from the back of the crowd (oh! I hadn’t noticed him there), “this is a new type of evolution?”

“Great, our Nicky is a freak,” mum snapped stressfully. Her eyes darted back towards me. “Sorry, chook, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Not necessarily,” Sproggo said thoughtfully. He looked like he was enjoying himself. “I mean, nobody’s tried diving into a blast furnace while evolving before, have they? It could be a perfectly natural thing.”

“Nicky is covered with metal,” mum just about shrieked, and Sproggo shrank back into the masses.

“Hey,” I said sheepishly. “At least I won’t die if I get hit by a car now.”

That line might not have been the best call, but three cigarettes later mum had calmed down enough to poke at all my new body parts, checking to see if any of them were sharp.

“The tail packs a punch,” she announced. “But the rest is platy.”

I swished my tail around for good measure as everyone continued to stare at me.

“Cool,” I heard Johnno’s voice mumbling from somewhere behind the front row. So my mates had stuck around too.  

Thereafter, life quickly returned to our trite outback routine, even more suppressive than the heat. Nobody dared try the stunt again in case they got the timing wrong, but the town’s interest had been piqued. I’ve got no doubt more like me will come along eventually.

For now, I have the upper hand in any fight I get into at school, so I’m peachy.

[raychulemma]

50 Completely Random Questions People Rarely Ask Tag:

1. What’s your favorite candle scent? Red Apple Wreath - Yankee Candle. It's perfectly Autumnal and always goes on half price sale after Christmas. I have far too many versions of it

2. What female celebrity do you wish you were related to? Probably Maya Rudolph because she's a shameless weirdo like me

3. What male celebrity do you wish was your brother? Probably Peter Kay. I feel like he would be easy to open up to. And he would make awkward family events so much more bearable

4. What’s your favorite thing about marriage? (And if you’re not married, what’s your favorite thing about being single?) Security. Safety. I didn't expect it to feel any different because we had been living together for a while but something about the actual marriage made me feel protected and comfortable. Also because its a same-sex marriage it's a lot nicer to say my wife than my fiancée, because i would wonder if they assume my fiancée is male

5. What’s one thing you own that you should probably get rid of, but just can’t? Books that I'm not going to re-read but have memories linked to buying/receiving/reading them.

6. Can you do a split? not a chance

7. How old were you when you learned how to ride a bike? Seven. i learnt at the end of my road because it's a dead end. and i got a green bike for my birthday with a seat for my teddy

8. How many oceans have you swam in? just the Atlantic ocean 🌊

9. How many countries have you been to? 6. France, Spain, Germany, USA (Florida), Wales, Scotland.

10. Is anyone in your family in the army? No, my Grandad was, and some of my Great Uncles but no one during my lifetime

11. What was your favorite TV show when you were a child? Superted, Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, The Story of Tracy Beaker, Dick n Dom in da Bungalow, Jungle Run

12. What did you dress up as on Halloween when you were eight? A classy binbag witch

13. Have you read any of the Harry Potter, Hunger Games or Twilight series? I got into the Harry Potter books in 1998 and am still in love with the series. I went to the midnight release for the last book. I watched all of the films in the opening week and vividly remember that the cinema i saw the first film at in 2001 had a Harry Potter themed sweet shop. I have jewellery, clothing, books, dvds, wands, other collectibles. I read the books with my mum when i was younger and watched all of the films in the cinema with her. she had her own HP merch. My wife also loves Harry Potter. We have been to see Cursed Child twice and have been to the Studio Tour 3 (or 4?) times. We had a Harry Potter themed wedding which was absolutely perfect. Hunger Games was something i avoided reading until the first film was coming out, and then absolutely loved the first 2 books (3rd one got too political for me) and the films are still some of my favourites for costume and set design. I read the twilight books after my best friend recommended them to me. We all actually read them as part of our sisterhood club. I went to blackpool to watch the first film in the cinema with my best friend. I watched the last one at midnight with my wife and one of the girls from the sisterhood who is one of the biggest twilight fans i know still. she has behind the scenes books and dvds and has re read the books that much that the spines are just gone. my mum was also a big twilight fan and would watch them any time they were on tv. i watched a few at the cinema with her, always her choice. she hadnt seen hunger games at the time of them being released but we did watch them all with her a few years ago

14. Would you rather have an American accent or a British accent? i film YouTube videos and always think my accent would be more interesting if it was American

15. Have you ever taken karate lessons? no, my 2 brothers and sister did when i was 5 or 6. i didnt like being touched so never did it

16. Do you know who Kermit the frog is? yup

17. What’s the first amusement park you’ve been to? im going to guess Gullivers world Warrington because its the closest one to where i live

18. What language, besides your native language, would you like to be fluent in? French because I love disneyland paris. or japanese because i would love to visit tokyo but its way out of my comfort zone

19. Do you spell the color as grey or gray? grey. e for england, a for america

20. Do you know triplets? yes, 2 girls and a boy but i only met the girls

21. Do you prefer Titanic or The Notebook? Titanic. my mum was a massive fan. She watched it 3 times in the cinema when it first came out. we watched it with her when it was released in imax on an anniversary. she had behind the scenes books, a few versions of the vhs and dvds, playing cards. her love for it made me love it

22. Have you ever had Indian food? no im a very fussy eater and have never tried indian or Chinese

23. What’s the name of your favorite restaurant? Of all time? Tough choice but im going with pizza hut. Cheesy bites base with double mushroom. Never craved something more

24. Have you ever been to Olive Garden? they dont have it in England so no but i would probably like it

25. What would your parents have named you if you were the opposite gender? i have no idea, maybe jason after my dad?

26. If you have a nickname, what is it? rach, chicken, chickadee

27. Who’s your favorite person in the world? i want to say scruff but shes technically not a person. kirsty is my best friend and i would pick her every time

28. Would you rather live in a rural area or in the suburbs? where i live is in between. drive one way and its city, the other way is farms. so living in one ot those farmhouses not far from city life would be the dream. i would have chickens, sheep and cats.

29. Can you whistle? yep but my cats hate the noise

30. Do you sleep with a nightlight? i can see the hallway light from where our bed is so i dont generally need a nightlight but we do have cute ones. i have 3 HP ones on my bedside table

31. Do you eat breakfast every morning? yea as long as i have time

32. How many times have you been to the hospital? ive only ever been to a&e. once for palpitations, a few times for mental health and once for an x ray on my hand. ive been to walk in centres for urine/kidney infections and for fractured fingers. oh i did go to hospital to see a neurologist to be diagnosed with essential tremor

33. Have you ever seen Finding Nemo? yes i love it. my brother and sister both bought me the dvd for christmas the year it came out so i had 2 copies for a while. i also had the game for pc and ps2. and i had a game on my phone and ipad where you could build up the seabed and gain fish. the film is just so nice and calming to watch. the scenery, the sound effects, the movements are all just gently flowing. and somehow you get attached to these characters and root for them whether youre a fan of tropical fish or not.

34. Where do you buy your jeans? primark, next, sainsburys, asda

35. What’s the last compliment you got? kirsty said my eyelashes look like im wearing mascara when im not

36. Do you usually remember your dreams in the morning? yea and they're weird as fuck. the latest one was about the bath being clogged with poo

37. Favorite beverage that isn’t water? Tea ☕

38. How many pairs of shoes do you currently own? a disgusting amount. maybe 20. maybe more

39. How old were you when you found out that Santa wasn’t real? about 8 which I think wasnt too young or too old. my brother told me which I was glad about because i was prone to being bullied at school and would have hated to be told by nasty kids

40. What is one food that you used to hate but now you love? cheesy garlic bread WTF

41. What is a weird lie you’ve told? i told kirsty once that i had pood the bed and asked her to help me clean it.

42. Heels or flats? flats always. specifically trainers. i think dresses look so much cuter with trainers. same with suits

43. Do you have any weird phobias? no just common ones. moths, spiders, flying insects, beetles, heights, being completely isolated, finding a dead person

44. What is a phrase or word you always say? i cant actually think of a current phrase i say but i do get stuck on phrases

45. What is a song that you bast or belt out when you are alone? part of your world, let it go, bridge over troubled water, over the rainbow. any that i try to actually hit the notes on

46. What is one of your biggest pet peeves? nails. nails tapping, and the sound of cutting or biting nails. or people that stop in the middle of an aisle or walkway when you're trying to get past

47. Do you sleep with your closet door open or closed? they dont even have doors on yet so open

48. Would you rather be attacked by a big bear or a swarm of bees? bear. the noise of bees terrifies me. i had a flying ant in my hair on flying ant day but i didnt know. i heard it buzz and cried

49. Do you have any weird things you do? i cant have 2 cream biscuits together (custard cream and jam n cream). i sometimes say hi to my teddies so they know i havent forgot about them. i buy hatchimals when theyre on sale even though i havent previously collected them cos im an impulsive pos. (honestly collecting animal jam figures and my little ponies were the best though)

50. What movie could you watch over and over again and still love? any of the harry potter films, titanic, sisterhood of the travelling pants, Princess diaries 1 and 2, enchanted, princess and the frog, raise your voice, catch me if you can, chalet girl, the shining, slumdog millionaire