#excuse some errors

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[possessed-pack]

Terrorpunk: Embracing the Horror Within.

For all those with identities that put others on edge. People with parts of them commonly used as horror tropes, people who act "unnatural" and put others off, people with stigmatized "scary" disorders and disabilities, people who have horror and fear intertwined with alterhuman identities, queer identities or anything else that people generally find off-putting or downright terrifying--but in spite of that, don't see any of it as a bad thing, and reclaim the horror that others see in you. This is for you--for the monsters and the freaks and the eldritch abominations.

This is about reclaiming the stigma placed upon you. Maybe you are scary to them, but maybe you don't care so much about how they react? Maybe you keep being your authentic fear-inducing self out of spite. Maybe you like being a little scary because it's become intrinsic to who you are. Being open about yourself and unapologetically doing so shouldn't be a fear inflicting thing, but if it's going to be that way, you're not going to change for them. You're you, let them be scared. It's not on you to become palatable. It's not on you to hide parts of yourself away. Maybe it's on them to not see anything unknown or new as terrifying. You see the horror within yourself as nothing bad, and you openly embrace who you are and who others with differing experiences from "the norm" are too.

You don't need to be anything in particular to use the label, this isn't a term to be gatekept. Terrorpunk is reclaiming the terror that others or even yourself might think of about any part of you. That's what it's about, being unapologetically you and scary by doing so, because if people see you as someone that fills them with terror, then maybe that's fine by you. You won't change for them.

Keep in mind that this is not a term to use to cause or justify harm, exclude others or further any stigma. No one by any means has to reclaim being feared, or being something that scares people. There's some of us that find power in it though, to take the stones they throw, pick them up and ask them what they have left to throw at us.

Those who exclude others on the basis of identity (transphobes, homophobes, TERFs, ableists, racists, anti-alterhumans, aphobes and anyone else who excludes those who act on good faith) aren't included under this term. Terrorpunk isn't a basis for your hate or actions to harm marginalised groups or anyone similar. It's not an excuse to harm people in general. It's simply about being you, and if being that is scary, then so be it.

[lokh]

@deviljhomaycry @kiexen dordle

[fungerhead]

drew celeste

now im lying down my neck hurts

[yeehawpurgatory]

Projecting onto fictional characters and their fictional relationships is so cool and fun but not when you start telling people to kill themselves for it lol

​I think if you arrive at a point where you can’t handle other peoples interpretations or fantasies because you’re so far into your own, that you tell others they’re unacceptable and gross for thinking differently than you, you have a responsibility to disengage, you clearly can’t handle fandom.

If you can’t handle a difference in opinion in something as trivial as headcanons I wonder genuinely how you cope with actual important differences in real life. Race, religion, politics, sexuality, do you tell other people who don’t agree with you to off themselves because you’re too stubborn or stupid to try and understand their point of view? Do you deliberately close your ears when others are offering explanations you asked for?

Or are online and fandom spaces subjected to your weird and hostile intolerance exclusively? ​Your own anger and disgust is your responsibility, it’s morally wrong to make a stranger online a conduit for your emotions even when you feel they’re “the reason for it.” Your disgust is never anyone else’s problem, nor is it an excuse for hostility, or an indication anything is actually wrong.

[hellionhero]

What if... instead of culinary arts, Mo decides to go to law school after seeing how poorly the family lawyer handled his dad's case, and somewhere along the way he meets He Tian who comes from a very well-known family of lawyers who may or may not be a bit shady

[monimolimnion]

so is there a 'the moon is beautiful' anhane fic in the tag already or do i need to be the one to write that

[sagechan]

Kageyama comes back from Italy and the first thing he says to Hinata when they step onto the court is "in te c'è già un'aria di frociaggine" and Hinata thinks he's saying "I love you" and he just goes "aw you too"

[broke-on-books]

I need to drop out, flee the country, & die at sea btw (got a question rlly wrong in a lecture hall class)

[blindecho6]

Bestiary #1 - Angels

[ethan-nestor-owns-my-heart]

HEADCANON: Sam gets extra large portions of food whenever they eat so she can give Tara the leftovers because she knows Tara doesn’t eat enough but won’t let any food go to waste

Strongly inspired by @krikeymate ‘s Headcanons about Tara’s eating habits

[vwritesaus]

meet sasha and kiyoshi, disaster duo

going off this poll, i've decided to share a snippet of my original work ft. the main protagonist and her boyfriend :> more under the cut!!

.

      Sasha sucks in a deep breath and steps in front of the couch. Immediately, her boyfriend’s eyes flick up from his phone screen to her face.

      ‘Kiyoshi.’

      ‘Yes, Sash?’

      With as much will as she can muster, Sasha says, ‘I need your help with something. Something only you can help me with.’

      ‘Sure!’ Kiyoshi declares, and his enthusiasm is enough to cause a small smile to tug at Sasha’s lips. ‘What is it?’

      That small smile quickly falls apart and dread fills every crevice of Sasha’s being. But she needs to do this. She has to. It’s the only way. It’s the worst idea she’s ever had.

      ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…’ She shakes her head, wincing at the words that come out of her mouth. ‘D’you wanna go to the gym… together?’

      The following silence is devastating. Sasha wants to dig a hole into the floor and crawl into it.

      Kiyoshi blinks at her, his mouth agape. ‘Huh?’

      Groaning into her palms, Sasha bites, ‘Please don’t make this more painful than it already is. Just say yes or no, dammit!’

      ‘Sasha…’ Peeking through her fingers, she sees Kiyoshi dump his phone onto the cushion next to him and hold his hands out to her, palms up. ‘As much as going to the gym together would make me very happy, I also know you.’

      There is no malice in his voice, just pure fact. He does know her, and she knows herself. Kiyoshi’s the sporty one, the gym rat, the muscle pig. Sasha is… not.

      ‘Which is exactly why I need you to motivate me to go. Who knows what can happen in the future?’

      ‘The future?’ Alarm is rife in his expression. ‘Babe, where are you going with this?’

      Sasha drops her hands from her face, her voice turning dry as she shoots Kiyoshi a weary look. ‘Well, y’know how it goes. All those YA novels. The trope is always the same: the protagonist didn’t know they were magic, and then all of a sudden they need to save the fucking world and they are very conveniently armed with MMA knowledge and are super fit and have amazing stamina and know how to hold their own in a spontaneous fight with otherworldly creatures. As you know, I am the complete opposite, so I better start training in case one of my future goddamn visions ends up being a plot to destroy the world and I’m somehow the only fucking person who can stop it.’

      Gasping for air, Sasha tries to catch her breath and curses her lungs for not being to do their job properly. It just hammers the truth of the matter right down to its core. Kiyoshi is frowning, deep in thought, but there’s something in his expression that flickers ever-so-slightly. She knows what’s up. He’s trying to keep his face neutral, and if her nerves weren’t so shot, she’d be doing the same.

      ‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ she says to him instead.

      ‘Sasha. My love.’

      It’s inevitable and Sasha cannot blame him for it. No longer able to keep his face straight, Kiyoshi crumbles and peals with laughter. Never mind that Sasha glares at him.

      ‘My love, I adore you, but you are thinking way too hard about this.’

      ‘I gotta be prepared, Kiyoshi!’ Sasha argues.

      ‘You are prepared!’ he counters. When all Sasha does is stare at him, question marks flying around her head, Kiyoshi puffs out his chest and states with confidence, ‘You have me! Ya think I’m gonna let ya fight alone should one break out? Girl, please. I’ll always have your back. Just say the word and I’ll come and one-two punch the living shit out of whoever tries to mess with you!’

      The whole scenario is emphasised with Kiyoshi’s signature grin, the one Sasha’s seen flashed at the opposing team during his volleyball matches, and with him flexing his biceps. The whole thing is hilarious, and Sasha would laugh if not for the overwhelming fondness that blooms across her whole chest. God, she got lucky with this guy.

      But there’s just one small problem with his proposal.

      She says gravely, ‘That’s sweet of you, darl, but I hate to break it to you... you don’t have MMA skills either.’

      Kiyoshi blinks. Sasha blinks back.

      ‘Guess we’re fucked then,’ he says.

      ‘Guess we are,’ she echoes.

      ‘Better go train then.’

      ‘Better go train.’

      Tapping a finger to his chin, Kiyoshi’s voice suddenly becomes pensive. ‘Say, wanna place a bet?’

      Not one to back down from a challenge, Sasha asks, ‘What kind of bet?’

      Dark eyes sparkle and Sasha’s hooked.

      ‘If you can survive two consecutive days training at the gym with whatever regime I throw at you to “prepare for the end of the world,’ Kiyoshi pitches, ‘I’ll do whatever you want for a week.’

      ‘A month,’ Sasha rebuts, smiling when Kiyoshi nods his head in agreement. Then she pauses. ‘And if I can’t?’

      She regrets the question the second it passes her lips for an evil-looking grin splits Kiyoshi’s cheeks.

      ‘Kiyoshi—’

      ‘If you can’t,’ he says, ‘you have to eat my famous stir-fry.’

      Horrified, Sasha splutters, ‘Kiyoshi—’

      ‘Broccoli and all. Every. Last. Bite.’

      ‘You fucking arsehole!’ she shouts. Seeing no other alternative that won’t end up with this conversation being a waste, Sasha throws her hands up in defeat. ‘Fine! Just you wait. I’ll fucking do it.’

Two days later

      She storms out of the living room, not wanting to give her boyfriend the satisfaction, but his delighted laughter follows her. It’s contagious, and she laughs quietly to herself. But her determination is stronger.

.

      ‘I gotta say, Sash. I’m very surprised,’ he says in awe.

.

Watching Sasha drop the weights on the floor with a deep groan, Kiyoshi’s mouth turns down at the corners.

      With her hands on her knees, huffing and puffing and wishing for a long, long shower, Sasha peers up at him through her eyelashes. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, disgustingly damp with sweat, and her arms are screaming at her, but she manages a smug grin.

      ‘What can I say?’ she wheezes. ‘I’d rather kill my arms and legs, hack a lung out and feel like death than put Satan in my mouth.’

      Kiyoshi laughs and smiles hugely at her. ‘I can see that! I’m super proud of you though.’

      He makes a heart with his hands to exemplify this, and Sasha barely manages to make one as well.

idk who else specifically is interested, but i'm tagging @alastairstom since you wanted to read ajksdas ♡

[galacticlamps]

I'm going to uno reverse card you and say: for the fic guessing game, 'light'?

lol that's fair

apparently I talk about light a lot (go figure) so have this one that happens to be in the middle of its story's 'Oh' moment:

But perhaps, somewhere along the line, Jamie had slipped, and now . . . well now, standing on the balcony of a palace on another planet, with the Doctor dipping his head nearer just to hide his eyes from the light - nearer, and not farther, which would've been just as easy - no, now he had to admit something was different. When it had changed or whether it hadn't at all and he'd simply been too fool to realize it before he couldn't say, and it didn't matter anyway - he knew it now, and that scared him.

-

And just for kicks, under the cut I'm gonna put a longer excerpt from a totally different fic that came up while I was ctrl+f-ing 'light' in my wips - mainly because it happens to be part of a scene from a longish 'the Doctor & Jamie reunite with Zoe in 6b' story which is nowhere near completion, but feels relevant given the boxset Big Finish released last week (not that I've gotten a chance to listen to it yet, but still).

Zoe sat across from Jamie, her elbows on the table, her chin resting atop her hands - but she wasn't relaxed. She stared at him intently, and actually narrowed her eyes as he watched.

"What?" he asked, already defensive, and following through on an old self-conscious instinct, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. With no mirror in sight, he looked to the Doctor to check if he'd somehow gotten something on his face already, but he looked just as baffled. Zoe hadn't broken her concentration yet.

"I'm trying to figure out if I'm older than you," she announced, still deep in thought.

"Ah--" the Doctor began, grinning wickedly, but whether he was going to answer her or merely tease they never found out, because Jamie shot an arm out lightning quick, as if to hold him back.

"No' so fast, you. Let the girl work it out."

He finished chewing and settled himself squarely in front of her for inspection. She continued to stare. "Y'know, I'm surprised you're having such trouble telling," he taunted. "After all, how old are you now?"

She opened her mouth at first to protest that she was under no obligation to announce her own age while he continued to keep his secret, but she still thought she might figure it out - and if she couldn't, she at least had the Doctor to rely on to make Jamie tell the truth.

So she shrugged. "I'm 41. But everyone here thinks I'm 39. I was born 39 years ago, of course, but counting chronologically from the time I left the Wheel with you in the Tardis, I aged two years before the Time Lords returned me to my own time. That was twenty-one years ago, now," she added, unable to judge if the faint waver of wistfulness in her voice was truly audible, or if it was just her own imagination. Thankfully, neither of them pressed her on it.

"Well, y'see, Zoe," Jamie began slowly, still chewing his last mouthful after she finished her explanation and sat waiting calmly for his reply. The Doctor leaned forward too, seemingly intrigued, though it must only have been to see what answer Jamie would try. "I was born in 1724," he paused and washed down his food with a swig from his glass, and for a moment Zoe had the grace to assume he was just working through his calculations, as she had done. "So I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," he finished, setting the glass back down on the table triumphantly.

All at once she felt a young girl again, a devilish light in her eyes. She wanted to jump across the table and tackle him - but that wasn't what Madam Presidents did. "Why, you--"

"They don't traditionally swear at their guests either, Ms. Heriot."

She turned on the Doctor, shocked. "You read my mind," she began, more impressed than accusatory, but he did at least have the decency to look sheepish.

He coughed politely. "Only to, ah, verify your math. And I'm sure you could feel my presence there, if you think about it."

"I could but I didn't know that's what it was. You've gotten so much better at it."

"Had to," he said simply, and shrugged, his eyes downcast.

Well, there was more to that, clearly, she thought, filing his deliberately nonchalant expression away for closer inspection later - but for now she was not about to be deterred. She snapped her eyes and her attention both back to Jamie.

"Still, we both know the Doctor obviously continues to value honesty and accuracy, so surely he'll tell me how old you are, even if you won't."

"Not if I ask him not to - right, Doctor?"

"Well . . . " he began, noncommittally drawing the word out so long that Zoe actually had time to wonder what his plan was for once he ran out of vowel. Jamie looked so genuinely horrified it was downright comical, and she had to force herself not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"We're married, Doctor," he reminded him, indignant.

"Oh, but it's Zoe," he complained, sounding every bit the petulant child she remembered he could be, all those years ago. "And as far as I can remember, none of the ceremonies we ever partook in had anything in the vows about obeying. Although I might be wrong . . ." he added under his breath, scratching his head.

"Charming," Jamie grumbled.

"Well, when we've had as many weddings as we have it can be quite a lot to keep straight in your head. You know, I sometimes wonder if we might qualify for some kind of an all-time record. If we hadn't the need to be covert about so many of them, of course."

"Stop that!" she snapped, and the Doctor turned back to her, the picture of confused innocence.

"Stop what?"

"You're trying to help him without helping him, just by distracting me. Naturally, I want to hear everything about all these weddings of yours, and I will see to it that you'll be having another one while you're here, like it or not--"

"Yes ma'am," Jamie quipped, mock-serious.

"--But first, I am going to find out how old you are, James Robert McCrimmon, and if you force me to use your husband to do it, then that decision is on you."

Jamie mopped his face with his napkin and came out of it smiling. He stretched and dropped an arm around the Doctor's shoulders, perfectly relaxed. Already, Zoe felt her heart sink, but she was careful to keep her composure.

"I'm only pullin' your leg. I'm 44."

"What, really? And you expect me to just believe that?" She raised an eyebrow in challenge but then glanced at the Doctor to confirm, and when he nodded she allowed her facade to crumble, rolling her eyes. Of course she had known when she'd first laid eyes on them that they'd be cutting it close, but Jamie still had quite a bit of that boyishness about him that had made it frustrating enough being his junior the first time around, and she really thought she might genuinely have enjoyed being just a hair older than him, for a change. After all, if you had to be ripped apart from your family and sent to separate timezones to live out your lives forever wishing for an improbable reunion, it might as well be good for something. But Jamie was far too smug looking now to be pretending, and Zoe knew it. "Oh, some people have all the luck," she groaned, dropping her arms and collapsing back dejectedly against her seat.

"Aye," Jamie said, leaning in over the table to follow her, "and some people live 22 years on Earth before they meet a time traveler, then spend 5 years with him before his people erase their memory and send them home to live another 5 before he's allowed to come pick them up again, and then force the pair of 'em to've spent 12 years so far working for them. Some people, eh?" he finished hotly, swiping his glass off the table again and raising it to his mouth in one fluid motion to take a long drink. But even so, his face was not so totally obscured from view that Zoe couldn't make out the amused curl at the corner of his lips, and when she caught his gaze again the glimmer in his eye was all fondness, just as it was with Doctor's and, she knew, her own.

Yes, no matter the circumstances, it was certainly good to see them again.

[il-predestinato]

I'm not your mutual but I would like to hear your thoughts 😬

Just don't put on his tag so people won't see it.

I'm disappointed in his performance on the sprint shoot out as well, but in the sprint was there much more to do?

[maryellencarter]

so just a general hint if you're going to claim to be a professional historian stating that other professional historians agree with you on the date of a document. try to understand the difference between "60-100 years after the birth of jesus" and "60-100 years after the *death* of jesus", huh? especially if you're using that set of dates as the basis for a claim that eyewitnesses to the events couldn't have been alive during the timeframe you're talking about. there's about a thirty-year offset there.

(in related news, i have had *enough* for one lifetime of people pulling history out of their asses in order to discredit other religions, and it doesn't become any less reprehensible just because you're not the locally dominant religion. which is why i'm not further rebageling this post this is about. professional historian my well-rounded ass.)

(also maybe don't try to shame me for not digging up an explanation you previously posted somewhere in 10k notes, especially since when you "reposted" it for my benefit it was mainly evidence that the torah says what you said it does, which i never questioned.)

[psychoticallytrans]

A surprisingly helpful bit of social maneuvering I've figured out from trial and error: Throughout your life, you are going to need things from people. Often, it's going to be on a deadline. And when that deadline passes, you generally want to know what's going on. So, you need to ask them.

There are two kinds of people, broadly, in this situation. The Shameless will tell you what the holdup is, with absolutely no regard for if the reason is "good enough". This is actually very helpful, because you get the real reason immediately, and can start working on a solution.

The Ashamed is trickier. People who are Ashamed are people who were often told they were giving excuses when they were trying to explain, and they'll often avoid you until they solve the problem on their own. This causes them and you a lot of stress, and often takes a lot longer to solve.

Long term, the strategy for dealing with people who are Ashamed is to provide a supportive environment where they're comfortable sharing any problems they're having with getting things done. But, there's a way to at least partially short-circuit that:

Provide an explanation for them.

One example might be "Hey Susan, I noticed that I don't have your report yet. Are you busy with other projects?" The readymade explanation signals that you're willing to accept an explanation, which is the big anxiety point.

Sometimes, you still won't get an honest answer- especially if the honest answer isn't "good enough" by the standards of the person who traumatized them. But, I've found that it often at least gets you a lie that lets you give them some slack or work around the problem.

Let's say that Susan has actually completely forgotten that she needed to do the report. She's horrified at herself, and completely unwilling to admit the real problem. But, she can now safely reply with "Sorry Jennifer, I've been swamped, and it got lost in the mix. I can have it to you in two days. Does that work?"

From there, so long as Susan gave an estimate for when she can actually do it, she and Jennifer can hash out a solution.

It's not a perfect solution, but it works astonishingly well for how small of a change it is.