#from my silly little stovetop kettle

[celestialprincesse]

men will simply never understand the urge to put a whistling kettle on top of the stove and drink loose leaf tea by the fireplace😔

[princeresnikov]

a creature that will do what i say (or love me back) {The Son}

{ its in my nature masterlist }

Summary: Flashback to 2011, and the first year of Clementine working as The Son's live-in bodyguard. It's simply a nice moment on a snowy, Winter evening where Clementine's cooking them both dinner, and he decides, for once, that he'd prefer to stay in for the night.

Or; The Son loves Clementine through Rose Coloured Glasses.

A/N: 2559 words. Clementine's nickname for The Son at the end of the fic is a reference to my headcanon that The Son's first name is Anatoly, which means sunrise, anyways,,,, this evidentially got out of hand, definitely didn't realise it would end up this long. but anyways, this is all from The Son's POV so (and this will be reiterated in the warning) the story appears to romanticise his relationship with her despite how it's clearly unhealthy. i wanna go on record since i don't think it's ever made 100% clear either here or in the main fic, but The Son never really loved Clementine as a person, and if there was any part of her he was 'in love with' it was simply the idea of who he wanted her to be that he'd created in his mind. also remember how i once said there was a bit of freudian fuckery with his early attraction to clementine because how he associates her with his dad. yeah there's hints of that. :l fuck that dude. i can't stop thinking about him. Tagging the taglist because it is part of canon. I'd love to hear any thoughts you guys have on this!! long note whoops.

Warnings: romanticisation of unhealthy relationship dynamics, clear power imbalance, dehumanisation and objectification of Clementine, The Son clearly has a saviour complex regarding Clementine, mentions/implications of murder & violence.

Taglist: @venusthepirate @malar-region @tangerinesgf @esmaada @sarcastic-sourwolf @djjskfkskjf @justshutupmars @somikesoc @chachadelight @andydre4m @evangelineflowers @darkchai @basementsoup @bellatrix124 @kunikidaswhore @thewinterschildren178 @felhomaly @perksofbeingamultifandomm @aniglio18 @geeiz @mimidior @justicex101 @ltlthetrifecta @salsasadd @gregorybrldgerton @xkawax @hellsgatelove22 @brownficgirl @tangerineswife @cigarettesandfigureskates @ceciliahargrove @welcometothescreaming20s @moonlight-matcha @lovv24 @nohemi2500 @tangerinefics @charlemagnethesecond @little-miss-bi @megplant

His Clementine is different in Winter, The Son realises. Or maybe it's the snow. She doesn't say she doesn't like the snow, but she makes a point of trying to only go out during the day if she has any say in it, and outright refuses to catch any kind of night train when it's snowing, even if it's the subway and the snow isn't even visible. Not that they catch the subway a lot, or the tube since they're currently in the London penthouse he chose to practically hibernate in this year.

Tonight weather prevents them from a picturesque sunset, and it's a Friday night, he should, by all accounts, be half a bottle into something expensive that he knows he doesn't really appreciate like he should, contemplating if he can be bothered looking for his own eyeliner or simply borrowing Clementine's, and messaging back the host of fairweather clubbing friends he has in this city. Clementine had even asked him if they were going out that night, and usually he would have said yes without hesitation, but he hadn't expected to see her like this and his brain short-circuits for a moment.

It's such a small moment, such a silly thing to be caught up with, but she's wearing one of his shirts, big even on him and falling off her shoulder here, crouching down to light the stovetop element beneath a large, metal pot. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she squints at the flame, adjusting it.

He wants to remember how this moment makes him feel, for the rest of his life.

"I got this terrible craving for this soup from home," she tells him distractedly, heading to the kettle by the sink, "it shouldn't take too long, once everything's in I can start getting ready; we can eat and go."

When they're alone, she speaks to him only in Russian. It hadn't always been like this, she hadn't always been like this; she'd been an alien when they'd met, all of his friends too caught up by how pretty she was to notice how quiet and strange she could be. Thankfully she'd listened to him, had learned from him, had relaxed enough to be enjoyable company.

Somewhere along the way, or perhaps it was simply a side effect of their constant proximity, he'd decided it was well within his rights to test his luck, and she had kissed him back. They grew fond of each other, and that fondness led to him continuing to push his luck, knowing she was still too professional by half to initiate anything, but glad he did when he sees her coy smile, hears her say that she'll do anything to make him happy. So if he were to think about it, that's when she began switching to Russian when they were alone, far gentler, far sweeter, than she ever was in English.

English is a business language, was all she'd really said on the matter.

"Don't rush, my Clementine" he tells her fondly, and Clementine pauses, looks to him as the kettle boils, confused. He smiles warmly at her, "it's meant to snow," he nods to the window. Clementine gives a wry smile, looking back to the kettle.

"As if that's ever stopped you before."

"If I want to go out and we get all caught up in it, you'll never let me hear the end of it," he sits at the kitchen island, elbows on the marble counter top and chin in his hands, grin stretching wide and teasing as Clementine laughs.

"As if that's ever stopped you before," she points out again, laughing through her words this time. She takes the kettle, now whistling, from it's little dock, carrying it over to the pot and pouring in the water.

"Aren't you happy I'm listening to you? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," he warned, albeit teasingly, but Clementine, after putting the empty kettle back, grows visibly confused.

"Horse?" The moment she stops at the island across from him she pulled his shirt back up her shoulder. His eyes follow the movement, lingering for just a second before he meets her gaze again.

"Its a saying," is all he can offer. Clementine doesn't draw attention to it, but as she voices that she's still confused, she shifts her shoulders and allows the shirt to fall down once more. After a moment, his gaze follows the curve of her bare shoulder to her collar, and he finds himself smiling faintly, reminded of how well she knows him, how she knows even the little things that will make him just a little happier, "it means 'don't be ungrateful'."

"What is a 'gift horse'?" She asks, stepping away and opening the refrigerator, pulling out a package wrapped in paper, from the butcher.

"I don't know," he admits, sitting back on his stool, "it's just a saying."

Silence spills from one moment to the next as Clementine carefully opens the parcel and adds some kind of diced meat into the pot, and The Son finds his attention drifting from her, to the window behind her, the snow just beginning to fall.

"You'd look beautiful in the snow," he finds himself saying, almost idly. Clementine makes a distracted noise in the back of her throat that prompts him to elaborate as he gives the pot a stir, "you look beautiful in the snow, it's a shame you don't like it."

For a moment, Clementine glances at him, wearing an amused little smile.

"I look beautiful anywhere," she says bluntly, picking up the salt shaker and pouring a small heap into her hand, "that's why you take me everywhere," it's more of the truth than he'd like to agree to, seeing as she knows he believes 'bodyguard' is a vanity title. Still, he can't fault her for that.

"But not the snow," he prompts. After adding salt, Clementine grabs the pepper, and starts hunting through the cabinet above the stove for further spices as she deliberates. When it becomes clear that she's not going to answer him, he asks why.

"I don't mind the snow."

"During the day," he corrects pointedly.

"Have I ever complained about cold nights?" She asked, but even then, spices added, turning back to him with her hip cocked against the counter, her expression gives her away.

"Your face betrays you," he tells her gently, albeit with an exasperated kind of amusement; how could the usually so hyper aware Clementine not already know this? Tellingly, in that moment, her expression, or lack-thereof, doesn't shift.

"I..." she starts to move again, checking drawers and the sink, looking for something that she can't seem to find, "I'll tell it to stop that. I don't mean to seem unhappy with where we go."

"It's not unhappy," he sighs, stretching out his arms across the counter like a cat, chin resting on the marble counter, watching her through his lashes, "it's not anything. Like that time I stepped out of our train to Moscow that arrived late, and you hadn't done that security check you do when we get off trains; you had this look on your face but then it wasn't anything," he began to fidget with his fingers. "like every time we go somewhere and it gets dark, and whether or not it was snowing before, if its dark and it's snowing you just get all nothing and look at me for directions. I don't care, I just thought you'd be less of an alien by now."

Clementine makes a distracted, almost dissatisfied hum at his words, and her hands begin to move, miming as she keeps searching, as if the gesture will help manifest the object in question.

Except he can't exactly figure out what she's looking for judging by the gesture, as he's pretty sure that's not the type of movement one uses with a kitchen implement. One might even consider it lewd, the way her fingers were curled up, almost in a fist but not quite, as if she were holding something, thrusting it back and forth in a short, repetitive motion.

"My Clementine, what are you looking for?"

"One of the good cutting knives," she muses, gaze searching the kitchen- it's a stabbing motion, oh god, definitely not a jerking off motion, occurs to him all at once, and Clementine must catch on to his unexpected horror because she asks him what's wrong. He shakes his head, as if trying to shake the thoughts out, tells her it's nothing, but continues to remind her of the knife block by the microwave.

Violent instincts despite gentle intent; he frowns as she starts chopping vegetables on the cutting board further down the counter.

Even now 'bodyguard' felt more like a vanity title for her. Since he'd been old enough to travel abroad by himself, Clementine had been with him, and it's not as if there appeared to be anyone who gave enough of a shit about him as The White Death's son to try anything outside of Japan. When he'd told her as much, Clementine gave him an odd look, and told him he should pay better attention. Then again, she's always taken things far too seriously; it's probably why his father thought so highly of her. Despite her obligations to his son, The White Death would still send her contracts for whatever locale they happened to be in.

He'd asked his father if this was necessary, he'd even asked Clementine, but both had seen fit to remind him that despite how she may act, how she looks at him, she was not his by technicality. He's never liked that, but he knows better than to draw his father's ire; the man had never been above confiscating his toys when he was younger if he didn't play with them right, didn't treat them with respect.

Clementine had never divulged details of the contracts, and initially he'd thought it was because she was ashamed, that she'd been asked to do lowly busy work his father was simply too lazy to complete. Until she'd come back early from a job, not realising she'd woken him up as she'd let herself into their hotel room at four in the morning. While she'd closed the bathroom door she hadn't bothered to lock it, and when The Son goes to see what was wrong, he sees the scratches up and along her forearms, and how she had shed her large coat and pretty, little cocktail dress to pick glass out of the wounds near her sternum.

The minute she had locked eyes with him she seemed startled, and practically sprang to her feet from where she'd been sitting on the edge of the bathtub, asking if he was okay. He wants to ask why somebody would do this to her, but realises he really doesn't want to know the answer. So he nods jerkily and closes the door as he leaves her be.

In two days, while they're having breakfast, he'll watch her take a photo of a little article near the back of one of the daily papers, and send it to someone. When he glances at it out of curiosity a little later, he sees a short article about some high profile criminal prosecutor being found dead in his office the day prior from autoerotic asphyxiation. The scratches on Clementine's arms are still visible, still healing.

Nothing else about her had changed, she even spent the better part of that night helping him talk the prettiest girl at the club into coming back to the hotel with him.

And the scratches will fade, and he'll pretend like what he saw that night was a dream, and he won't have to accept Clementine's capacity for violence. Because, not that he'd ever admit it out loud, it was less upsetting, less emasculating, than the alternative.

Maybe that's why he likes moments like these, moments ripped from some domestic fantasy he never knew he had. Clementine looking soft and warm in his clothes while she cooks something that smells like home. Which it does.

He can count on one hand the amount of times his father had taken the time to cook for him and his sister. His Aunt had come to live with them after Prince was born, but before that his mother had been doing most of the cooking. His dad had been too paranoid to even consider a nanny, but his mother never seemed to mind. She was a talented cook, something he'd taken for granted in his youth, but had come to appreciate; she used to tell him stories about how she travelled when she was young, how she fell in love with all these different dishes around the world and had learned to cook them through trial and error. His father, on the other hand, knew only a few dishes, ones from his childhood, that were hearty and rich and would 'help him grow into a strong young man'.

And the few times his Clementine had cooked for him, like now, they've always made these moments smell like home. Are these the moments in which his parents fell in love? His mother seeing a gentle kind of love and familiarity in his father's cooking despite the man's capacity for violence? Was it one of the only ways he knew how to show his love at first? Is Clementine like that too?

He wants a million moments like this, a million moments where she's by his side across the world, where she lights up when she sees him, where she'd follow him to the ends of the Earth. However many moments it would take to make her violent instincts nothing more than a bad dream, and a million more, all of them echoing that first time they were together and her 'I'll do anything to make you happy'.

"Are you alright, Sunshine?" Clementine says softly, bringing him out of his thoughts. She only ever calls him Sunshine in moments like this, a play on his name's meaning in lovingly familiar Russian, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the world.

"Come here, my Clementine," he tells her, and Clementine obligingly sets down the spoon she was stirring the stew with, rounding the counter to join him.

They fit together, they always find a way to, now with her standing between his legs, her arms around his neck as his hands rest on her hips. The scars she bares, all the more on display for the oversized shirt draped off one shoulder even now, make his gut ache; once reminders of her violent past, he tells himself he could keep her from further harm if she stayed with him. Violence neither received or inflicted, safe in his arms.

"You are beautiful everywhere," he agrees with her earlier statement, smiling softly, "but most beautiful here."

"Exactly here?" Clementine teases softly, leaning in to rest her forehead against his.

"Exactly here," he breathes, "cold night but warm apartment, my apartment, my clothes, my Clementine," he tells her, "like it was made for you."

His Clementine kisses him.

But all he wonders is what else he has to say or do, what moments he has to luck into like this one, when would he finally hear her admit that she loves him? Hasn't he been good to her? Hasn't he been gentle and kind? Hasn't he earned her love, her loyalty by now? Doesn't he deserve to at least hear that?

Doesn't she want to make him happy?

[sareyen]

To my roomba with love (Cherik)

Read on ao3 

There are a lot of things that Erik loves about Charles. He loves all of the obvious things; Charles’s kindness, his intelligence, his laughter, his eyes. He also loves the little private things; the way Charles sneaks Erik his unwanted tomatoes, his warbled opera singing in the shower, that sensitive spot on his hip.

And he loves the silly things about Charles, especially the way the man has a habit of talking to inanimate objects when he thinks no one is looking. Charles has conversations with the kettle, the washing machine, and their roomba – and every time Erik eavesdrops on him, he falls in love with the man a little bit more.

***

It was a Sunday morning, somewhat late by Erik’s standards, the man’s fatigued body allowing him a few extra hours of sleep after a hectic business trip. Erik had barely gotten any sleep between meetings and flights, and when he had arrived back home to a half-asleep Charles he only had enough energy to shirk off his clothes before collapsing into bed beside his husband.

Still, despite his tiredness, Erik’s body woke him as the sun tried to filter into the bedroom, the single slither of sunlight enough to rouse him. Erik had surprisingly awoken to an empty bed, the patch of mattress dripped in the shape of Charles still warm.

Erik had pulled himself out of bed groggily, tugging on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, before quietly padding out of the bedroom in search of his missing husband. Erik stifled a yawn as he meandered through the hallway, ears pricking up at the sound of clinking glasses in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Kettle,” a whispered voice sounded from the kitchen as Erik neared, consonants soft and vowels gentle like the morning sun drifting through the parted curtains. The voice made Erik pause, the last of his sleep ebbing away. His silent steps came to a stop, Erik lingering outside the threshold of the kitchen and leaning against the plaster wall, small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Please work hard again today,” Charles said quietly, and Erik could imagine the man tapping the side of the kettle as he filled it with water. “You’re going to have to work double since Erik is back. Yes, yes, I know you’re getting old now, but you still do your job perfectly. Oh, of course! Your water comes out perfectly boiled, steaming and wonderful. Don’t sell yourself short, I’m not willing to sell you yet myself. You’ve been with us since my first PhD, I’m quite attached to you, you know. Oh, pish posh, I won’t have you belittle yourself like that, young lady.”

Erik covered his laugh with his hand, heart fluttering as he heard the water begin to boil and whistle.

“Shh, shh, shh, darling! You’ll wake Erik up,” Charles chided in a whispered tone as the kettle’s shrill cry rolled to a full boil, the light clatter of metal against metal cutting the sound off as Charles pulled ‘Miss Kettle’ from the stovetop. “We have to be quiet, I want to let him catch up on his sleep. He was so exhausted last night, we should let him lie in, hm? He’s been working so hard for us lately, he deserves a break.”

A surge in the desire to run into the kitchen and smother Charles with kisses thrummed through Erik, making his toes curl into the soft carpet. Erik contained himself, however, but let himself peek around the corner just in time to catch Charles pouring the boiling water into two mugs - a magenta one with a red E on the side, and a matching dark blue cup with a yellow C.

Erik was entranced as he watched Charles dunk the tea bags a few times, adding a dash of milk to each, his husband soon picking up both mugs and turning back to the kettle.

“Thank you for your hard work once again, Miss Kettle,” Charles murmured, the smile on his face reaching his azure eyes, making his sleep-rumpled visage and fluffy bedhead all the more endearing. “I’ve got to go see if Erik is awake yet, so good bye for now.”

With that, Erik quickly but silently tiptoed his way back to the bedroom, sliding into bed and closing his eyes, controlling his mouth’s urge to grin as he feigned sleep.

Charles soon entered the room, and Erik heard the light clack of a mug being placed on his bedside table, followed by the warm feeling of a kiss being pressed to his forehead.

Opening his eyes, Erik let himself smile as he was met with Charles’s beautiful face, the man’s red lips parting in muted surprise.

“Good morning, Liebling,” Erik said, Charles smiling as he leaned down once again, this time kissing Erik on the lips as he set down his own cup of morning tea to crawl onto the bed, weight of his thighs pressing against Erik’s sides.

“Morning, Erik,” Charles sighed against Erik’s mouth. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No,” Erik said, pulling Charles close to him. “Not at all.”

***

The washing machine beeped angrily, and Erik heard Charles curse under his breath, pausing in front of the laundry door on the way to the garage to head out on his daily run. Halfway through fastening his watch, Erik smiled as he heard his husband curse again, not too dissimilar from the way that tongue had curled around a moaned ‘Fuck’ during Erik’s early morning cardio session in bed.

“Don’t make that noise at me, young man,” Charles continued, followed by the noise of more buttons being pressed. “I know it’s early, but I need you to wash these bed sheets, otherwise your father and I will be sleeping on a barren mattress tonight.”

Erik had to bite back the chuckle that threatened to spill from his lips as Charles seemed to wrestle with their temperamental washing machine. The machine was somewhat new - a housewarming gift from Raven - but Charles had struggled to get used to the high-tech device that had options other than just warm wash and cold wash.

It was at times like this, though, that made Erik wonder about having children. Erik had never thought about having kids, about even settling down enough to even consider having them. Having lost his parents young, Erik had always been by himself, not growing attached to places or people, moving between cities and beds.

But then he had met Charles, and everything changed.

Charles had given him a home, back when he was still an undergrad and living in a shitty walk-up that didn’t have a working heater. That apartment had been their first home together, even if at the time Erik was adamant that they were no more than fuck buddies. But fuck buddies turned into friends, then into roommates, to boyfriends, to fiancés and, finally, to husbands.

They hadn’t thought about becoming parents, though. Charles had his hands full with his students, and at times it felt like he already had dozens of kids. And yet, sometimes, Erik would catch him like this, calling their furniture and their appliances his children, and Erik their Papa and…

Erik’s heart squeezed tight.

“Your father’s about to go on a run, you should get a little exercise too,” Charles chirped, punching a few buttons before hopping onto his toes to get the liquid washing detergent from the shelving above. Erik peered around the corner in time to catch the slight glint in Charles’s eye, the twitch in his lips as he thought of something apparently hilarious.

As the barrel inside the washing machine began to turn, Charles gave it a little pat on the lid.

“Good lad, enjoy your spin class,” Charles said, chuckling to himself as Erik’s eyes rolled, though his mouth was curled softly in matched amusement at his silly, adorable, utterly wonderful husband.

Erik was so absorbed in the warm cocoon of his heart that he didn’t notice Charles leaving the laundry, the man almost bumping into right Erik.

“Oh! Erik, you surprised me,” Charles said, not hesitating to slide his arms around Erik’s lithe frame to snuggle him against the wall. Erik’s arms fit around Charles with perfect familiarity, the German man pressing a kiss to Charles’s upturned cheek. “I had thought you already left on your run?”

“I was just about to,” Erik replied softly, Charles tilting his head up further to ask for a kiss, Erik indulging him willingly.

“Bring home some bagels on your way back?” Charles asked hopefully against Erik’s lips, the taller man chuckling.

“Anything for you, Liebling.”

***

When Erik got home from his run, body comfortably tired, he placed the bag of Charles’s favourite bagels on the kitchen counter along with his keys. Glancing around the room in search for his husband, Erik hummed to himself when he saw that it was empty.

Wiping some of his sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt, Erik leisurely made his way through the apartment until he heard the muffled accent of his husband in his study. Erik briefly wondered if the man was talking to Raven or Moira on the phone, but that notion was shot down quickly when Erik looked through the slight gap in the door, silently chuckling.

Charles was sitting at his desk, the papers he had apparently been grading left forgotten as he clapped to himself, the man watching something lazily move across the floor. The thing was near-silent if not for the whisper of a mechanical whir.

“Oh, look at you go!” Charles exclaimed, almost cooing as leaned down on his ornate desk chair, ushering the thing closer. “Come here, girl! Come here! Aw, that’s a good girl!”

The Roomba skittered across the hardwood floors, sucking up the dust and dirt as it went, beginning to approach Charles’s feet. The man giggled as it bumped into his toe, turning in a circle as it recalibrated itself. Charles then laughed at its apparent confusion, now folding himself over to give the device a scratch on its supposed head like it was a puppy.

The Roomba let out a short beep, before turning and sashaying back across the room to find its next pocket of dust.

“My, my, your appetite is quite impressive today,” Charles said, leaning his elbow on the desk as he smiled, watching the Roomba work. “Eat up as much as you can, Roo – you know how Erik is with dust.”

Erik momentarily thought about getting Charles a real dog, imagining his blue eyes widening with love at the tiny creature. He imagined Charles curled up on the couch with the pup on his chest, the two snoozing together. He imagined Charles reading a book with the puppy curled up on his lap. He imagined going on walks with Charles, holding his husband’s hand with his left, the puppy’s leash in the other.

Erik decided that he rather liked those images, filing them away in his mind amongst the many other things he wanted to experience with Charles. Things he would experience with Charles, because they had the rest of their lives to live together, after all. Erik would make sure of it.

But, for now, Erik merely opened the door to the study, Charles immediately looking up with an elated smile on his face, letting out a bright “Erik, you’re home!” Soon, Erik was embracing an armful of Charles, had warm arms draped around his neck, and his favourite pair of berry-red lips on his. “Welcome home, darling. How was your run?”

“Good,” Erik said succinctly, burying his head in Charles’s neck and breathing him in, the man chuckling. Pulling back, Erik kissed Charles on the tip of his nose, his husband’s cheeks warming slightly. “Sorry, I probably smell.”

“You smell like you,” Charles said, nuzzling Erik’s neck in return, and Erik could feel the slope of his husband’s smile against his shoulder. “But, you can go shower. I’ll get the coffee on and reheat those bagels. You did bring the bagels, right?”

“Mm, of course. They’re on the counter,” Erik said, Charles beaming, and disentangling himself with one last kiss to Erik’s cheek.

“Excellent, that’s why I love you, darling,” Charles said, skipping off to the kitchen to claim his bagels, Erik just smiling fondly after him.

Before Erik made his way to the bathroom, he heard Charles begin to speak again, but this time not to him.

No, when Charles spoke he said hello to the coffee machine, good morning to the toaster, and good day to the fridge, while Erik just thought -

And that’s just one of the many reasons why I love you, Charles.

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 17

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger!

Phone calls will have to do.

Martin has an uneventful Friday night.

“Just- what am I supposed to do, wait for you all to save up for a holiday?”

Martin felt silly, pacing back and forth on the beach and yelling into his phone. A whole day spent too nervous to say anything in that horrible building and there was no keeping it down now, even for his mother. So there he was, outside and cold and freaking out a bit.

Tim sighed. “Look, we’re working on it, but when we got back here we had a mountain of work waiting for us. It’s not the first time this has happened, but if I were the paranoid one I’d say Elias is trying to keep us busy.” 

Pinching the skin between his eyes, Martin said, “I know, I know, it’s not your fault.” Except for all of the stress they’d caused him, all of it for nothing- “Where does it all leave me, though? What can I do?”

��Stay put and do what you’ve been doing. We’ll work things out on our end, but if Evan is… missing, then it’s best you keep your head down. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now that Peter’s back.” Tim paused. “I suppose taking a quick holiday isn’t in the cards?”

“No, not really. Besides, I’d like to still be there in case, I dunno, something happens? Be the man on the ground?”

Tim snorted. “Well, ‘man on the ground’, do your best to stay there. We still don’t know what all that Fairchild business was about, either.” 

“Right. Yeah.” Martin took a moment to tilt his head up at the sky, almost entirely dark. “So, you’ll be the one to contact if things start going sideways?” 

“Seems like it, though I’ll see if we can set up a group text or something. We used to have one for the three of us, but for reasons I will not explore here it was unjustly deemed ‘superfluous’.” Tim seemed to cover the receiver for a moment. “I stand corrected. According to Sasha, it was ‘a gratuitous distraction that only served to flood our notifications with garbage’.”

“...Was it?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Tim’s grin was so audible to be infectious.

Martin laughed a little. “That’ll work. Just in case you can’t be reached.”

“I’ll let you go for the night and give you the details on that once I’m done with all this homework.” There was an exaggerated sound of papers rustling. “Really, I can’t describe the amount of work he’s piled on us. It almost loops back around to Elias being normal Elias.”

“Sure. Good luck.”

“Same to you. And sorry again for the raincheck on dinner!”

“It’s fine. Nothing you could’ve done.”

Click.

Pocketing his mobile, Martin rubbed his face with both hands and willed himself to calm down. It was unfair to be angry at them for needing to do their actual jobs, but if rent needed to be paid then they shouldn’t have promised anything. All he had at that moment was the hope that eventually, long after he was thrown in with Evan, one of them would have the courtesy to come back and record the event for posterity.

“Statement of Ms. Blackwood, regarding the disappearance of her son at his place of employment,” Martin mumbled, kicking at some stones on the ground. “Ugh, that’s morbid.”

Martin looked out over the dark sea, but all that served was to sting his eyes and push his mood down even further. What a horrible habit. Look from the lighthouse, look out to sea, for there is no-

Best to keep his eyes down for the foreseeable future. Unless he’s high up, at which point he’ll keep his eyes anywhere but down. And if he’s stuck in some secret, impossible room, well, he won’t remember which way to look anyway.

--

He was at the table, microwave steamed vegetables and some leftover something or other plated in front of him. Across the table his mother ate in silence save for the dull chewing sounds no one could possibly help. At that moment they were making Martin’s teeth grind. 

A quiet meal could be so aggravating with the wrong person. The tiniest sounds, chewing, breathing, sighing, a cacophony of what should be inoffensive signs of life grating on the ears. 

He’d often heard about the bad effects television during meals could have on family. There had never been one visible from the kitchen, but he could think of many reasons why having one would’ve been a blessing in that house. Even if the one they had could be heard from the other room, there was still nothing to look at but his own plate, the terrible window view, and his mother.

“Is it a porch night?” Martin asked, poking at a sad-looking slice of carrot with his fork. “It’s gotten colder, and darker. Before long it’ll be dark before I get home each day.”

His mother took another bite, a sigh escaping her lips. “Yes.”

“We can’t stay out long,” he warned.

One of her nostrils twitched, but she said nothing. 

“I mean it. You never cover your face.”

“I know what’s best for myself.”

“So do I. It stings my eyes.”

“You won’t outgrow that sensitivity by avoiding it.”

Martin scoffed. “I don’t avoid it.”

This earned him a dainty sniff. “If that were true it wouldn’t sting anymore.”

“Would you-”

“Go get tea started. You’ve let your mouth run enough for one night.”

Martin stood with a sudden force that made him feel like an incensed child who hadn’t gotten his way. He bit his tongue and did as he was told, leaving her to finish her meal. 

The filled kettle was placed gently onto the stove with shaking hands. After switching the stovetop dial, Martin stood with his back to the rest of the kitchen. Tea was made and served in quiet, the tremor still clinging to his hands. The warmth of the cup did nothing to quell the shakes, but if it was noticeable she made no remarks.

Now it was the low sound of her blowing on her tea. The loud sipping noise as she tested the taste. Lip smacking, fingers tapping, everything dragged at the back of his skull, why do people make such noise when they do things?

Finally, he was able to take the cups, his own almost entirely full, and fill the room with clattering and the rush of water out of the sink. It would be enough to rinse for the moment. There would be plenty of time to wash things at any other time.

When the time came, her hand just barely touching his arm, they prepared themselves and went outside. Her breaths were long and loud, in and out through her nose. Though Martin covered his face as best he could, his eyes watered all the same. 

How could she enjoy this?

The walk back indoors, the removal of shoes, the slow movement to her room. Martin just barely stopped himself from slamming her door behind him after getting her to bed, though he had no doubt she’d make a comment on his impatience the next day. There was nothing left but to turn in early himself. What else could he do?

The staircase towered before him, each step upon it harder than the last despite his long legs, but he didn’t look up. Martin could learn from his mistakes if he tried, and he was trying. 

Could she hear him taking his sweet time? Did every creak of the steps set her teeth on edge as she tried to fall asleep?

Martin made it upstairs eventually, and to his bedroom after, though by that point he knew sleep wasn’t coming for him just yet. Checking his phone, he found no new messages or calls, as if he hadn’t kept the thing on vibrate to be alerted of anything new. He dropped the thing on his bedside table after flipping his alarm off. There was work to be done the next day, but he didn’t owe Peter an early start on a Saturday.

As Martin sat on the edge of his bed, the day washed over him and he slumped forward, forearms pressed against knees. He gently tugged his hair out of its elastic, not that it had been all that held back by the end. Running fingers through it, brushing it back and scratching at his scalp, Martin let himself sulk for one more horrible minute.

If they’d stayed, he probably wouldn’t have been able to go out to dinner with them anyway. Irresponsible to have thought otherwise, really. Now there was no reason to worry about it.

Apparently this was what the evening would be: Martin Blackwood feeling snappish and awful.

He would apologize the next day, he thought. His mother, while not helpful, hadn’t actually done anything to make him cross besides exist nearby, and Tim certainly didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of Martin’s panic and frustration. Only one person deserved that, but chewing out Peter was a sure way to get himself disappeared. So, the options were limited.

He was lucky Jon wasn’t the one who had to call him. How was he not supposed to be angry after Jon worked harder than anyone to convince him that things would work out? The man had outright promised to help Evan even though they had no real plan on how to do that. Sure, it had been heartfelt and sweet, and determination did nice things to his face-

Martin groaned, pulling down at his cheeks. No, anything but that. He wanted to be angry and petty and upset about his possible upcoming death, not disappointed that his one-sided thing was even more doomed than before. Sure, after a bit he would get over it, but it had been a while since he’d fancied someone a little. It was a nice feeling. 

It was even better writing material. Perhaps that would help, writing. At the very least it could prevent another weird scene at the dinner table. What was that line that popped into his head earlier? Could be the start of something cathartic, even if it ended up being complete rubbish.

Reaching down to his nightstand, Martin jumped at the sound of his phone buzzing against wood. From his hunched position he could see an unknown number. He grimaced. Of course he’d get a weird spam call during all this. He let it ring and grabbed his notebook and pencil. There had been a thought earlier, some lines that had a nice cadence despite being off the cuff. A bit boring, but perhaps they could be worked with. Look from the lighthouse-

“Hello, Martin. I’m calling- right, this is Jonathan Sims? From the Magnus Institute? I had Tim give me your number but I’m realizing now that he might not have told you yet. I-”

Scrambling for the phone, Martin dropped the notebook right onto his toes. “Shit-” 

“-wanted to discuss some things with you. Let me know if-”

Finally, Martin managed to press the right button and answer the call. “Sorry, hi, it’s Martin. I didn’t-”

“Oh- yes, hi. Am I interrupting, or-”

Quickly, Martin said, “No, no, I just don’t usually answer unknown numbers, so-” 

“Right, right, I thought that might be the case. Glad I caught you, then.” Jon cleared his throat. “So, how are you, ah, holding up?”

He thought he could sense an attempt in Jon’s tone to be casual. Martin’s mouth quirked downward. “Fine, I guess. Still here.”

“Good. Tim said you’d had some concerns, so-”

“Not much anyone can do about them, is there?” Jesus, could he not be snippy at someone for five minutes? “Sorry, it’s… it’s been a long day. Tim told you, then?”

“Yes, he did. We’ll do our best to get at least one of us back there soon, if not the whole team. Elias wasted no time getting us back to work. For now, phones will have to do.” 

Martin waited for a few seconds, but there was nothing after. “So… is that what you called for? To go over what Tim and I talked about?” 

“What? No. I thought we could... Well, we have some other business that would be best kept between us. Establishing contact felt like the best next step on that front.” Again, there was a strangely long pause, but before Martin could think of anything to say, Jon continued. “And because the goodbyes were relatively abrupt this morning, I didn’t have the opportunity to apologize.”

Sighing, Martin rubbed his eyes. “Well, you didn’t say it for twenty-four hours, so I suppose you get half credit?”

Jon huffed. “I misread the situation and Elias. I hadn’t expected him to downright deny us an extension without discussion, and I certainly never pegged him as the type to have us pack up and leave with barely any notice. We were as shocked as you this morning.”

Not likely. “So, what now? How long do you think…”

“Honestly, I don’t know yet. I want to keep an eye on Elias after all of this strange business, but of course he’s not here.” Martin could feel the scowl on Jon’s face. “It may take some time for any of us to make a trip out there outside of work. I’m afraid you’ll be on your own for the next couple of weeks.”

“Oh.” Closing his eyes, Martin let himself fall back onto the bed. “Okay.”

Quickly, Jon said, “Not much longer than that, I hope. I tend to work on my days off which should cover the extra assignments more quickly, and Sasha or Tim may be able to make a trip out there sooner than I could.” At the end, Jon’s reassuring tone dropped into an irritated grumble. 

Martin smiled a little and fought back a yawn. “Worried they’ll fix things up before you get here?”

“That’s not- I wouldn’t say- I’m sure they’re capable of doing so, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to enjoy sitting on my hands while real work needs to be done,” Jon said, recovering from his indignant sputtering. “I’ve only looked at some of the new assignments, but most of them are guaranteed to be either misunderstandings or blatant lies.”

“You can’t know that just by skimming them.”

“You haven’t had to read some of these things,” Jon said with a tinge of disdain. “No, people love to waste my time and keep me both from my personal research and more pressing situations like your own.”

Martin looked up at his window. “Okay, but mine would probably sound fake on paper though, right? ‘Oh, the lighthouse I work at is tall and makes me dizzy, also I think an old classmate is trapped in the walls?’, or something like that. I wouldn’t believe it.”

“But it’s demonstrable,” Jon said. “And if you’d chosen to put more time and effort into it, you’d have put in the more compelling details. Not that we don’t get statements like that. Some read like a trite pitch for the script someone is workshopping rather than a true paranormal experience.”

“And that’s what’s keeping you busy now.”

“I’m sure you’re glad to hear that important things are happening while you wait. If by the time we return you’ve already been trapped in an impossible lighthouse prison, we’ll have plenty of entertaining material to refill your vocabulary.” A silent, awkward moment passed between them. “Right, okay, not funny.”

“Not really, no.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s… fine.” It really wasn’t, but Martin wasn’t in a state to argue anymore that day. “What kind of fake stuff is it, then? That’s so important you just had to be back?”

Jon groaned. “Don’t get me started. There’s one from a man who claimed to be seeing the same strange fellow at the park everyday, as if he doesn’t also visit that park everyday and by his own logic could be a supernatural creature himself.”

In a way that Martin felt must’ve been some breach of confidentiality, Jon proceeded to lay before him complaints of monsters (“Particularly loud raccoons”), doppelgangers (“Plenty of people look like other people”), and other phenomena that Jon found particularly ridiculous. They were so unconvincing that Martin had to wonder whether Jon was leaving out the spookier details. 

But that was fine, Martin found. Why would he want to hear about anything other than people in ordinary circumstances when his own were decidedly not? And if Jon was happy to talk Martin’s ear off about frivolous things, it worked out well enough for both of them. 

Like before, it didn’t take much to keep the man going. In the middle of a peculiar story of shifting room layouts, Martin asked, “Okay, but there could’ve been something weird about the building, right? Probably not, but-”

“Well, we gave her the benefit of the doubt and Sasha looked into it. It turned out the woman had confused her own flat with the one next to it and unwittingly trespassed through an unlocked door. She was happy enough to drop the whole thing in embarrassment.”

Pushing his glasses up, Martin pressed a hand over his eyes. “Oh God, I would’ve died on the spot.”

“Ultimately she was happy to not have wandered into an alternate universe. I believe Sasha also saw to it that the neighbors practiced proper lock safety without giving the whole thing away.” 

“Happy ending, then.”

“For now. Can’t say it won’t happen again, but it won’t be our problem.” From the other end, Martin heard a muffled voice.  “Sorry, hold on.” 

“Sure.” The call was put on hold, and Martin checked his screen.

Oh god, they’d been on the call for over an hour. When had that happened? Had he been loud enough for his mother to hear him this whole time? What had he even said for that long? He must’ve been saying something. 

Jon’s voice came through again. “Sorry, I’m staying late tonight to get a head start on things. It seems Elias is back, so I’m going to have to let you go. Thank you for your understanding earlier.”

Internally, Martin let out a thankful sigh. “It’s no problem, really. Thanks for checking in.”

“And about the other issue. If there are any questions-”

“It’s fine. We’re all fine here.”

Jon cleared his throat again. “Good. Good night, Martin.”

“Night.”

The call ended, and Martin found himself in the weird place of adding a new contact and staring at the slightly longer list of names. 

Jon had asked for his number. 

For the purpose of talking about Martin’s mother, obviously, but that had only come up two times. The rest of the conversation had been primarily an outlet for Jon’s work frustrations. It hadn’t exactly been a professional call, had it?

No, no, no, that was enough and he was going to bed immediately.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Dawn in Your Eyes Part 17

Summary: Alfie has little to no idea why Caroline ever gave him the time of day. The blind woman seemed far too sensible to even speak to him. But soon he finds himself falling helplessly in love.

Part 17: Alfie and Caroline discuss names. Alfie finds out what a pain in the ass it is to be partially blind. 

            Pilot was extremely relieved when Caroline was returned to him. He refused to leave her side for more than a minute a few days after they were reunited. Of course, that really meant just going back and forth from Elizabeth’s home to the hospital.

            Julia and Alfie didn’t want her living on her own for obvious reasons after the kidnapping. It was an adjustment period, and Caroline wasn’t sure how long it would last. Would things return to normal once Alfie was cleared to leave the hospital?

            Maybe things would never go back to the way they were. Not after such an event. And not since they were due to have a baby in less than six months.

            Since most of her days were sat in the hospital or at Elizabeth and Richard’s, Caroline had plenty of time to process what had happened and what was coming next.

            Alfie assured her that the men who had taken her would be dealt with accordingly. That’s all he had to say on the matter. He wasn’t going to tell his wife that two men were dead and the other two were tied up in the cellar of the bakery. Waiting until Alfie was back on his feet so he could kill them properly. A long, torturous, painful death seemed suitable.

            Some of his men had already roughed them up a bit to learn their motives. It was reported to Alfie that they were Italians although not officially linked to Sabini. Just a group of rabid young men who wanted the wealth and power that Darby had. Hoping to impress him, instead, they made a critical error. Even Sabini was wise enough to know that kidnapping Alfie Solomons’ blind wife was a huge mistake.

            Alfie understood that but wanted to make an example out of the rogue men. To let anyone, not just the Italians, that his family was not to be messed with.

             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

            “Elizabeth had Misty write some names down for me.” Caroline arrived one day with a piece of paper in her hand. She found her usual seat beside Alfie’s hospital bed and sat.

            “Names for what?” Alfie reached for his glasses. It seemed that the blindness in his left eye would be long-lasting, if not permanent. But he was coping. Some of the doctors or nurses would sympathize, expecting the man to be devastated with such a drastic change. Alfie would simply bark out a laugh and tell them that his wife had been born blind. Losing sight in one eye wasn’t the end of the world.

            He’d made a similar joke when he first got to see what the bullet had done to his face. He snorted and grimaced. “Well, at least me wife is blind so she won’t leave me for looking like this.”

            The nurse holding the mirror just gave an uncomfortable smile and checked his dose of pain medication to make sure he hadn’t been given more than was necessary.

             “Baby names.” Caroline set her purse down and instructed Pilot to lay down by her feet.

            “That right? Let’s have a look-see then.” He blinked a few times to clear up his vision. Losing half of his sight was still something he needed to get used to. Emotionally, he was just lucky the bullet hadn’t gone straight through his brain. It was easy for him to stand up, dust himself off, and resume life. But the physical limitations were a weight on him. Reading gave him a major headache, his depth perception was utterly fucked, and his right eye was still trying to adjust. But he tried not to confide these hardships to Caroline. It felt so silly complaining to her about being half-blind when she’d never seen the world. He felt it was like whining about losing a finger to someone who’d been born without arms.

            So he tried to convey that everything was just peachy.   

            “Zelda, yeah that’s our great-aunt’s name. James, mhm, Sarah, sure sure, Rose, Helen, Eva, Pearl, Georgia, hang on. She’s only listed one boys name, is this her way of telling us she wants it to be a girl?” He protested.

            Caroline giggled. “I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it.” She didn’t tell him that, yes, his cousin had been hoping for a girl.

            Alfie grunted. “Ah, now here is a proper Jewish name for a boy. Eli. Proper good name. Not like all these fucking modern names she’s written down.”

            “Did you want something more traditional?” She wondered.

            “Thing is, think me mum gave me a more Western name to fit in, yeah? That way, people wouldn’t be looking down on us even more. ‘Fucking Jews and their wild names, eh? We’re English, ain’t we?’. But I ain’t naming our child outta fear. Ifya like a British name, then that’s fine. But don’t want you to name our child outta fear. Not like our parents did. People are gonna call me kid what they were named whether they like it or not. They have an issue; they can come to me and I’ll give them a well-crafted history of the chosen people. None of this…this bullshit.”

            Caroline nodded slowly. She hadn’t considered his point of view before but did understand it. Knowing Alfie felt so strongly about it, she wanted to grant his wish. Besides, she wanted her child to have a meaningful name, not something that was following a trend. “So more traditional. I think we could find a beautifully Jewish name.” She murmured softly and plucked the paper from his hand. “Zelda is Yiddish. Eli is Hebrew. What else?”

            “I’d hafta think about it,” Alfie admitted. He was starting to get a headache from reading the names his cousin had picked.

            She took his hand in hers. “How are you feeling?”

            “Fine, should be about ready to get back home. Fucking sick of this hospital.” He mumbled and squeezed her hand.

            “I know. I want you home so badly.” She sighed. “I love Elizabeth and Richard but I miss being together, just us two.”  

            “You can admit it, Liz can be overbearing.” Alfie chuckled.

            “She is not! She’s wonderful and caring. But I miss being with you in our own home. I want to go back to Letwin or Margate.”

            “I do too.” He raised her hand to kiss her knuckles. “We are due to have a very well-deserved vacation.”

            “We can leave straight from here.” Caroline got swept up in the daydream of being whisked away to either of their homes outside of London. Spending quality time with the husband she thought she was going to lose.

            “Well, I’ve got a few things to wrap up here before we do.” He frowned.

            “Like what?”

            “Like loose ends that need dealing with.”

            A cold chill went down Caroline’s spine as she picked up on anger in his voice. “Alfie…whatever you’re planning I’d urge you to stop.”

            “Not planning anything, love.”

            “I know you’re planning.” She argued. “And you ought to tell me the truth.”

            Alfie sighed and rested his head back against the pillows propping him up. He made sure not to touch his face even though he wanted to rub his weary eyes. “There are two men that are still alive. Part of the group that took you.” He told her. “They’ll be my example to those fucking-” He gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Caroline, I won’t rest until they pay and the message is well received.”

            She chewed on her lower lip. Part of her wanted the men punished. After all, they had no right to do what they did. However, she knew her husband’s form of punishment was very different from the legal system. And she just wanted the ordeal to be done with. Caroline thought because she was home safe, things were done.

            But of course, they weren’t. And she wasn’t sure if they’d ever be fully settled. Besides, this wasn’t an isolated matter. It was just a symptom of years of Darby and Alfie bickering and fighting back and forth.

            “Alfie, will you look at me?” She reached up to find his cheek.

            “I’m looking at you, love.” He replied quietly.

            “What will it take to get you to give this up?” She asked, her gray eyes pleading. “We’re expecting a child. I don’t want this to continue to interrupt our lives. You were almost killed…”

            “I know, Caroline, I know.” He swallowed and tried to listen with an open mind. Settling arguments with Darby was never easy, often times Alfie just didn’t want to stop fighting. He felt like the man deserved what was coming to him.

            “I can’t have this in my life, and I know you can’t for much longer. You need to settle things. I won’t ask you to change completely but I need to know that my family will be safe. Our family.”

            “I’ll work on it.” He promised, the words coming from his heart. She was right, he didn’t want their child to see the horrors he had to. That was the point of bringing up a child, wasn’t it? To love them and to give them a better life? “Things’ll change. They will.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~           

            Alfie returned home much to his and Caroline’s relief. The hospital was becoming very depressing and made Alfie stir crazy.

            Cyril and Apollo went mad when he entered the flat. They nearly knocked him over as they jumped on him excitedly.

            “Alright, alright!” He exclaimed. “Don’t push me now.” He prodded them off and patted them both. “I missed ya mutts too.”

            Caroline laughed softly as Cyril whined. “They’ve been so lost without you. Kept following me around.”

            “Well, at least you had good company.” Alfie chuckled. “Want some tea, love? I need something to settle me head.”

            “Sure.” She let Pilot off his lead. “I’ll be in the sitting room.”

            “Right, just be a mo’.” Alfie went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He had to blink a few times to try and right his vision. He didn’t think his life would be too changed by the lack of eyesight. He could get around, right?

            However, he was given a nasty wakeup call when he tried pouring the hot water into cups. He was certain he had the spout over the cup, that’s what it looked like. But it turned out his depth perception was worse than he anticipated. Boiling hot water spilled out over the kitchen counter and burned his hand.

            “Fuck!” He hissed and haphazardly set the kettle back on the stovetop but missed by a couple of inches. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He went for the sink to put cold water on his hand. Reaching for the tap, he overshot and knocked a bar of soap into the sink. “Fuck!” He growled and tried again, this time grabbing air. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” Third time he managed to get a hold of the faucet and turned on the water. It took a few tries to get his hand under the stream of cold water. The string of events boggled his mind. How could he be so deceived by his own sight?

            “Fuck.” He uttered one more time as the water soothed his burn.

            “Alfie?” Caroline called from the next room when she heard banging around. “Are you alright?”

            “Fine, love!” He replied.

            Unconvinced, Caroline walked into the kitchen. “Are you sure?”

            “Just burned me hand a bit.”

            “Did something spill?” She frowned as her stocking-covered foot stepped in a puddle on the tiles.

            “Yeah, just water. Tried pouring but-fuck-I dunno, guess I don’t see quite right with just one working eye.”

            “You’ll have to adjust, that’s all.” She soothed softly and grabbed a hand towel. She found the kettle and the teacups. “Watch.”

            Alfie turned off the tap and walked over. He watched carefully as she tapped the spout of the kettle to the bottom of the teacup before pouring. She kept the tip of her finger a half-inch from the rim. When the water touched her finger, she stopped.

            “It’s all about learning how to live in a world that wasn’t made for you.” She poured the second cup. “You’re clever, you’ll manage. But you need to be patient with yourself.” She set the kettle down and reached a hand to him.

            “Don’t have your sorta patience.” He mumbled sheepishly and took her hand.

            She pulled him close and kissed his cheek. “You’ll find it.” She promised. “But it won’t be easy. Still, I’ll be by your side the entire time.”

            “I fucking love you.” He murmured and kissed her properly.

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​ @biba3434​

Tag list: @zazasblogxx​ @thinkingsofamadwoman​ @deaflikehawkeye​ @bellarkebxtch​ @evelynshelby​

Masterlist 

[rushingheadlong]

Very, Very Frightening - A Freddie x trans-m!Reader fic

Summary: You’re not a fan of power outages, but at least Freddie is there to remind you that you don’t have to face it alone.

Wordcount: ~2.9k

Tags: Some fade-to-black allusions to sex, but mostly just a whole lot of fluff

Notes: Written for @mercurys-oldfashioned-loverboy​ who requested more Freddie x trans-m!Reader fluff. Sorry this took so long to finish, I hope it’s worth the wait!

Usual disclaimers about binders apply- namely, I’m not researching anything about binding in the 70s so just go with it. Also all monsoon information is taken from my college meteorology courses five years ago because (apart from confirming that Zanzibar was within a monsoon area) I wasn’t doing more research there either.

By the time you finally get home you’re soaked to the bone. You wrench open the door and the wind pulls it away from you, slamming it up against the side of the building before you can wrestle it closed again behind you. It does little to quiet the sounds of the storm raging outside, but at least you’re out of the rain.

“There you are, darling, I was starting to worry you got swept away in all this!” Freddie says. He gives you a quick kiss and hands you a towel, and takes your sopping wet jacket from you when you peel it off. “Go get changed into something dry, I’ll make you a cup of tea to help you warm up.”

You kiss Freddie again in thanks, taking care not to lean against him and get him wet too. “Is anyone coming over tonight?”

Freddie shakes his head. “Rog was going to, but he decided against it when the weather turned. So go put on something comfortable, alright?”

Something comfortable is Freddie’s way of telling you to take your binder off. You’re still uncomfortable going without it in front of others, but it no longer bothers you to spend an evening with Freddie without wearing it. It helps that he’s always been so politely matter-of-fact about your gender, never pushing your boundaries or making you feel uncomfortable.

It also helps that you’re madly in love with him and trust him more than anyone else in the world. Given that, it’s surprisingly easy to choose to forgo the restrictive piece of clothing, at least on good days and when it’s just the two of you.

Freddie hangs your coat up to dry, and you try not to drip water all over the place as you make your way to the bedroom and start peeling off layers. Everything is soaked through from the veritable hurricane raging outside and even the towel Freddie gave you does little to make you feel dryer.

You’re halfway through wrestling your way out of your binder when a flash of lightning brightens the room and the lights overhead flicker ominously. That’s not a good sign.

“Freddie?” you call out, still caught in the tangle of clinging, wet spandex. “Did the lights just-?”

“I’m afraid so, darling,” Freddie says. He peers around the doorway of the bedroom and tries, but largely fails, to hide an amused smile when he sees the state you’re in. “Do you need help with that?”

You sigh, nodding in glum defeat, and Freddie steps forward to help you get the binder off. “I’ll go hang this up so it doesn’t get ruined,” he says as you quickly throw on your favorite old sweater.

“And I’ll get dinner started,” you tell him. It’s early still, but your building is old and prone to losing power in bad weather and you don’t want to take any chances.

“I already did that, lovie,” Freddie says, sounding a bit smug about it.

You give him a look of both surprise, and heavy skepticism. “You cooked dinner?”

“Well, I started reheating soup and made toast,” Freddie admits, and you laugh. That sounds much more his style. “Did it when I put the kettle on, so it should be just about done now.”

The toast is certainly done, and the soup is bubbling happily away on the stovetop- a little too happily, in fact, and you’re quick to turn the burner down and give it a stir. You season it a bit more to hide the slightly burnt taste, finish making two cups of tea, and are just pulling down plates and bowls when another gust of wind shakes the building.

The flights flicker again, browning out for a moment before feebly coming back on… and then a loud clap of thunder rattles the windows and the lights cut out completely, plunging the room into darkness. Your breath hitches and you’re thankful that the gas burner on the stove is giving off at least a little light.

There’s a a thump from down the hall, and you jump before you hear a familiar muffled curse. “Fred?” you call out. “Everything alright?”

“Fine, just fine, darling,” Freddie says as he walks, carefully, into the kitchen. “Bumped into the bathroom sink when the power went out, that’s all.”

With the power out and the storm raging outside there’s hardly any light coming in through the windows, apart from the occasional flashes of lightning. “Do you remember where we put the torches?” you ask Freddie, voice hopeful.

“Bedroom closet, I think, but we never picked up batteries for them,” Freddie says. He pulls a lighter out of his pocket and reaches around you to grab one of the many candles scattered throughout your flat. “Luckily for us, my taste in decorations comes in handy in emergencies like this.”

“At least until you burn the place down,” you say as Freddie lights a second candle. You try to keep your voice light, because you know it’s silly to be afraid of a little power outage and you don’t want Freddie fussing.

Freddie scoffs. “I’m not going to burn the place down with a few candles, honestly…”

You, wisely, decide not to answer that. Still, now that you can see what you’re doing, you’re quick to dish out dinner and switch off the burner. You nudge Freddie, stopping him from lighting a third candle, and tell him, “C’mon, let’s get set up in the living room.”

You take the candles with you, and as Freddie lights a few more around the room you pull out the small battery-powered radio that hardly gets used and try to turn it on. It stays silent, even after you hit in frustration. “First thing tomorrow morning I am buying new batteries,” you mutter as you toss it across the room.

Freddie laughs as he lights the last candle, and sits down next to you on the couch. “Well, even without music I think this is a wonderfully romantic little evening, wouldn’t you agree, dear?”

Another rumble of thunder shakes the house, louder than before. It makes your heart race, and you wait for the storm to quiet down for a moment before saying dryly, “Oh, yes, it’s very romantic to be stormed in without power, which means no heat and few options for things to do to pass the time.”

“I have a few ideas on how we can stay warm and pass the time…” Freddie purrs, one hand on your thigh as he leans in to kiss your neck.

You turn your head at the last second and capture his lips with your own, keeping the kiss lighter than you know Freddie wants. When you pull away he pouts a little and you laugh, and promise, “Later, maybe. We can’t spend all evening having sex just because the power’s out.”

Freddie huffs, over-dramatic and exaggerated, and says, “I can’t believe I ended up with the most un-romantic boyfriend in all of London.”

You know he’s joking and you don’t take offense, especially not when he curls up against your side. It’s comforting having Freddie pressed close to you as the two of you eat dinner in an easy silence. It helps soothe some of your nerves, and you start to relax for the first time since the power cut out… At least until the room lights up with another bright flash of lightning, immediately followed by a crack of thunder so loud that you jump at the sound of it.

Your sudden movement dislodges Freddie, who yelps as his tea sloshes over the side of his cup and onto his hand. “Shit, shit!” he swears, quickly setting his cup and shaking out his hand.

“Oh, god, Freddie I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” you ask, fumbling to set down your own bowl and cup.

“I’m alright, darling, it wasn’t too hot,” Freddie assures you, but he gives you a curious look and asks, “Are you alright though? You’re not usually one to startle that easily.”

You force a laugh, prepared to brush aside Freddie’s concerns, when the building shakes with the force of another lightning strike. You let out a small, startled “Eep!” and burrow closer to Freddie.

Freddie immediately wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you close. “I didn’t know you were scared of storms, lovie,” he says. You can hear the amusement in his voice but you appreciate that he’s not laughing at you, even though you know you’re being ridiculous.

“I’m not afraid-” Your breath hitches as another loud crack! momentarily drowns out the sound of the rain and gusting wind. “It’s not the storm. I like storms, usually.”

“Then what is it, dear?”

“I get nervous when the power goes out,” you admit. “I don’t mind the dark and I don’t mind the weather, but something about the two together…” You shiver, and Freddie presses a reassuring kiss to the top of your head. “What if the phonelines go down and something happens and we can’t get help? Or it starts flooding and we’re trapped in the dark and no one can get to us? Or the storm lasts for days and the heat doesn’t come back on and-”

“Okay, darling, that’s quite enough of that,” Freddie says. He stands up, pulling you with him, and he doesn’t let go of you as he blows out all the candles except one which he picks up to the guide the way into the bedroom.

“Fred, I’m not in the mood for-”

“Oh, hush, we’re not in here for that,” Freddie says, though as he pushes you gently down onto the bed he smirks a little and adds, “Although, if you do change your mind…”

You know he’s mostly teasing to try to cheer you up and you smile at him, a little crookedly but still completely genuine. Freddie beams back at you and says, “Now, darling, get under the covers. I’ll blow out the candle so we can just pretend that we’ve gone to bed early, and I’ll talk your ear off until you forget all about the storm, alright?”

“Alright,” you agree, though you’re not sure that anything could really make you forget about the tempest raging outside or the way the building creaks and groans around you.

Still, as another flash of lightning brightens up the room, you follow Freddie’s orders and dive under the blankets. This time Freddie does laugh, but it isn’t mean-spirited, and a moment later he joins you under the covers. He opens his arms and you scoot into them, tucking your face into the crook of Freddie’s neck as your quiet whine is drowned out by the rumble of thunder.

You’ve always felt a little childish, getting this scared by power outages. You know that the odds of something catastrophic happening are very, very small but it somehow knowing that doesn’t help in moments like this. Neither does having your partners tell you constantly, and condescendingly, that your fears are unfounded.

So you’re grateful that when Freddie starts talking he says nothing of the sort.

“When I was a child, we had monsoons. Proper ones, for three months of the year, every year like clockwork. It didn’t rain constantly throughout the day, but the torrential downpours when it did rain were unlike anything else.”

Freddie’s voice is soft, and you listen without saying anything. It’s not often that Freddie talks about life in Zanzibar and even now there’s a distant, thoughtful note in his words, as if he’s thinking back to some half-forgotten dream rather than recounting his own memories.

“And the storms that came at the end of the season- you’ll never see lightning like that here in England, lovie, that’s for sure! And the floods, my god the floods! The streets would fill with rivers of water, and one of my classmates who lived outside the city lost his house to it all one year.”

The more Freddie talks, the more animated he gets. It makes you want to kiss him, or ask a thousand questions of your own, but you don’t want to interrupt his story. You have a feeling that, if you do, he won’t resume it. So you stay quiet, occasionally jumping a little at a particularly loud burst of thunder or ominous groan from the building as it’s buffeted by the wind, but the more engrossed you become in Freddie’s story the less the storm bothers you.

“We knew to expect them, and what to expect from them, but tragedies still happened every year and that didn’t stop the monsoons from coming. You just have to hold onto those you love and move forward, no matter what the whims of nature may throw your way.”

Freddie shifts so the two of you are face to face, and when he smiles it’s so gentle and full of love that it makes your heart ache to see it. “I can’t promise you that nothing bad will happen because of this storm. But I can promise you that we’ll get through it together, alright darling? And in the meantime, I’ll do my best to distract you however you want.”

You kiss Freddie, with a mumbled, “I love you, Freddie,” that’s mostly lost in the press of his mouth against yours and the rumble of thunder outside, but the storm seems like a distant worry now. You press close to Freddie, deepening the kiss, feeling every inch of where your bodies touch and wanting more, wanting to disappear into Freddie until he’s all you can feel and all you can think about.

This time it’s Freddie who pulls back first and he says, “I promise I didn’t tell you that story just to get in your pants.”

You laugh, and give him another quick peck. “I know,” you tell him, before rolling on top of him and smiling wickedly down at him. “But it’s now “later” and you did promise me distractions…”

Freddie laughs, bright and delighted, and surges up to kiss you again. And if you jump a little at a particularly violent crack of lightning, you pretend it’s just because his hands start wandering south and he’s kind enough not to comment on it.

——————————-

When you wake up the next morning, the sun is shining through the bedroom window and Freddie is nowhere to be seen. You try to turn on the lamp by the side of the bed but it stays off. The power is still out, then, but with the storm passed and the light of day brightening the room you don’t feel on-edge like you did the night before.

It’s not until you leave the bedroom that you realize the flat isn’t entirely silent. There’s the low sound of music coming from the kitchen, and as you walk in you can see Freddie leaning over the stovetop with the battery-powered radio that you know was dead last night playing some quiet tune.

“You found the batteries, then?” you ask.

Freddie jumps and turns to face you. “Fuck, Y/N, make some noise next time! You scared me half to death, dear!”

You laugh and lean up to give him a quick kiss. “Sorry, Fred.” You nod towards the radio on the counter and ask again, “Batteries?”

“Yes, well, now that it’s not pitch-black in here I was able to find a few in the back of the hall closet,” Freddie says. “Popped two in the radio so we can hear any updates on getting power back, and put the rest in the torches just in case we need them tonight. And I was trying to see if I can get a burner lit to make tea, but-”

You pluck the lighter out of Freddie’s hand and nudge him away from the stove. “You are a menace in the kitchen, so I’ll get the hot water sorted.”

Freddie pouts. “Excuse me, I made soup last night!”

“You did,” you agree. “But I still don’t fancy you burning down the place trying to get the gas lit.”

Freddie huffs and you kiss him again, a little longer this time, one hand come up to cradle his face. “I still love you, though,” you tell him, when you finally pull away. “And… thank you. For last night, I mean. Most people just laugh at me, and-”

“I would never,” Freddie interrupts gently, a soft smile on his face. “There are far more irrational things you could be afraid of, and I wouldn’t laugh about those either.” He kisses you again, then kisses your noise, your cheek, and when you turn your head, laughing, he lands a final kiss almost on your ear. “Now, I believe I was promised tea? Unless you’d rather head back to bed instead…”

You think about that for a moment, before tossing the lighter on the counter and dropping your hands to hold onto Freddie’s waist, pulling him close to you. He looks genuinely surprised by the action and you can’t help but tease, “You know, sometimes I can be romantic too…”

“More like you can be-” Freddie begins, but you cut him off with another kiss and the two of you stumble back towards the bedroom.

[artificialqueens]

intents wicked or charitable (trixya) 1/10 - beanierose

AN: thank you so much to conny, shea and sophie for caring about this universe as much as i do, you are all so wonderful and i am so lucky. dolly the dog is borrowed from conny’s daisies universe, which is the loveliest and most gentle thing of all time. go check it out!

(read on ao3) | (fine me at katiehoughton)

a practical magic au for the spooky season. there’s a curse on any man who dares love you? love a woman, instead. | 5,479 words

be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn’d bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell be thy intents wicked or charitable hamlet, act one scene four

*   *   *

The wind catches the door to the mudroom and makes it fly open with such a loud crash that the whole house shivers and the dog starts barking. Trixie hustles over the threshold and whistles for Dolly, has to wrestle the door closed once both of them are inside. The sky is livid-dark and churning and the wind moans low in its throat. Dolly whines and hurries away to curl up in front of the hearth. Trixie huffs a little laugh under her breath, to soothe herself mostly. She likes living alone out here three miles from town, and she isn’t usually freaked out by solitude, but the earth feels angry this afternoon.

It’s cold out today, much warmer inside the house, and her cheeks are ruddy. Trixie toes out of her boots and untucks her fisherman’s sweater from her jeans to pull it up over her head. She pads through to the kitchen in her sock feet and her thermal layer. The whole house smells rich and good and a little tomatoey. Trixie lifts the lid of the crockpot and leans over it, lets the steam hit her face. She’s grateful to her this-morning self for fixing supper and she stirs the stew a couple of times, tastes some of the broth from the end of the spoon.

She knows just what they’d say, Kim and Bob and all the rest of them. She hears them laughing right in her ear like ghouls. Today she got up with the sun and made a stew for one with carrots and potatoes and zucchini she pulled out of the earth herself. Trixie is trying to be as self-sufficient as she can, now that she’s here. That’s the whole point.

The city became entirely too loud, the kitchen louder still. She doesn’t miss the money or the respect or the power, doesn’t miss the cries of yes chef in response to every word out of her mouth. She doesn’t miss the almost of her television career, the stardom everybody kept insisting was right at her fingertips if she just stretched a little further. Trixie misses her friends sometimes and absolutely nothing else about that life.

“Dolly!” she calls out, and the dog comes trotting into the kitchen. Trixie scratches her behind the ears, stoops over to kiss the slope of her snout. “Hey, beautiful girl. Are you hungry? Dinner time?”

She gets an enthusiastic wag of Dolly’s whole body in response and then the dog disappears through to the mudroom to wait. She’s a greyhound, not a farm dog at all, but Trixie has had Dolly a lot longer than she’s lived out here. One of the very first projects she did when she moved in was to create a little feeding station for Dolly, a kind of shelf to keep her bowls off of the ground and accommodate her height.

It felt dykey in a way she never really has before. Even as a chef, opening her own restaurant in a field so dominated by men, Trixie has always clung tightly to her femininity with both neatly manicured hands. Something about kneeling down on the hardwood and drilling a hole into her wall felt so butch that she caught a wicked case of church giggles and had to shut the drill off. She had stifled them against her palm for a minute and then remembered that there is no one for miles around. Instead, she had tipped her head back and let her laughter ricochet around the room.

Trixie eats dinner by herself, as she has done every night for the last four months. She sits at the dining table in the main living space because she hates eating on the couch. From here she can see outside in the mornings, all the way across the fields at the rear of her property, but now that the evenings are starting to draw in she just watches herself chew.

There’s no television at the house. She bought the place fully furnished and hasn’t really added anything, didn’t see the point when everything she needs is here already. She doesn’t miss it. There’s the radio in the kitchen and there’s Dolly for companionship and she finds that she likes it. Trixie didn’t bring any makeup with her, or her blow dryer or curling iron. She felt herself shedding layers of performative femininity with every mile she drove north, Dolly in the passenger seat beside her and four boxes tied down in the bed of the truck.

When Trixie turns on the shower she hears the water heater start groaning two floors below her. She is long since accustomed to all of the peculiar quirks of this house, all of the noises it makes. They have had to get used to each other, the house and her. She knows that the front door sticks in the frame when it’s cold out and the lock doesn’t work great so it’s best to avoid using it if possible. She knows that the third stair down creaks the loudest and that when it rains heavily the gutter outside the reading room overflows and water pours in torrents down the window. It feels like home here, more than her Los Angeles apartment ever did, or Wisconsin before that.

The water takes a while to get warm, so Trixie leaves it running while she peels out of the rest of her clothes. She unwinds her hair from its braids and inspects herself in the mirror over the sink. Most of her days are spent outside now, not being perceived by anybody, so a little jolt of unfamiliarity hits her each evening when she faces her reflection. Her cheeks are a bit fuller than she remembers, and so are her stomach and thighs. She feels good, strong. She holds her arm up across her breasts to get a sense of how tan she’s getting. The skin of her chest is still creamy smooth and pale, but her arms and face are littered with new freckles every day and the fine hairs on her forearms have been bleached white-blonde by the sun.

Trixie stands beneath the spray of the shower until the hot runs out. She washes her hair, combing the conditioner through the ends with her fingers. Her body aches in a way that is so different than how it used to, after hours on her feet in the sticky kitchen. It feels more like she’s earned it.

It’s Friday night, and Trixie has a date. She squeezes as much water as she can from the ends of her hair and gets into bed in underwear and a huge sweatshirt. When Trixie left the city she ditched her cell phone. She always felt silly having one, like she was playacting at being more successful than she really was, and she was glad to bid it farewell. Only two people in the whole world know the number for the landline here. Trixie answers on the second ring and eases down the headboard a bit. Her bare legs slide against each other beneath the sheet and the blanket and for just a moment it makes her ache with loneliness.

“Beatrice.”

“Kimberly, hello,” she says. “How are you?”

Kim launches right into a diatribe against the restaurant industry as a whole and Trixie sits with her eyes closed, only half listening. She feels it’s important to maintain some connection to the outside world, just in case the isolation makes her lose her mind and there’s nobody around to notice. Kim is so soft-spoken and gentle and kind that it’s bizarre to hear her get this heated. It reminds Trixie again why she’s doing this.

“You know I have a guest room.”

“Trixie,” Kim sighs. Trixie is holding the phone close enough to her ear that she feels the hot wash of Kim’s breath over her cheek. “I’m not quitting my job and packing up my life and disappearing into the wilderness.”

Like you, goes unspoken. Kim has been supportive this whole time. She doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand how Trixie could walk away from all of the opportunities unfolding before her like springtime. But she kept her sighs and eyerolls mostly to herself and she helped Trixie pack and that’s a lot more than most people did.

“I’m just saying. Offer’s open.”

Now that the sun has gone down it’s freezing in the bedroom. Gooseflesh erupts along the lengths of Trixie’s thighs. She lets Kim talk for a little while longer about Los Angeles and what all of their mutual friends are doing and how everybody, Trixie, misses you so much, and then she eases her gently off the call and hangs up the phone.

She has on her thickest, cosiest pair of wool socks and she skids a little bit on the hardwood in the hallway. It excites the dog and she leaps around, pawing at Trixie’s bare calves. Trixie opens the back door and sends Dolly outside to use the bathroom while she heats water on the stovetop. It’s so cold that she shifts her weight from foot to foot, hopping a little, and rubs her biceps to try and generate some heat.

It doesn’t matter how deep into the winter it gets, she hates sleeping with pants on. Trixie does a quick circuit of the lower level to check all of the doors are locked, an old habit from Los Angeles that she can’t seem to shake, and turns out all of the lamps as well. She’s done in time for the kettle to start its insistent whistling and she fills up her hot water bottle, brings it and the dog upstairs with her. Trixie sleeps with Dolly in the bed and two blankets and she is still chilly for a good half hour every evening.

On her back in the textured darkness, Trixie stares at the ceiling and allows herself to yearn for just a minute. She needs a warm, kind woman to let Trixie put her freezing hands inside of her sweater. Her whole body aches with it, how much she wants. It’s not even that she misses Bob, exactly. She just misses having someone to lay next to her and kiss her until the pink tip of her nose gets warm.

There are no curtains in any of the rooms upstairs. Trixie keeps meaning to get some, to try and keep the warmth in now that summer is rolling over into fall, but she likes being able to see out into the night. The moon’s wise, round face is peering in at her right up against the glass. Since she’s been here she’s been sleeping well, sacked out on her stomach unmoving until the rooster wakes her at six. Tonight, though, she is restless and grouchy with it.

Tomorrow, for the first time, Trixie is going to drive the three miles and visit the town.

She brought a lot of supplies with her, cans and dried things like rice and pasta. The teenage son of the family in the house closest to her, a half mile down the road, gratefully accepts the ten dollar bill Trixie presses into his palm each Wednesday afternoon when he brings her milk and cheese and fruits. She has learned to bake her own bread, likes the process of working at it and how it has made her arms firm and strong. Now that the crops she planted are starting to yield, her neat rows beginning to spill over in abundance, she feels much more self-sufficient.

There are things that she needs that she can’t put off for much longer. Things she is not comfortable asking a fifteen year old boy to buy for her. And she supposes she ought to show her face to the townsfolk, now that she’s been lurking on the outskirts for almost half a year like a cryptid.

Trixie comes awake into the crisp, clear morning and can immediately see frost on the windowpane. She pulls on jeans in the bedroom and her duck boots in the mudroom and heads outside to let the chickens out. The coop structure has a kind of sliding door with a long handle that Trixie can pull from the outside and the girls all come clattering down the little ramp.

She opens the door of the pen to let them roam around the yard for a while. Dolly darts back and forth, her graceful body low to the ground and her tail in the air. She’s a city dog, and a sighthound with a high prey drive, but Trixie doesn’t need to worry. She’s patient with the girls, and they are obsessed with her.

“Good morning, Patsy-girl,” Trixie says when her favourite Rhode Island Red pecks insistently at her boot clad foot. She scoops the chicken up and cradles her to her chest, supports both of her feet in the palm of one hand so she’ll stop flapping and settle down. “Hi, princess. Hi pretty lady.”

Her voice is so soft and melty when she talks to any of the animals. She hears it in herself and can’t seem to do anything about it. Trixie has to set the chicken down because the others are squawking and hopping about her ankles, distressed that their sister is getting all of the attention. She squats down instead and has to put four fingertips to the ground to steady herself when Loretta and Shania immediately hop up onto her thighs. Trixie is long past being precious about keeping her hands clean. She’s always kept her nails short anyway, and she’s gotten used to scrubbing the dirt out from beneath them before dinner each night.

The cow shed is her next stop. There are no actual cows in there, as much as she would like to have them, but the previous owner of the property had thrown into the sale of the house a pair of cantankerous, curmudgeonly goats. They spend their nights tucked up warm amongst the hay and, she’s pretty sure, plotting ever more convoluted ways to make Trixie’s life difficult.

“Good morning Cash, Guthrie,” Trixie says when she opens the door and gets a stony stare from one and a disgruntled bleat from the other. They are the only men in a half mile radius, so of course they are ornery and smell disgusting and fight constantly with anything nearby, including each other.

Trixie opens the gate to let them out into the paddock. She likes how her mornings look, the routine of going around feeding all of the animals and making sure they have water and wishing them all a happy start to their day. She’s always been a country girl; nine years in Los Angeles couldn’t beat that out of her. Sometimes when she wakes in the morning to Garth’s insistent crowing she feels as if she’s in her thirteen year old body again, too big for her skin and stretching taller and thicker every day.

Once everybody is fed, including herself, Trixie tries to become a little more presentable. First impressions matter: it’s why she always vetted her front-of-house staff so thoroughly and why she was so obsessively detail-oriented when designing the façade of her restaurants. She’s going to be meeting a whole lot of new people today. She’d rather they didn’t clock that she’s a loner and a lesbian before she even gets a chance to open her mouth.

The truck engine rolls over twice before she gets it to start and Trixie mutters something under her breath that might be an incantation. While she drives into town she has a very difficult time not looking at herself in the rearview mirror. For the first time she wishes she’d brought a little makeup with her, even just some mascara and lipstick. Her face is pink and weathered and her hair had refused to cooperate so she’s wound it into her usual two braids and jammed a beanie over the top to at least try to look intentional.

Trixie parallel parks on the street and hops down from the cab of the truck. The step is muddy, but her boots are caked with crud anyway so it hardly matters. There are kids playing further up the street and all five of them stop what they’re doing and turn as one to look at her. It’s creepy, a bit Children of the Corn, and a shiver rattles up Trixie’s spine. She wraps her men’s cord jacket tighter around herself and arranges her scarf at her neck. The cold is a copper taste in her throat and the skin of her face feels pulled taut, pink-raw.

The whole town is serene and lovely. Trixie walks slowly down the main street, hands stuffed low into the pockets of her coat because she forgot to bring gloves with her. It’s big enough that it makes her feel delicate and tiny and precious, all hunkered down inside of it.

Each building has a different coloured siding and all of the storefronts are neatly kept and welcoming. As Trixie walks she hears the susurration of the water against the shores of the cove and the crunch of her own footsteps. It’s not so quiet here in town as it is back at the house, but above the shouts of the children playing and the occasional car rumbling by it’s still peaceful.

There’s a pharmacy at the end of the street, close to the dock, and Trixie ducks inside. A bell over the door signals her arrival and the old man behind the register looks up from the newspaper and smiles at her. He’s missing one of his front teeth. Trixie gives him a tiny nod of her head and waves away his offer to help find what she needs. It’s a much faster experience than back in Los Angeles because there is only one choice of shampoo, one soap, one brand of analgesic.

She sets everything down on the counter. The man begins scanning everything, not watching what he’s doing because his eyes are raking up and down Trixie. She’s wearing a lot of layers today so it’s not like he’s getting an eyeful, but it still makes the skin at the back of her neck prickle.

“Well hey there, little lady. You must be new in town. I’m Tom.” He gets done ringing everything up but makes no move to bag it or ask her for her money.

Trixie pulls her wallet free from the back of her jeans, has to wrestle with it a bit because it gets caught on the corner of the pocket. She gives Tom her well-worn, please don’t try to have a conversation with me right now smile. Very carefully does not offer him her name back.

“I live a few miles outside of town. Out on Fort Casey Road.”

“Well, everybody here’s real friendly. Can’t get steered too wrong. Just-” He props an elbow on the counter and leans conspiratorially in. Trixie tries very hard not to physically recoil. “Just steer clear of Verbena.”

“What’s Verbena?”

Trixie hands over a couple of bills, hoping to hurry along this interaction. She’s trying not to let impatience crease the space between her eyebrows, trying not to ruin the first conversation she’s had outside of her phone calls with Kim in four months. It’s a little like her muscles have begun to atrophy; she’s working to stretch them out, but it’s uncomfortable.

Tom hands her change over to her, folds her fingers closed around the handful of coins in her palm. She finds that absolutely reprehensible. Trixie stuffs the coins hastily into the pocket of her coat and wipes her palm off against her thigh, not at all caring whether he sees. She hopes that he does.

“Verbena is the apothecary across the street.” Tom pauses, swept up in the drama of it all. He turns to look over his shoulder and Trixie follows his gaze, spots an unassuming little store almost directly opposite. When she looks back at Tom he drops his voice an octave. “The witch owns it.”

“The what?” Trixie snorts, and then realises that Tom is deadly serious and clamps her mouth shut. He nods fervently at her but doesn’t offer any more information. Trixie feels a sigh forming in the base of her throat and swallows it back down. She’s a lesbian. She feels an automatic, ferocious kinship with spurned women. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”

She takes her purchases in their brown paper bag and leaves the store. Outside it’s bright and crisp, and she doesn’t feel like getting back into the car just yet. She can feel Tom’s eyes on her still, through the glass frontage of the pharmacy. The violation of it is rapidly making her furious. Trixie has never liked being told what to do, especially by old men. She doesn’t allow herself to hesitate for even half a beat before she strides across the street and right on in to Verbena.

It’s a cute place. The exterior is painted all white and there are planters full of lavender either side of the door. It will be beautiful in the springtime. Inside there are bottles and jars and packages of all different sorts, so many that Trixie can’t even begin to decipher them all on her first sweep around. It smells wonderful, there’s an aromatherapy burner on one of the shelves and Trixie takes a step closer to it, bends at the waist to breathe it in a little deeper.

“Oh, hi. Hello. Welcome.”

The voice startles Trixie a bit and she straightens again, turns to look. All of the breath stutters in her chest. The most beautiful woman she’s ever seen — the most beautiful woman she will ever see in her life — is standing there. She’s grinning at her with a set of perfect teeth that Trixie stares at for probably a beat too long. Her white-blonde hair just skims the tops of her shoulders, heavy bangs a little long so she has to blink them out of her eyes. She’s lovely. Trixie’s palms are sweating.

“Um. Hi.”

“I’m Katya.” She offers her hand and Trixie takes it, has to maneuver the bag from the pharmacy into one arm. Katya squeezes instead of shaking and it’s so completely charming that Trixie feels her face getting hot. At least she can blame it on how much warmer it is in the store than outside.

“Trixie.”

“Trixie,” Katya repeats softly, like she’s trying it on for size. She’s still smiling so wide and Trixie finds herself grinning back, goofy Wisconsin teeth and all. “Hello, Trixie. Is there anything I can help you find today?”

The heat in her cheeks and neck is getting to be a bit much. Trixie sets her bag down on the countertop, takes off her jacket and folds it over her arm, pulls off her beanie hat as well. She definitely has hat hair and she smoothes her hands self-consciously over the top of her head.

“I…kind of came in here out of spite?” Trixie chews on her bottom lip, but Katya throws her head back and a pneumatic burst of laughter ricochets out of her.

“So you met Tom?”

Katya is still laughing and she reaches out to grab Trixie’s arm. Her fingers are thin and she clutches tight and everything in Trixie’s body knots up into Katya’s grip. She’s a few inches shorter than Trixie is and she smells good, like earth and springtime. When she straightens up again she slides her fingertips down the length of Trixie’s forearm as she lets go.

“I did. So no, I’m not looking for anything specific.”

“I can show you around?” Katya offers.

Trixie nods, certain that she’s completely failing at reining in her enthusiasm. Katya is the first new person she’s met in the last four months that hasn’t irritated her immediately. She lets her take her hat and coat and hang them up by the door, lets her hook her arm through Trixie’s elbow and lead her around like they’re old friends.

All of the products in the store are homemade and Katya explains the properties of each one, allows Trixie to smell things and try samples at her leisure. Katya is effusive and intelligent. Her whole face comes alight when she talks about the merits of mugwort or how close she is to perfecting her mint oatmeal shaving cream. Trixie works a lotion into her hands and lifts them both to her face to breathe deeply. Her skin feels immediately softer, and the places where her knuckles are chapped from working outside look less red and angry.

The two of them are standing with their heads bent together, studying Katya’s collection of beeswax candles. Katya’s got both hands in the back pockets of her hunter green cords and her elbows are pointy and jut out away from her. It means that every time Trixie shifts, the right one nudges into her. She likes it a lot. Katya holds up one of the candles and Trixie leans in to smell it, closes her eyes as she does.

A crash makes the windows of the storefront tremble in their frames and Trixie jerks upright, one hand flying up to land at her chest. Katya doesn’t even twitch. They turn together to see a pack of teenage boys sprinting away from the store, and a mess of egg white and yolk and shell sliding slowly down the window. Trixie is fairly sure she spots the neighbour boy, Peter, in amongst them.

Trixie makes as if to head for the door, but Katya grabs for her elbow to stop her where she stands. That’s probably best. What is she going to do, chase them? Outrage bubbles hot and insistent in her stomach and she turns to look at Katya.

“Aren’t you going to do something?”

“Sure I am.”

Katya reaches down behind the counter and comes back with a soft cloth and a spray bottle. Trixie follows her outside and stands and watches as she cleans her windows, one knee propped on the bench out front so she can lean in close. She’s shoved her sweater up past her elbows and Trixie likes the flex of the tendons in her forearms, her intricate tattoos, her delicate hands. It feels like she’s standing guard, and she finds herself glancing over her shoulders to watch for the mob coming back.

After a few minutes Katya’s arms get tired of scrubbing and she takes a break to shake them out. Trixie takes over, makes sure to meticulously spray every inch of the glass and get all of it off. The winter sun sits low in the sky and if the egg is allowed to bake onto the window it’s much harder to remove. Katya is watching her with both hands shoved into the pockets of her pants again. She has the bottoms of them rolled up so a strip of skin shows above her Dr. Martens, and Trixie is focusing very hard on not looking at her pale ankles.

When they’re done, Katya holds the door open for Trixie and flips the lock behind them both. She has a tiny little break room at the back of the store and she makes tea for the two of them, presses the cup into Trixie’s waiting hands. She doesn’t seem affected, and somehow that’s worse.

“This happen a lot?”

“A beautiful woman coming into my store? Never.” Katya grins at her over the rim of her mug, but when Trixie keeps her face carefully slack she falters. “Yeah. I’m what the kids call an outcast.”

“Oh honey, an outcast honey? I’ve been out since ninety two, honey.”

It’s a dumb joke, but it makes Katya scream and slosh a little of her tea onto her hand. It’s hot still and she sucks on the webbing between her thumb and pointer finger. Trixie looks at the red stain the lipstick leaves on her skin, looks at the pink tip of Katya’s tongue.

“That’s awful,” Katya points at her. “You’re awful, Trixie. I think the homophobes might have a point.”

They’re both laughing then, and clutching at each other. It seems like Katya’s whole body is full up with joy, and she’s looking at Trixie like she’s so pleased to find her here. Trixie hopes that Tom is squinting at them from across the street and turning slowly to stone.

She sips her tea and lets her eyes flutter closed. She doesn’t know what’s in here but it’s good, kindles a small fire in her gut that spreads outwards into all of her extremities. It could just be Katya, smiling at her and calling her beautiful.

Once they’ve both emptied their mugs, Katya takes a gift bag from a stack beside the register and wanders around the store for a little while, choosing things to fill it up with. She is careful, each choice considered. Trixie watches her, lets herself look at Katya’s tight ass in her pants when she bends over. It’s been six months since things ended with Bob, and Trixie isn’t one to have a casual fling, so the heat between her thighs is more insistent than usual.

“Here.” Katya presses the bag into Trixie’s hands. “To say thanks.”

Trixie doesn’t open the bag, doesn’t want to seem too eager. She has a sense memory of her grandmother slapping her hands and tutting at her, telling her it lacks decorum to open gifts in front of the giver. Instead, she holds it against her chest and meets Katya’s eyes. They are blue-grey, clear and abundant as a winter morning.

“Thank you. This is…this is really nice. Suspiciously nice.”

“If you start feeling feverish and vomiting it’s absolutely nothing to worry about, Tracy.” Katya studies her cuticles, feigning disinterest. Trixie notices her short nails and feels it between her thighs, takes a stuttering breath. “Just do me a favour and leave your door unlocked so I don’t have to commit breaking and entering when I come to harvest your bones. That’s a felony, you know.”

Trixie snorts and snatches her hand back from where Katya has grabbed it. “Oh sure, anything else I can do to make it easier for you?”

“Come back soon?” Katya says, and all of the teasing drops right out of her voice. She can’t seem to look Trixie in the face, studies the floor instead, and tenderness for her swells in Trixie’s chest.

“If I live through the night, I’ll come back.”

Trixie leaves then, has to. The way Katya is looking at her, like she can’t seem to choose just one thing to stare at, is making Trixie want to shove her hands inside of those tight pants and haul Katya against her.

In the car she rolls the windows down and cranks up both the heat and the volume on the CD player. She sings at the top of her lungs, elbow propped on the door and her other hand holding the wheel in two fingers. It’s freezing cold in the car and she’s shivering in her seat, barely able to grip the wheel in her numb hands, but her face is still warm.

When she moved here she was fully prepared to be the only gay person for miles and miles. It doesn’t bother her; growing up in Wisconsin desensitised her to that. But now here is Katya, beautiful and enigmatic and funny and asking to see Trixie again.

Dolly can tell that Trixie is excited and it’s infectious; she hops around while Trixie unpacks the few groceries she picked up. Trixie feeds her treats, crouched down on the kitchen floor to let the dog eat out of her palm and give her scritches behind the ears.

Trixie has always enjoyed anticipation. Bob used to complain at her, irritated by the way she would spend an hour or more gussying up before coming to bed. It makes her feel attractive and irresistible, to make herself wait. She leaves the gift bag on the dining table for the whole afternoon and refuses to even look at it while she makes dinner. After she’s cleaned up and all of the animals are down for the night, she settles cross-legged in the middle of her bed to open it.

There’s a tube of the lotion she tried, which makes her smile. She’s been smelling her hands all afternoon. There’s an aloe face cream that professes to be good for redness, and a candle that has the same scent as whatever essential oil Katya had been burning. Underneath everything else in the bag is a little notecard with the store’s name and logo on one side, and on the other Katya’s name and the store address. And at the bottom, hand written in red ink, is a phone number.

[thedipster]

bellebeauton:

Belle smiled at Dipper and nodded, filling up the kettle as he talked. She blushed a little at the comment about all the books. She was never really–embarrassed by them. Okay, maybe she had been a bit, when Hades and Persephone had just moved in because she looked like some kind of crazy person hoarder. But, honestly, Belle didn’t want to be friends with anyone who thought her books were weird…

Still, she knew it was weird. Having so many books that you might trip on them for turning around…

Belle did turn around then, heading to the stove, but she just took a step and squeaked a little, sloshing water down he front of her blouse because Shuck had been standing just behind her, no growling anymore, but staring at Dipper. He barely even noticed that Belle had bumped into her.

“Shuck!” she snapped at him, exasperated. “You silly dog. You’re acting like you’ve never met another person. Go lay down.”

Shuck looked at her, turning his big, deep black eyes at her, looking hurt and betrayed as his ears drooped.

“Go on.” 

He whined.

“Go lay down!”

Shuck scampered off to the edge of the kitchen entrance, but he turned around and stretched himself across the wooden floor, so he was still only about a yard or so away from where Dipper was sitting at the kitchen table. 

Belle put the kettle on and then headed back to kitchen sink, where she dug around underneath it for a moment, popping up with two sets of dish-cleaning gloves. She brought them over to the table and set them down, gently.

“These are a bit cumbersome, but they should do,” she told him with a little nod, lips pressed together as she turned her attention to the book, touching the front of it lightly, the plastic crinkling noisily under her fingers.

“Thank you–uhm–about the books.” She blushed pretty pink and smiled. “You’re welcome to borrow any you like. It’s the least I can do for helping me. Us. I appreciate it so much,” she told him, her voice wavering slightly and she glanced away out the window for a moment before looking back at him and smiling.

 Dipper was that kid with a lot of books. At home, he had one wall that was literally just bookshelves. He arranged them neatly too, he was that anal person. They were arranged by genre—classics, fantasy, sci-fi, informational (and of course, subsets within informational: biography, historical, science—and then subsets of that). And then within genre, he arranged them in other ways. The classics were by author and then by date. Most of the fiction followed that similar pattern, though within each subgenre he separated. The informational, he listed by interest, by title—sometimes if he was feeling fancy, by color scheme.

He’d brought a lot of books to university. He had a smaller shelf, something he’d gotten at the Ikea in the town over, but it was still stuffed with books. On top of the regular line, there were books shoved in horizontally, every nook and cranny of that shelf used up.

But Belle—Belle had more than Dipper had. Belle had this whole house worth of books, just spilling everywhere. Man, Dipper had never really given much thought to how his future home would look, but now he knew it would at the very least have this many books.

He was still looking around when Belle came back with the kitchen gloves and he almost jumped a bit, startled from his little musing, and gave her a shy smile.

“Thanks, that’d be really cool,” he said. “I had to leave a lot of mine at home ‘cuz it’s, like, not practical to bring them on a 20 hour flight or whatever.” He gave a little dry, nervous laugh, then cleared his throat.

From the stovetop, the kettle began to whistle. Dipper adjusted the book a little.

“So, uh, I have this one, obviously. And a few papers and stuff that I thought would be helpful too.” He gestured at the old journals in particular. “My uncle, uh, does a lot of research in the field and a lot of stuff with rips and tears and what causes them to open and stuff and I think a lot of that could be useful.”

He reached into his backpack for his pair of latex gloves and flexed his fingers before putting them on. The feeling of latex on skin was always a weird one and he wriggled his fingers a bit as he adjusted the glove.

“You probably have a better idea of what to look for since, uh, you’re more involved with the situation. I mean, you could tell me more, but, uh, I get not wanting to, you know, have it all out there or whatever.” He darted his eyes down.

The Pursuit of Knowledge || Beautiful Pine Tree

[damnfinecupocoffee]

Were you asking for prompts? If so, finding the other wearing their clothes for ExR :D

send me a prompt and I’ll write you a drabble 

It was barely even light when Grantaire began to wake. Groggy, head thick with not enough sleep and the first aches of a hangover at the corners of his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the empty space beside him in the bed. Not that it was unusual to wake alone - most of his mornings began this way after all - save for the quiet but insistent memory that he hadn’t fallen asleep that way. The memory of strong arms wrapped around him, warm breath on the back of his neck, of one night spent in the rapturous embrace of his sweetest reverie.

The mattress was still warm. He was being hopeful: the early sunlight illuminating the room in stripes of yellow gave off a little of it, had perhaps heated the sheets, and he’d been in the throes of yet another dream, seeping over into reality. Or worse still, his company had seen fit to leave before he woke without a note, or even a word, because Grantaire was not worth even that much to them. As it had been, so many times before.

Except there on the floor - not part of his own wardrobe. A red jacket.

A red jacket he would recognise anywhere.

Grantaire’s heart began to thunder in his chest at the implication.

With heavy, uncoordinated limbs he clambered out of the bed, almost tripping over himself as the stumbled to the bedroom door. If the jacket was here, then perhaps, perhaps.

Dressed in nothing but last night’s boxers, he opened the door to the living room slowly, as though what he found on the other side might shatter the illusion he was constructing in his mind. 

On first glance, the room looked empty. Grantaire’s heart fell to the pit of his stomach as he searched it. It was quiet enough that he could hear a distant car horn outside on the street and he would have given up the search immediately had it not been for the scent of coffee permeating the air, a light cloud of steam gathering above the stovetop kettle.

And then, a rustle of paper from beside him. Grantaire turned to find someone sat on his sofa, bundled up under one of his blankets.Not just someone.

Enjolras.

The night before returned to Grantaire in a rush, his tired mind clearing with every beat of his heart. The taste of Enjolras’ lips on his own. Fingers stroking gently through his hair, down his cheek, across his jaw, the look of fondness in those piercing blue eyes - god, he’d spent so many nights dreaming about those eyes. Stumbling back to Grantaire’s apartment in a fervour of drunken passion, and then to the bed, enthusiastically stripping out of their clothes only to lay beside each other for hours in whispered conversation, curled up as though they were made to fit together like two perfect shapes. Hesitant kisses as light as air planted all over his skin, his own hands playing with those seraphic curls, tracing freckles on Enjolras’ shoulders that he’d never have imagined were there. They’d fallen asleep in each others arms in a drunken bliss unlike any Grantaire had ever known.

And here he was, on Grantaire’s sofa. Knees pulled to his chest, blanket pooled around his waist, his long hair bundled into an extremely messy bun, glowing like a flame in the light of the rising sun. He was leafing through some papers on the coffee table, clutching a mug to his chest (one of his mugs, Grantaire’s mugs, with a silly little orange cat pattern all over it that looked like it belonged to Enjolras already) and wearing a Grantaire’s favourite green hoodie.

The hoodie swamped him, baggy around Enjolras’ much more slender frame. He had the sleeves pulled down so they were almost covering his hands, his chin nuzzled down into the neckline.

He hadn’t seen Grantaire in the doorway yet. He looked so comfortable and peaceful, and more beautiful than Grantaire had ever seen him in the sunshine pouring through the windows. He was loathed to move and disturb the perfect image before him, draw attention to himself. But here they were, and it was before 7am and they had kissed last night, something he never imagined would happen.

So he cleared his throat. 

“Enjolras..?”

Looking up from his papers, Enjolras met his gaze with wide eyes, lips quirking into a soft, tired smile. Grantaire had never seen him look so perfect.

Not an effigy of a god. Not a statue on a pedestal or an icon stood before a crowd. Just Enjolras, just as he was, the reality of him made bare to the morning sun.

“Morning,” Enjolras said, his voice laced with drowsiness. “I was going to bring you coffee before I realised the time.”

He motioned with his mug towards another one on the coffee table. A strand of hair fell loose around his face and Grantaire was overcome with the urge to tuck it back behind his ear.

Maybe he could now. It would have to be talked about, of course.

“It’s probably cold by now, sorry.” Enjolras dipped his chin back into the oversized hoodie, mumbling into the fabric when he spoke again. “Join me?”

Grantaire nodded and padded across the wooden floor, hesitating for just a moment before he sat beside him. The living room was colder than the bedroom but before he could complain, he found Enjolras shifting closer, draping the blanket over his lap too. 

Whatever he’d done right to earn this moment, Grantaire would give anything to keep it forever. He wasn’t a religious man but he would get down on his knees and pray if it gave him a chance to relive it even one more morning. He reached for the mug anyway. It was tepid, but he’d drink it anyway.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he said, for lack of knowing what else to say.

The corner of Enjolras’ smile peeked out from where he’d buried his face in the fabric. “It’s cold. Besides, can you blame me? It smells like you.”

Grantaire was sure his heart skipped a beat at those words. Perhaps more than one. Perhaps it had already stopped, and this was heaven.

“Last night,” he murmured. “We should talk...about what it means.”

He was scared to raise his voice, to ruin the moment. Any second now, Enjolras would realise he was better than this and he’d leave. He could take the hoodie if he wanted, Grantaire wouldn’t fight him on it.

Instead, Enjolras shifted closer once again until he was pressed into Grantaire’s bare side.

“I know,” Enjolras said softly, turning to face him. He studied Grantaire’s face for a moment before he spoke again. “Later, okay? This is nice.”

“Later is okay,” Grantaire breathed. What else could he say?

Enjolras leaned closer, falling short with just a breath between them, paused as though he wanted to ask first, but Grantaire pushed forward and pressed their lips together. 

Gently, just the ghost of a touch. Just to test the water.

Enjolras met the kiss with lazy enthusiasm, lips barely moving against Grantaire’s own and yet claiming them decisively. He tasted of coffee, mingled with morning after breath, but Grantaire didn’t mind at all.

Later, he reminded himself, as Enjolras broke the kiss, nuzzling into his shoulder as he took a sip from the cat mug. 

This was nice. Whatever happened later, Grantaire would always have this.