#good heavens you could fry eggs in the street

[natequarter]

[ID: several stills from The Armageddon Factor. The Fourth Doctor says to Romana I, "Think... Why do you always assume the worst? Where's your joy in life, where's your optimism?" K9 says, "Optimism: belief that everything will work out well. Irrational, bordering on insane." The Doctor says, "Oh, do shut up, K9. Listen, Romana..." /end ID]

DAMN K9

[k-n0-x]

༺ ♱✮♱ ¨:·Something Stupid-Chapter 3·:¨ ♱✮♱ ༻

A/N: Hii everyone! Sorry this chapter is a little later than usual, burnout happened, school happened, the whole shebang! This chapter is a doozy though, hope you all will love it <3

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The sun rays peek through your window and the birds’ chirps awake you from your slumber.

Or maybe it’s the snoring of a drowsy Adam, who was lying beside you, though you’ve inured yourself to his unconscious noises for ages.

You get up from your bed, just to almost have your legs give way under you, thanks to the fact that you had to be pounded by your husband, as you promised to him.

Last night felt like a chore. You feel really bad for thinking it, but it really did. 

You’re not an expert, but sex should feel enjoyable, by all sides involved, but with Adam, it feels like an obligatory activity.

You spend the next 25 minutes brushing your teeth, showering and getting ready for the day. Since there’s nothing to do at home (well, there’s nothing to do at home) you decide that this is a good time to be productive.

You head into the kitchen and scrutinise each and every ingredient that graces your pantry.

“Hmm, maybe this would work…”  You grab flour, eggs, milk and a frying pan…

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

The smell of buttery pancakes drifts throughout the kitchen. You sit down in your chair and take a bite of your breakfast.

The pancakes themselves were lovely; the consistency was just right and the flavour was something to die again for, courtesy of Heaven’s always perfect ingredients.

Heaven…. 

‘Perfect’ Heaven.

Up until a few weeks ago, you would have believed that sentimental saying that you hear being thrown around on multiple occasions, but now, those words seem like direct opposites of each other, an oxymoron even.

The mere thought of it sets an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

You shakily finish one pancake, and neatly leave the rest in the microwave. 

You have more pressing matters to get on about today, and pancakes aren’t one of them, though you want it to be. 

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

“Welcome to Heaven, how can I help?” The Saint looks up from his logbook with a face coloured with surprise when he recognises you.

“Y/N! How’ve ya been?” 

“I’m doing good,” you smile up at the angel behind the pedestal.

“So, what can I do for the wonderful wife of Adam, hm?” St. Peter clicks his tongue and finger guns.

“Well, Peter, is there a chance you could show me the list of Heaven’s recent residents? There’s a certain person I’m looking for…” Realisation hits you like a truck. Would this information be classified? You wouldn’t know until-

“Yeah sure, here!” The Saint passes you a page with written names and dates.

“This is a list of  Heaven’s newest angels from up to a month ago. I hope you find who you’re looking for!” 

“Thanks Pete, you’re a Saint,” 

“Well, I am Saint Peter after all, ah bye-bye!” 

Well that was easier than anticipated. 

Now you need a private place to mull it over…

You walk through the brightly lit heavenly streets and bump into someone, sending you and your papers flying.

“Oh my, misss, I am ssssso ssssorry,” The person bends down to collect the papers.

“No, no it’s fine, sorry-” your voice gets stuck in your throat. You take a close look at the person collecting your papers.

The person, or, you should say snake, was sporting a smart coat, top hat, and eyes in his hair?

He was familiar. Where have you seen him before?

Your eyes dilate in recognition.

He was pixel perfect to the mural that Charlie showed you the other day.

“Excuse me for asking, but are you Sir Pentious?” 

The snake demon, or angel, looks around before leaning in. 

“Depends on who’sssss asssking,”

“Oh uh,” you think for a moment. How do you explain that you know he was a demon, without seeming like a stalker of sorts. 

Clearly, this isn’t the subject to have casually in the street.

“Here, let me explain over tea and cookies, hm? My treat!” You grab the hand of Pentious gently and head to the nearest café.

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

“And ssso, thisss Adam guy just sssnapped me out of existence, and now I’m here, but without my egg boisss,” Pentious explains while indulging himself with a Pain un Chocolat, eyes welling while doing so.

“Huh, I see. So Charlie’s plan does work,” you mumble to yourself. “And I apologise for my husband, by the way,”

The snake pales, his skin now ashy.  “He’ssss, your husssband?” he instinctively pushes away from you in his seat.

“Yes, but don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. I just promised Charlie that I would help her with the hotel and redemption and all that…”

“Oh I sssee. Here’ss my card if you need anything more,” He produces a card and hands it to you, and you accept it graciously, despite it having a slimy residue on it. 

“Great! I have to go now but it was nice meeting you,”  you shake his hand and leave the café.

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

“So, what’s it like having sex with the first man? What are your orgasms like?”

“Angel, don’t torment the poor girl,” 

“Whaat? Just askin’” Angel groans and puts his phone on the countertop of the bar.

Apparently, Charlie has gone AWOL, along with Vaggie and Lucifer, the three people that deserve to be the first people aware of the gratifying information you are holding.  

This tension is getting you antsy, but you answer your newfound bestie’s question.

“Overrated to be honest. Not meaningful in the slightest,” Your blunt answer stuns Angel and Husk for a moment.

“What’s this about orgasms?” You turn back to the entrance of the hotel.

Shit. 

The one person whom you didn’t want to hear you say that, was standing in front of you, holding about 10 shopping bags, his daughter and his daughter’s partner  following suit.

God, what must he think? You want to slam your head into the table, but you refrain yourself.

“Uh Dad?” Charlie taps her dad’s shoulder.

“Maybe let’s refrain from talking your way into the sex life of guests? Anyway, how are you, Y/N? I hope everything’s alright?” Charlie inadvertently snapping you out of your apparent embarrassment.

“Oh yes! Not just alright; absolutely amazing actually. I have important information to tell you so forgive me for my impromptu visit, but it clearly cannot wait,” you practically jump out of your chair, bursting with energy. 

My, you haven’t felt this emotion since…

Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

“Well, I did some digging and…” you grab the crusted card from your bag.

“Well, congratulations to you, Miss Charlie Morningstar, Princess of Hell, because your dream is a reality!” You flourish the card to Charlie, and she takes it.

She blinks. 

Everyone else blinks.

“Uh, what is this exactly?”

You groan. Fun police much? 

“Sinners can be redeemed, I found Sir Pentious in Heaven just this morning,” you concede, impatiently tapping the card.

“Wait really? You aren’t just messing with me?” Charlie’s eyes practically shone with stars.

“Angels aren’t known for that darling.” 

As soon as you say that Charlie squeals and jumps up and down, ecstatic.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyooouuuuuu!” She gushes and hugs you extremely tight, constraining your lungs, but you really don’t care.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” You pull away to have Alastor behind you, with that ever-so-familiar-yet-unpleasant grin. 

When did he get here?

“Seems like out little Morningstar is becoming quite the entrepreneur,” Alastor places a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, as though they are father-daughter.

Father-daughter, where the daughter’s biological dad is directly beside them. 

“Hey, hey now, get your slimy claws off of my daughter, would ya?” Lucifer asks the Radio demon, half laughing.

“Oh? The same daughter you’ve abandoned for countless years on end? The same daughter who had to build this establishment by herself, with no support. The same daughter I’ve been faithful to, in comparison to you? I’ve stuck through thick and thin with her. Hell, I probably fit the Dad position by definition,” 

The room is loud with silence; you could probably hear a pin drop.

Alastor’s voice carries those words in a seemingly defensive manner, but you can tell that those words don’t hold any meaning to him.

It seems like you’re the only person to realise that, because with the slam of a door, Lucifer exits the room, leaving an aura of pure anger and jealousy behind.

“Dad!” 

“Charlie, maybe you should give him a breath of fresh air-” Vaggie tries pulling her back.

“No! Vaggie, he needs someone to be there with him. God knows what he will do and what if-” Charlie is in a craze to get to the door. 

“I’ll go,” you say abruptly. Without question, you go through the door.

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

“Hey, it’s really hot out here, you know,” you stand at the garden door, as the king gazes out on Hell’s not-so-perfect landscape depressingly.

Silence. 

“Alastor was just pulling your leg back there, he just wanted to piss you off,” you stand beside him, keeping an appropriate distance.

“I know. That’s not the problem. The problem is that-” his voice hitches.

“Go on,”

“The problem is, is the fact he’s not even wrong; I left Charlie with nothing, she had to support herself before help came along, I barely was there for her throughout all of this, until the very last moment, when she didn’t even need me anymore,” The King of Hell rambles, and fidgets with a small yellow thing in his hand. A bird of some sorts.

A duck? 

“I can’t do anything right,” he continues.

Okay, you have to stop getting sidetracked by meagre things. 

“Lucifer, listen. Yes, you may not have been there for her before, but you’re here now, and you are ready to help. Yes, I know it’s scary, yes I know it’s hard, but I have an inkling that Charlie would love to start having a bond with her father again. Also, you know her and how she is; she isn’t the type to shut you out. Just try to put some work into it, okay?” 

That felt like more of a ramble, than advice, but it seems to suffice for the King of Hell. 

“Thank you. I really know why Charlie has taken a liking to you…” he trails off, continuing to fidget with the rubber duck. He squeezes it, and it plays a short, spunky tune. 

“And see? Atleast you’re doing something small for now, you should take it easy. By the way, that’s the most adorable rubber duck!” You gush at the plastic fellow, earning a smirk from Lucifer.

“Oh? Changing the subject are we?” The fallen angel teases.

Well, that was out of nowhere, but you just go with the flow.

“Yeah, and what? That’s a fuckin’ cool duck, so I apologise for acknowledging that fact,”

“Ah well, I have better. By the way, why are you talking about orgasms to that porn star- I mean Angel, back there?” 

Oh yeah. That happened. 

“Gee, why does everyone want to know the juicy details of my life? But really,he was just interested in my sex life, that’s all,” 

“Interesting. You know I slept with 2 of Adam’s previous wives?”

“Don’t even try,” you give him a playful shove.

“Eh, worth a shot,” 

꧁ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ❂♕☻☹☻♕❂ꕥ꧂

You and the blond-haired demon go back inside, giggling about some disastrous function you went to when you were younger, and how you may or may not have been the leading cause.

Thankfully, the only person in the lobby was Charlie, who jumped to hug her father the second she saw the two of you, making them both cry and profusely apologise to one another.

Yeah, maybe it’s a good time to go. Maybe quietly too this time. 

You open the portal, and you are back in Heaven again, in front of the pearly gates of the place you call home. 

As you open the door and turn into the living room, you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Hey,” The sound of your husband’s voice rings through your ears.

“I ate your pancakes from this morning,” 

“Alright. I’ll make dinner soon, but I’m tired right now,” you pave your way to your bedroom, when Adam pulls you back.

“Where were you even?”

“Places,” you try to pull away, but the First Man doesn’t relent.

“Where? You weren’t in Heaven, were you?” 

“Alright fine. I was in Hell, cleaning up the mess you and your little play soldiers made by the way,” 

“Were you not there the other day? Why are you so attached to this-” Cogs turn in Adam’s head.

“You were with him, weren’t you? You fucking slut,” Adam’s hand swiftly slaps you across the face. A small cut of golden blood streaks down your face.

“What the fuck? Of course Lucifer is gonna be there, you dumbass?! Why do you think I’m gonna sleep with-” You dodge a flying porcelain jug that was headed in your general direction.

“That fucking demon, thinking he’s hot shit and- and all, just fucking whoever he wants-” The Angel starts storming around the living room, just throwing random shit about, like a kid having a tantrum, making colourful insults while doing so.

You sigh and go into the kitchen to make dinner; hopefully Adam would have blown off enough steam by then.

“Oh and- You better not go back there again, you got it?” 

“…Fine,” You slam the door behind you.

Clearly, you have to be more furtive about your visits to the underworld.

For now, maybe you should cook some dinner, and a warm bath.

Your back really hurts.

꧁🥀☽💫✶♛🐣♕✶💫☾🥀꧂

Word count- 2264

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@dionysusismypatrongod

[natequarter]

four and romana are a wacky hijinks comedy duo. licking the corpse apparently requires two people now, folks. they get arrested and do some sort of comedy skit with "yes!" "no!" "no!" "yes!" good heavens you could fry eggs in the street. i can tell that expression even from behind. that's odd. that's very odd. wouldn't you say that's very odd? that's very odd. what could possibly go wrong?

[leschanceux]

Henry immediately flushes scarlet as he swallows hard, the word cute taking up most of his attention for a good couple of seconds. "You haven't seen me at my most excited yet," he murmurs all the same, his face feeling like he could actually fry an egg on his skin --- typically, his most excited periods usually follow book releases, but he supposes he might find some of that excitement to share with Alex in the very near future.

"That sounds nice." A bit of alone time, a chance to decompress with Alex whilst alone in a car? It sounds like heaven, actually, but maybe that's too strong of a sentiment for this stage of their relationship. Henry can't help but smile, though, tucking himself into Alex's car with enthusiasm.

The drive itself is nice; Alex's hand on his thigh as they traverse the streets to view the restaurants Henry had suggested. "I think I want to try the Italian place, actually," he offers, glancing at Alex to gauge his reaction, "---if that's alright with you?"

"Fucking hell, you're SO CUTE when you get excited." Alex chuckles, feeling his entire chest filling with a warmth he'd long forgotten even existed. He does love Ella and Nora very much, but that's a different kind of love than what he's feeling for Henry, even though he wouldn't quite bring it up just yet. Not explicitly like THAT anyway, because the last thing Alex wants is to fuck this up.

"How about we drive by them all and you can see which one you wanna go to most? Because I'm cool with all of them, really." He really just wants to spend some time with Henry, have some good food, even better conversations, and maybe brush his foot up against the other man's leg beneath the table.

Why wait? He then thinks, and a small grin finds its way onto his lips as he starts the car and reaches over, one hand resting on Henry's thigh a they drive. "And? Made a choice yet?"

[slapshot-to-the-heart]

Breakable Heaven (pt. III) - p.l. dubois

Part I II

Here’s part III! One more part after this, then we’re going to be finishing up our time with Laurel and Pierre-Luc. It’s seriously been so so much fun writing this over the past few weeks, and I’m excited to get to keep the story going. Many many thanks to @hockeyboysiguess for being a great sounding board for Breakable Heaven so far, my favorite response of hers to anything I’ve sent has got to be “that’s rude.” So, enjoy! Reblog if you enjoy it, come scream into my inbox, and I still read every tag!

Part III

July 10 (sat)

Laurel was exhausted. Two hours after the wedding, her and her meager bridal party had shown up to her house, piling everything she hadn’t yet brought over to Pierre’s apartment into her SUV and Madeline’s white sedan. She left her old apartment with the keys at the front office and one last wistful look into the place that had once been her own. She’d miss it, she thought, as she and Pierre drove down the Ville-Marie Expressway towards his apartment, her fingers still trying to get used to the feeling of having rings on it. She’d only lived in the space for a year, but it was in that building that she started her dream job, that space that she adopted her dog, that apartment where she met one of her best friends and that place where she got married. 

They had spent a few hours half-heartedly unpacking her boxes; Laurel was excited to get settled in, but she was also the world’s worst procrastinator and even at 6 PM, all that she had managed to get done was folding some clothes and adding her book collection to the shelves in the living room. Pierre poked his head into the spare room — her room? — rolling his eyes when he saw her “progress.” “I was going to order in, what do you feel like?” 

Laurel hung up a blazer in the closet. “Pizza?” she asked hopefully. “Though I’m really going to have to teach you to cook one of these days. We can’t survive off of take-out and pasta alone.” 

“If that’s how you want to be,” he responded good-naturedly. “I’ll have you know that I can cook more than pasta, though.”

“Really?” Laurel asked, raising her eyebrows. “What’s the Chef Dubois specialty?” 

“I make a mean salmon,” he replied, before returning to the living room. That was another thing she had to get used to quickly as soon as they started going through the marriage process: Québec didn’t allow for women to take their husbands’ names at marriage. It wasn’t something she’d ever thought too deeply about, but Laurel supposed she’d always assumed that she’d take her husband’s name when she got married. But then again, she always assumed she’d get married under normal circumstances. Her parents aside, Cloquet wasn’t an absurdly conservative town, but it was still certainly something of an anomaly for a married woman to still have her maiden name. Which is what she was now. A married woman. Oh God. 

--

Pizza with white wine may not have been the most conventional choice, but it got the job done, Laurel thought as she lay in bed at half past midnight, the birds outside her door insisting on making her efforts to fall asleep as futile as her efforts to ignore them. She’d already been in bed for an hour; after dinner, her and Pierre watched a few episodes of Black Mirror — also probably not the best choice to do before bed, but oh well — before he wished her a good night’s sleep. She had taken a melatonin and drank a cup of tea before bed, put on a playlist full of rain noises, but nothing seemed to be working. Maybe it was because it was the first night in a new place, or the birds outside, or just the craziness and excitement of the day catching up to her. 

Laurel felt like a child again as she padded over to Pierre’s room, like she was five and back in Minnesota, crawling into her parents’ bed after hearing a wolf howl somewhere on the property. But really, she didn’t really care what she had to do if it meant she could get a good night’s rest. She knocked lightly on his door, careful not to wake up the dogs, who had long since fallen asleep in a corner of the living room. “Mmm?” he answered. She turned the doorknob. God, I hope I didn’t wake him up. She didn’t, as it would turn out; Pierre was propped up on his headboard, scrolling through his phone as he moved his eyes from his screen to her figure in the doorway. “You good? Everything okay?” 

Laurel shrugged, wiggling her hand. “I don’t know what it is, I tried everything but I’m just not able to get to sleep. I’d try and wait it out, but my sleep cycle will be thrown off for a week if I’m not able to get to bed tonight.”

He moved over from the middle, reaching over to the side of his bed and getting another pillow before throwing back the covers and patting the spot next to him. “C’mere.”

“Are you sure?” Laurel said, furrowing her brow, suddenly very aware of the fact that she was wearing an old t-shirt and panties, leaving very little to the imagination. 

He nodded, putting his phone down on the nightstand, smiling softly at her. “Of course. What’s mine is yours, eh?” That was all it took for Laurel to climb into the right side, claiming it as her own, and throw the duvet over her body. She fell asleep almost instantly. 

---

Laurel woke up to the unmistakable smell of bacon frying and the other side of the bed devoid of Pierre’s sleeping form. She straightened the bed before walking out, where she was greeted by two plates on the breakfast bar, a pot of coffee brewing, and her husband at the stove. 

“I thought you said you couldn’t cook?” Laurel teased, leaning up against the granite countertop. 

“Good morning to you too.” Pierre shrugged. “I hardly think being able to fry an egg and not burn toast qualifies as cooking, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Laurel stepped further into the kitchen, lightly dragging her fingers over his back in a silent thank you as she opened the cupboard. “Let me get the coffee, at least,” she said, grabbing two mugs off the shelf and the creamer out of the fridge. “How do you take yours?” Laurel asked, glancing at Pierre from the side as he buttered the toast. 

“A little bit of cream, more sugar,” he replied, sliding the plates onto the bar as she handed him his mug. “Perfect,” he said, smiling. A few minutes into breakfast, with Laurel just about to crunch into her second piece of toast, he spoke again. “So, I was thinking…”

She nodded. “I should hope so?”

Pierre laughed, ducking his head. “I was going to post something about the wedding today, online and stuff, but wanted to check with you first.” They had spoken about it once or twice before the wedding, both of them knew that it wasn’t practical nor honest to think that they’d be able to keep the news from everyone over the entire duration of their temporary marriage. And part of the “sell,” part of what she needed to prove, was that their relationship was real. And real would mean posting about each other online, real would mean flying down a few times a month — thank God her schedule gave her a long weekend, and thank God the flight wasn’t too long  — for games and galas and real would mean meeting his friends and him meeting her family and Laurel had to stop thinking about it all before her head exploded. 

“Go for it,” she said. “I don’t like having to hide from it any more than you do, so it’ll be a relief to let everyone know, give a heads-up to the four people on my Instagram page who actually care about my life. 

Pierre poked her arm. “Five, now.” He opened his phone, scrolling through the pictures Madeline had sent from yesterday. She had run a small side business doing photography in university, and insisted on taking their photos as a wedding present. “You deserve something beautiful to look back on,” she had said. The final book wouldn’t be done for a few weeks, but she had sent over the raw shots the night before. “What about this one?” He leaned over to show her. Their foreheads were touching, his arms wrapped around her waist as they stood in the middle of one of Vieux Port’s cobblestone side streets. Laurel’s fingers brushed the back of his neck, her other hand loosely holding her bouquet. If you didn’t know, they looked like a real couple. They looked like they were in love. 

“It’s gorgeous,” Laurel murmured softly. “I knew Madeline was talented, but wow. She outdid herself.”

Pierre nodded in agreement. “She did. I know I already told you, but you really did look incredible.” Laurel’s cheeks burned; she raised her mug to her lips, hopeful the oversized ceramic would cover enough of her face that he couldn’t see the effect his words had had on her. Laurel opened her own phone, scrolling through to find the matching photo. A few minutes later, he handed her his phone and she passed hers, giving their captions one last once-over before giving up their secret. Her eyes flitted across the screen.

Yesterday, I had the incredible fortune of marrying @laurel.klerken, the best person I’ve ever had the fortune of loving. I know it might come as a shock, and that we’ve kept our relationship under wraps since realizing after years of being friends that friendship just wasn’t enough any more, but this wasn’t a decision that either of us made lightly. Laurel, you’re an amazing woman, and even though it’s only been a day, an amazing wife. Whether it’s for your patients, your friends, or me, you make everyone around you feel warm, safe, and cared for beyond measure. You have a sharp wit and an even sharper mind, and I have endless admiration for how committed you are for standing up for what’s right, even when it’s not popular and even if it’s gotten you in trouble once or twice. Marriage is a partnership and a journey, and I’ve never been so excited to start a new adventure. 

Laurel sniffed, not even noticing the tears pricking her eyes until Pierre handed her a tissue. “Thanks,” she murmured. “You don’t think you’re laying it on a little thick, though?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Not at all.” One tap later, and it was posted. Three minutes later, his phone rang as they were doing the breakfast dishes. Cap ❤️ flashed across the screen. Pierre grimaced. “It’s the captain. I should probably answer this one,” he said, pressing the speaker button as he dried his hands on a spare towel. 

“You’re married,” Nick Foligno said, wasting no time. “Is this a fucking joke?” Laurel more than understood his apprehension, but the words still stung. 

“Yes I am,” Pierre said slowly, “and no, it’s not a joke. Laurel and I are legally married in the province of Québec.”

She could hear a labored breath from the other line, followed by an airy laugh. “What the hell, man?”

Nick was ultimately happy for them, and after being introduced to Laurel after they switched the call over to FaceTime he apologized for his reaction, but Laurel waved him off. “You’re just looking out for your boy is all. I’d do the same.” 

Nick nodded. “Take care of him for us, Laurel. Your address still the same?” He looked over towards Pierre, who hummed his assent. “Janelle and I will send you something. Something useful.”

---

July 28 (wed)

“Something useful” turned out to be a gorgeous set of Wüsthof knives and a stand mixer, the latter of which Laurel was nearly jumping out of her socks with excitement to try. Baking had long since been one of her favorite hobbies and her go-to method of stress relief; while she was grateful for the arm muscles her years of having to hand mix everything had given her, she wasn’t going to miss the extra effort. So Laurel Klerken was taking full advantage of her new toy. She had gone down to the Jean-Talon market in the morning, which was quickly becoming one of her favorite weekly activities. Especially with Pierre around to help her, she was learning to shift her speaking into the Québecois dialect, and her French was good enough to order from the vendors in their language and be understood. In her book, that was a win. The peak of summer meant it was berry season in Montréal, which meant it was time for Laurel to break out her nana’s blueberry oatmeal muffin recipe. And chocolate chip walnut cookies. And a French apple tart. Okay, so maybe she went a little bit overboard, but they had their desserts for the week and it made the kitchen smell so good. 

Pierre opened the door just as Laurel was pulling out the last pan of cookies, walking around the corner into the kitchen and raising his eyebrows at the view. She looked over at him. “You going to complain about your wife’s baking when you’re the primary beneficiary?” she asked, challenging him with a playful smile on his face. 

Pierre held his hands up in surrender, holding the mail between two fingers. “No.” He picked one of the cookies off of the cooling rack, taking a bite. “Definitely not.” 

Laurel nodded towards the mail, walking over to the sink to wash her hands. “What came in the mail?”

“Nothing much,” he said, shrugging. “Just a little letter from IRCC.”

Her eyes lit up. “Immigration finally got back? Did they send my card?”

Pierre nodded, handing her the envelope. It barely took five seconds for her to rip it open. “You, Laurel Elizabeth Klerken, are now officially a permanent resident of Canada. Congrats, babe.”

Laurel squeaked in excitement, dancing around in the kitchen , the holographic detailing on the card catching the glow of the late-afternoon light. She threw her arms around Pierre, giving him a kiss on the cheek that was just barely off to the side of his lips. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said breathlessly. 

“Don’t mention it.”

She pulled back, still smiling. “No, ‘don’t mention it’ is for when you bring home dinner without being asked, or take a drunk friend home from the bar. Not for things like this,” she said, wiggling her card. “This is everything to me, P. I get to stay in the city that I love, I get to stay at the job that I love. I get to —” She looked down, eyes widening. “I can finally get a health card!”

Pierre let out a laugh. “Out of everything, you’re most excited about that?” Being a dual citizen who lived in the U.S. for the better part of the year, Pierre understood the absolute chasm of accessibility that separated the American and Canadian health insurance systems better than most, but he still looked at his wife’s choice with incredulity. 

“Of course it is,” Laurel said, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. She still had insurance purchased through her work, but the fact that now it was so much easier and official and came out of her taxes instead of having to try and navigate the bureaucratic system of forms and checks and private insurance companies made it so much easier. “It’s just nice to finally be a part of a system that acknowledges healthcare as the human right it is. That’s another thing about how it works in the U.S., it’s tied to employment a lot of the time so it’s not always a guarantee.” 

She gave a tense smile, leaning back against the counter. “I might seem a little worked up about it, but that’s because I am. Uh,” she paused, eyes flickering up towards the chrome-plated track lighting, “my dad lost his job when I was a kid. He was a foreman at a construction company, but then the recession hit in ‘08 and he was laid off.  We lost our insurance. Maggie and I were able to get on MinnesotaCare, which is the state insurance for low-income families, but our parents didn’t get approved. Not enough money to go around, I guess,” she scoffed. “Unemployment wasn’t paying enough and mom’s job isn’t full-time, so she doesn’t get benefits. Apparently they think healthcare is a benefit.” Laurel took another pause. “And then Dad had a stroke. It wasn’t serious, thank God, but the bills...Maggie was almost graduating high school and headed off to college, and money was tight even before the layoffs. We were able to come up with the money, but only because the community really came together, in a way I had never seen before. I still haven’t seen anything like it since. Bake sales, church fundraisers, garage sales.” The tiniest of smiles played on Laurel’s lips as she looked back up at her husband. “Do you know how much pasta Minnesotans can eat at a spaghetti dinner?” 

“A lot?”

“A whole hell of a lot,” Laurel confirmed. “But anyways. That’s when it became personal to me, and I think it’s why healthcare and access to quality care is still something that I’m still so passionate about and invested in. It’s why I became a nurse.”

Pierre walked over to her carefully, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. “It makes absolute sense, Laurel. I know that probably wasn’t easy for you, so thank you for sharing. It means a lot to me that you’re willing to let me in like that.” Laurel wasn’t a cold person by any means; she was one of the kindest and most giving people Pierre had ever met, even in the few months that they’d known each other. But she was someone that could be guarded at times — for very good reason — and it meant the world to him that she was willing to let him chip away her hardened exterior little by little to see the brilliance that lay within. 

She pressed against his side, her head resting on his arm. “You’re my husband. Why wouldn’t I?”

 ---

 Laurel was in the ensuite of her and Pierre’s room, washing her face before going to bed, when she heard her phone vibrate with a text. After that first night, Laurel had made it a habit of sharing a bed; she’d never slept better in her life than the past two and a half weeks, and even though she may have been loath to admit it, waking up to an incredibly attractive man — who was shirtless half of the time — wasn’t something she was about to complain about. “Can you get that for me?” She was expecting a text from her mom, something about confirming her and her dad’s flight times for their visit next week. 

“Laurel?” Pierre called cautiously. 

She turned towards him, patting her face dry. “What? Did their gate get changed or something?”

He shook his head, walking towards her and holding the phone out like it was a bomb. “It’s Maggie.”

Laurel’s mouth immediately went dry. “M-Maggie?” She took the phone, staring at the screen, open to the text. 

“Do you want to talk to her? You don’t have to if you’re not feeling up to it,” Pierre said, searching her face for any semblance of apprehension. As far as he knew, she hadn’t talked to her sister in years, and he didn’t know why that was suddenly about to change. 

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I just...I have no idea what she wants. Why, after three years, is she finally deciding that she wants to be a part of my life again?” She looked down at her phone. 

So, I had to hear it through the Cloquet grapevine that you got married?? What’s that about, L? Maggie wrote. Laurel pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. The gossip train in her hometown was second to none; to be honest, she was a little bit surprised it even took her older sister this long to hear about it. She was already enough of an anomaly. Less than a quarter of her city had a college degree, even fewer left the state to do it, so her going to Toronto for university was practically unfathomable — even if it was closer than Texas, where her second-choice school was. So, needless to say, she was a frequent headline in the Cloquet rumor mill. She had heard it all. That she had run off to Canada to escape a high school sweetheart turned sour, that she had cut off all ties with her family, that she had shaved half of her head and dyed her eyebrows bright pink. The last one actually had some truth to it, but it was just the eyebrows and she was a drunk 20-year-old, and at least she didn’t get a tattoo of the Maple Leafs logo on her thigh like her friend Ethan. 

But this one wasn’t a rumor, and if nothing else, Maggie deserved to know that much. Not much to say. It’s true, if that’s what you were wondering. 

Why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out third-hand?

Laurel rolled her eyes, sitting down with a huff on the edge of their bed. Not to be harsh, Maggie, but it’s not like you’ve wanted to be that invested in my life since you left home. How was I supposed to know if this was even your number any more? I don’t even know what country you’re in right now. 

Her response was almost immediate. I’m working at a hostel in Tokyo. But seriously? I know we haven’t been super close the past few years, but I’m still your sister, and I would have thought you’d tell me about something like this. Getting married is big. You don’t think you’re still a little young? Have you even finished school yet?

I graduated last year, I’ve been working at a hospital in Montréal for over a year, Maggie. And I know it’s a little early, but Pierre-Luc and I are happy. I love him, and he’s a good man and respects the hell out of me. I don’t really need anything else. 

It was a few minutes before her next text came through, this time in all caps. YOU MARRIED A FUCKING NHLER? Laurel grew up knowing hockey, obviously; you couldn’t really live in Minnesota and not, and she wasn’t even a half-bad skater herself, but Maggie had always been the more dedicated of the sisters. She’d been the one who was always begging their dad to make the two-hour drive to St. Paul for a Wild game. Even when money was tight, Doug always found a way to scrape up enough for the tickets as her birthday present in January. 

Denise from church didn’t tell you?

All she said was that it was some hot French-Canadian guy, and mom said you moved to Quebec, so I thought it could be any number. Fair enough.

Denise seriously called him hot?

Laurel could imagine her sister rolling her eyes all the way in Japan. Okay, fine, she didn’t say hot. But like...am I wrong? 

For the first time in a long time, her sister made her laugh. Yeah, okay. He’s hot. I’m very aware that my husband is a class-A babe. 

“You think I’m hot?” Pierre said, peeking over her shoulder and wiggling his eyebrows. 

Laurel’s cheeks heated. “Yes, okay. I think you’re very attractive. Happy?” 

“Very,” he responded. “I’m glad my wife thinks I’m hot. The feeling’s mutual,” he said before walking into the bathroom to brush his teeth, leaving her even more flustered than before. She turned back to her conversation with Maggie. My shift is about to start, so I’ve got to go. But I’m happy for you, L. I really am. You’ve done exactly what you want with your life, and I couldn’t be more proud. 

Laurel’s finger traced the words on the screen, a small smile on her face as Pierre came back into the room, throwing back the sheets. She plugged her phone into its charger, turning it face-down onto the nightstand. Things weren’t perfect between her and Maggie; far from it. One conversation over text wasn’t going to change that. But maybe, just maybe, there was still something there that was worth saving. After flicking off the lights, the last thing she remembered before falling asleep was the feeling of Pierre snaking his arm around her waist, pulling her to rest her back up against his chest. And Laurel let him. 

August 17 (tues 

It had been one of the worst days of Laurel’s life, and she wasn’t one for dramatics. Certainly the worst shift of her career. She knew when she chose to work in a pediatric intensive care unit, that it wasn’t going to be all sunshine and rainbows. If she wanted sunshine and rainbows, she would have gone with something less taxing. Something like dermatology, or working in a pediatrician’s office, or being a school nurse. God knows she could hand out ice packs and tampons. But no, she had to pick critical care, and critical care with children, one of the most emotionally and mentally taxing areas in the entire healthcare field. She saw the highest highs, the incredible moments when a three-year-old girl with a brain hemorrhage was able to get home, or a twelve-year-old boy finally got a kidney transplant after having been waiting for years. She saw the highest highs, but on days like today, she also saw the lowest lows.  

Laurel carried her scrub top in one hand, her backpack slung over one shoulder, and tried desperately to regulate her breathing as she turned her key in the lock, pushing the door open. No matter how many times she had helped her patients breathe, she never seemed to be able to take her own advice. 

Pierre stood in the kitchen, making a smoothie, but immediately turned off the blender when he saw her face. “What happened?” he asked, gently taking her bag from her and placing it on the floor. 

Laurel collapsed into his arms almost instantly. “T-there was a little girl who c-came in yesterday from a car crash, and it was pretty b-bad, but she made it through the night and everyone thought she’d b-be fine,” she hiccuped, “but then right at the end of m-my shift she started coughing up b-blood and she was crashing, so I tried to do CPR until the t-team got there, but it didn’t work and we…” Laurel trailed off, sobbing, gripping the back of Pierre’s shirt like a lifeline. “We lost her, P. And the doctor on call was tied up with another patient, so I had to notify the family, and God, it was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. She was only seven.” She looked down at her scrub top. “I have to go throw this in the washing machine before the stain sets.” 

Pierre pulled back slightly, gently taking the navy shirt from her, giving a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll do it. You need to rest. Take a shower, or a bath, get into some comfortable clothes. I’ll take care of dinner.” 

It was almost forty-five minutes later when Laurel finally emerged from the bathroom, clad in high school sweats and a faded Blue Jackets t-shirt. “I hope you didn’t mind that I took this one,” she said, picking at a loose thread on the bottom hem, “I hadn’t gotten to laundry yet this week.”

“It’s fine, Laur,” Pierre said, plating chicken stir-fry and rice. Cooking together had become one of their things; Pierre certainly wasn’t as hopeless as some people she had met, and he was right that he made an excellent salmon. But they couldn’t eat fish every day of the week, so Laurel broke out one of her few cookbooks and they had been making their way through the recipes together. They had finished breakfast and were making their way through poultry. Hence, chicken stir-fry. “You look better in it anyways.”

They ate in silence, her half-heartedly picking up forkfuls of rice only to put them down again. She smiled weakly at Pierre. “The food’s good, I swear. I just don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”

“I get that,” he said. “How about I put this in away in the fridge and you can get a yogurt or something? You don’t have to have a full meal, but you should eat something. We can watch something after, or you can go to bed if you’re not feeling up to it. Your call.”

“TV sounds nice, do you still have the old Parks & Rec recorded?” Laurel needed something she didn’t need to pay attention to, something that could just be background noise as she tried to sift through the emotions of her day and try to make sense of it all. 

He nodded. “Wouldn’t get rid of it before asking, I know how much you love it.”

They were curled up on the couch together a few minutes later, a striped blanket thrown over Laurel’s lap despite the weather outside still lingering in the mid 70s. It wasn’t for warmth, not really; it was for comfort. Pierre’s arm was slung over her back, his thumb absentmindedly moving across her upper arm. She leaned into his touch, hardly paying attention to the show. “Do you want to talk about it?” Pierre murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “You don’t have to, but it might help.” He wasn’t an expert by any means, but Pierre obviously knew that people died in hospitals, in intensive care units even more so. Which meant that there was an almost surefire chance that she had had people die on her watch, die on her shift. Had children die on her watch. And that didn’t mean she was a bad nurse or a bad person, but just that sometimes there were illnesses and injuries so severe that even the best medical care in the province couldn’t save them. So why was this one impacting her so intensely? Had she reacted this way before, with Madeline or her coworkers, and he just hadn’t seen it before? Or was there something different about this case, about that girl that made it hit closer to home for some reason?

Laurel took a shaky breath. “I know you’re right, that it’s not healthy to keep it all bottled up inside. But that’s what I’m used to, you know? I love my job, I do, but you have to compartmentalize sometimes. With this one, it’s just…” She searched for the right words. “It was so immediate, so in front of me, that I didn’t have any time to reach beyond trying to save her life. I didn’t think, I just went based on instinct and training. And she still died.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Laurel,” Pierre said firmly. “You did everything you could, you did everything right.”

“I know that,” she sniffed, “but it’s so hard to believe sometimes. That if I had gotten there a few seconds sooner, or if the crash team had been a little earlier, she might have survived. And I wouldn’t have had to tell a mother and father that their daughter was dead.” Pierre felt terrible, like there was nothing he could do, because there was nothing he could do, not apart from sit and listen. “I think it was different this time because I finally saw myself in their shoes, I obviously don’t have kids, not yet, but I imagined what it was like to have to be on the receiving end of that news, and it tore me apart, P.” Her voice cracked, and his heart broke. “Being the mom to a beautiful child and then all of the sudden having them all of the sudden stripped away? No longer living? I know that life’s not fair, but fuck, I thought I thought it would be a little better than this.” 

Her voice went silent, and Pierre took the opportunity to speak. “It’s not fair, and I think part of what makes you so good at what you do is the fact that you recognize that. You’re so dedicated to giving everyone that comes through those doors the best care, because you genuinely believe that they deserve it. And that’s incredible. You don’t get complacent, you’re never satisfied with just doing things adequately and just enough to get by. You give everything 110%, and that’s how I know the kind of incredible person you are.” He paused. “And I think every parent worries about their kid getting sick, or getting hurt. I know mine did, and I’d be willing to bet yours were the same way. Worrying means you care. And you care the most deeply, the most genuinely, out of anyone I’ve ever met. And I know, when the time comes, that you’ll make an amazing mother. Whoever gets to do that with you will be a lucky man.”

“You really think so?”

Pierre slipped his hand into hers. “Positive.”

September 10 (fri)

Laurel’s fingers tapped nervously on the counter as she waited for Pierre to bring the last of his bags from the bedroom. He didn’t usually schlep a ton of things back-and-forth from Montréal to Columbus every time he needed to travel, but his ticket came with two free checked bags and if there was one thing Pierre-Luc Dubois was, it was efficient. It was the middle of September, and that meant training camps. That meant leaving Québec. That meant Ohio. That meant not seeing Pierre for weeks at a time, when the longest they had been apart since July was a two-day trip to Québec City Laurel took with her parents when they visited in August. Over the past two months, they had settled into a routine, and that routine was about to be broken. Grocery shopping, him washing the dishes while she dried, falling asleep together and waking up with legs tangled in the middle of the bed. She knew that he liked his coffee with a little bit of cream and more sugar, that Georgia got fussy if she wasn’t let out in the morning but Paul was more of a night owl, that dessert wasn’t supposed to be on his meal plan every day but that she could always get him to break for a slice of peach pie. He knew that she needed two Advil on the first day of her period because one just wouldn’t cut it, that her favorite Disney princess was Jasmine because of her independence, and that she liked to light lavender candles when she was stressed. 

Pierre wheeled a bag out of the doorway. “That the last one?” Laurel asked, passing Phil’s leash to him as she held Georgia’s. He nodded. She spun her keys around on her finger. “Got both of your passports?” 

Pierre patted his jacket pocket.  “Right here.” It was easier for him; he could skip the wait in both countries. Exit Canada with the Canadian, enter the U.S. with the American.

It was 2 and his flight wasn’t until 4:15, but Laurel didn’t trust the traffic and she didn’t trust the wait times at the airport. “Guess we should get going then.”

“Guess we should.” Laurel grabbed one bag and he got the other, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and wheeling it out the door. It only took twenty minutes to get to the airport. Laurel pulled up next to the curb, double-checking the signs to make sure she wasn’t about to get fined for stopping, and put the car into park. Pierre was the first to open his door, grabbing both the dogs; Laurel followed suit a moment later.

“You’ve got to pop the trunk, babe,” Pierre murmured. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Oh, right,” she said, pressing the button on her key. It popped open with a telltale click; Pierre hefted out the black bag, she got the silver one. “Do you know how many people are going to have this exact bag? It’s going to be a nightmare at baggage claim, P” Laurel tried to joke. She always coped with humor. 

Pierre laughed, this time a real one. “Fair enough. Guess I’ve got a lot riding on my luggage tags,” he said, flicking one of the offending objects around the handle of the bag, the black one. Laurel handed him the other handle, their fingers brushing as he gripped the metal. He put a finger under her chin, tilting her head to look up at him. He could see the apprehension in her eyes. There were a lot of things that Laurel Klerken did well, really well, but lying was never one of them. She was always an open book. “Hey, don’t look so down, Laur,” he said softly. “I know you’ll be missing your personal space heater and Piper will miss her siblings, but you’re coming to visit in two weeks and it’s going to be amazing. I’ll introduce you to the boys and the other wives, you’ll get to catch one of the preseason games, finally see my place in Columbus. It might be weird being alone for a while, but —” He cut himself off. “Scratch that, it will be weird for a while, for both of us, but we’ll get through it. You’re a great person, and not a terrible wife either. People have done long-distance relationships that were longer distances for more time, and they made it through just fine. You’ll be okay, Laur. We’ll be okay.”

Laurel took an unsteady breath, trying her best to put on a brave face. “Not a terrible wife, huh? Well, you’re not half a bad husband either.” As she spoke, she was thinking over his words. How normal they sounded, but how abnormal that was for them. They weren’t a normal couple, all they really were were friends who got married — right? So why was he saying those things, things that made him seem like a real husband talking to his real wife, things that were making her feel that maybe, just maybe, this marriage wasn’t as much of a hoax as the thought it was? And it was only because of that, only because she was either reading way too much into a situation that wasn’t even there or was the premier of reading people’s body language and being able to parse out their unsaid words, that she did what she did next. She threw her arms around her husband, and she kissed him.

[cesabutterflywrites]

Meet Me at Stenvold’s

Word Count: 2020

Warnings: (Deceit’s name in this is Derrin), trouble breathing, feelings of anxiety, ask me if I missed anything

I was walking down a cobblestone street at night. It was raining, but I couldn’t feel the wetness on my skin. I felt the cold, though. I felt the shivering as I stumbled towards the small building ahead of me labeled as an Inn. I willed my knees to keep going forward. My feet felt as if they had been walking for miles. For all I knew, maybe they had. 

I made my way into the Inn, with various smells filling my nose. Cooking meat, beer, sweat, hay, and other mixtures of delicious and deplorable. It wasn’t too crowded, thank heavens, so I went to sit at one of the tables in the corner by the fireplace. I took my gloves off to hold my hands closer to the orange flames. It was as if the warmth was spreading up my bones. I sighed in relief, glancing behind me to take in my surroundings. 

I didn’t get very far in my observation before one of the staff came up to greet me. He was a tall, lanky lad with a tan so deep I may have believed he was from one of  the southern countries, like Spain or Portugal. He had eyes so dark they resembled pieces of charcoal in the dim lighting of the room, pairing excellently with the warmth of the fire. He had pink lips that gave a different meaning to the word ‘soft’. His hair was unruly, naturally a result of handling the many duties of an Innkeeper. He was wearing a simple outfit, brown shirt with a buckle and black pants. However he made a simple lower class outfit seem like something the King would wear. I felt an unfamiliar feeling well up in my chest. I heard what could only be the tantalizing whispers of Aphrodite plaguing my thoughts.

 I took my hands from the fire to turn and face him better. He held a pad of paper in his hands with a pencil. “Welcome to the Stenvold Inn, sir. We have a few rooms available to rent, and fresh meals for purchase. Would you like to order anything?” 

My mouth went dry with words. I opened my mouth to reply, “Yes, I would like-”

Roman awoke with a start to his alarm, nearly falling out of bed as he rolled over. His heart was pounding, his mouth was dry, and he reeked of the sweat drenching his skin. He took a moment to steady himself and his breathing. He realized that his dream was more than a dream, it was a memory of a past he had been searching for clues in. 

He felt the details slipping away, so he reached for his memory journal on his nightstand to scribble down messy notes in his uncoordinated, messy scrawl. Something was better than nothing when trying to remember a past life. He wrote what little he recalled until his fingers hurt and his memory dried up. He stared at the page, wondering why it was so blurry until he picked his glasses up from his nightstand. They did not make the writing any clearer. 

He sighed, hoping that maybe later he could decipher the memory. Definitely at least after having some morning tea. He willed himself to leave his warm bed to get ready for the day. He looked into his closet, humming as he tried to decide what to wear. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt that today was important. It was like the air around him was thick with anticipation. Could his dreamt memory be a sign?

He shook his head to rid himself of that train of thought as he grabbed a red shirt and dressed hurriedly. He was losing time and he wanted to savor his morning tea. 

He entered the kitchen to see his roommate frying up some eggs on the stove. 

“Good morning, roomie. Sleep well?” Patton asked. 

Roman let out a yawn and stretched. .”Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Ooo, what does that mean?” Patton looked over his shoulder toward his friend with a curiously raised eyebrow. 

Roman shrugged as he opened the cupboard to reach for a packet of his Green Tea with Lemon blend. He wasn’t very open about his memories of past lives. He felt it was a private part of his soul-one of the few secrets he could keep between him and whoever his soulmate was. 

“Nothing, Pat, just still a bit groggy,” he told the man handing him a plate of fried eggs on toast. 

Patton nodded, understanding. He didn’t push the subject, instead choosing to change topics, “Logan wants to check out the new bookstore over by the campus. Wanna join us?” 

Roman thought about what he wanted to answer with as he chewed his food. “I have three classes today, and midterms are a few weeks away. Plus the CAP Club meeting was pushed to Thursday, and I want to finish my project before everyone else.”

“Come on, Roman, you haven’t been out with us in forever,” Patton dragged out the final syllable in a whine. “It’ll be fun to have a change of pace, you know? Plus I miss hanging out with you outside the house.” 

Roman leaned his head back and let out a dramatic sigh. “Well I guess I have to give in to the pressure.” 

“Yay!” Patton cheered as Roman finished up his breakfast. 

“Thanks for the meal, Padre, but I gotta go. See you after classes.” 

“Bye, Roman! See you later,” Patton waved goodbye. 

---

Roman felt himself being more antsy as he went through the day. He felt like he couldn’t stop vibrating as he met up with Logan and Patton outside their usual coffeeshop. They walked down the block and it took everything he had not to start skipping. He ignored Patton’s puns and Logan’s rambling. He felt a jolt of deja vu as they came up to the sign outside the shop.

Stenvold’s Books

Roman remembered a portion of his journal entry, and he swore he heard the ***‘Welcome to Stenvold Inn’ ***ringing through his ears. He rushed ahead of his friends and paused to look around the store from the entrance. He started to remember old feelings. Warmth, wet skin despite the dry room, curiosity. He ignored Patton’s calls as he roamed up and down the aisles looking for…

Who was he looking for? 

He paused, letting Patton catch up with Logan close behind, somewhat out of breath. Patton placed a hand on his shoulder and asked, “Hey, Roman, whatcha roamin’ around for?”

“Now doesn’t seem to be the time for puns, Patton,” Logan gasped out. Patton abandoned Roman to reach in his bag for Logan’s inhaler. 

Roman looked back at his friends, concern was decorating his face for Logan’s well being. “I’m sorry, Logan, are you okay?” 

Logan held up a finger as he took in a puff of his ProAir. Roman nodded and watched the adoration on Patton’s face. Patton and Logan had such a great bond. They had met just a year before. Roman remembered Patton dragging the nerd into their living room one day shouting from the top of his lungs “I FOUND MY SOULMATE AND HE’S CUTE!”

As Logan’s lungs cleared, Roman felt his fill. His chest felt like an elephant was sitting on top of him. He grabbed at his heart, he looked at his friends in alarm, “I’m drowning,” he choked out.

“In what, your ego?” Logan asked sarcastically. Patton slapped his arm softly in admonishment before coming up to Roman. 

“You feel like you gotta move?” Roman just nodded. “You feel like if you don’t stop moving you’re going to drown?” 

Roman kept gasping as he nodded more enthusiastically, begging for Patton to get to the point. Patton squealed then hugged him before pulling back and screaming, “Go find them, Roman!” 

Roman tilted his head in confusion before Logan had a smile form on his usually stoic face. Understanding built its way in his mind. He turned from the two soulmates who found each other and went on a search for his own. 

He searched through the shelves. Looking for a face to recognize. How would he know? As he combed the aisles more there was a face forming. A voice entering his ears he had never heard in this life. His heart beat in time to the pop song on the speakers in the shop as he continued his search. He felt only half present; split between the past and present. 

Fear found its home in his eyes as he got to the front of the store. Patton and Logan looked at him with worry. Where were they? Where was his soulmate? 

He let Patton hug him as he cried. The face he was looking for was so clear in his mind. The charcoal eyes. The soft pink lips. The way his face half glowed in the firelight of the inn. The Stenvold Inn. He was-He was a worker there. He had come up for Roman’s order in their previous life. Maybe that was the sign. Roman pulled away from his friend to go to the checkout counter. 

“Welcome to Stenvold’s Books, find everything okay?” the employee asked with a bored tone. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter, reading a book. He was reading Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. His brunette hair was combed aside, covering one of his eyes. He didn’t seem to be in as much distress as Roman. 

Roman hesitated, but he took the chance anyway. “This may seem to be a random question-” the other man stood up, tossing his book aside. 

Roman smiled in disbelief. Perhaps he was in more distress than he seemed on the outside. 

“You?!” they both cried at once. 

Roman stood in place until his soulmate came up to him from his post. They stared in disbelief. Multiple lifetimes of love stood sturdy in between them yet they still remained strangers. Roman heard Patton sniffling behind him, and it was enough to remember how to speak. 

“I’m Roman this time,” he whispered. He was looking down into the abyss of the dark eyes. Six lifetimes and he still swooned. How could he have forgotten those eyes?

“I’m Derrin,” that hypnotic voice. Smooth as the finest scotch. Everything about the small man in front of him screamed sweet smoke. Roman recalled tasting dark chocolate, travelling deserts, huddling while travelling through the rain, and so many more memories. 

Roman’s tears betrayed him by falling down his face. “How could I have forgotten who we were before?” 

Derrin laughed. So familiar and comforting while also being tantalizing and new. It was bright. Roman started crying in relief. He was finally able to breathe. 

“So are we still doing the whole, ‘get to know each other’ thing again or are you going to stop crying and kiss me, darling?” Derrin asked, mischief in his eyes. 

Roman held no hesitance as he scooped the small man up and kissed the soft pink lips of his dreams. The body in his arms felt like coming home to a familiar teddy bear. It felt like exploring a new section of a jungle. It felt like sitting down at the dinner table to your favorite meal. It felt like seeing fireworks for the first time. 

They broke apart at Logan’s snide remark of, “They have to be able to breathe at some point.”

Roman sighed dramatically, “Excuse me for being so rude, these are my friends. Well, one is a friend and the other is just a stray he found on the street who also happens to be his soulmate.”

Logan rolled his eyes, knowing Roman’s remarks weren’t in malice. 

Derrin still had some hours left on his shift, so they promised to meet at the coffee shop down the street. Roman was about to walk away when the shorter man pulled him in by his collar for another kiss. “Don’t disappear on me for too long, darling. I don’t want to wait a whole other lifetime for you.”

-

-

-

-

Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist for any ship!

[itsclydebitches]

Me? Ignoring my 20+ other projects to start a shitty Good Omens fic bingo? It’s more likely than you think 

Defy

“Watch it!”

A pram hit the back of Aziraphale’s calves and the woman pushing it let out a string of curses. That more than the collision had him jumping out of the way, profusely apologizing for stopping in the first place. Aziraphale didn’t think his apologies meant much—especially now that the infant had started screaming—so he miracled up a free coffee at the next cafe she stopped at and a good night’s sleep for good measure.  

“Sorry, terribly sorry again...”

The woman gave him a dirty look as she swerved back into pedestrian traffic. Aziraphale shuffled off to the side.

Oh dear.

Well, best to re-tie his loafers, yes? Never mind another miracle he’d performed years back, ensuring those bows would never again come undone (not after he’d nearly face-planted in Crowley’s company). One could never be too careful after all. So Aziraphale bent and spruced up one shoe, then the other. While down there he found that the cuffs of his pants could do with some straightening and there was a nearly invisible speck of dust on one knee. Maybe both. His waistcoat was always askew and the buttons could do with some polishing, his hair was—

“Fine,” Aziraphale sighed, lowering his hand from where he’d been patting his curls. “You look exactly as you always have, old boy, and it’s not worth putting this off a moment longer.”

That’s what he told himself anyway. It was quite another thing for Aziraphale to get his feet moving again, rounding the corner that would take him to the front of his shop. The feeling that had stopped him in the first place still hung heavy in the air and Aziraphale found himself fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve, more to waste another few, precious moments than out of any real desire to fix something.

There was a supernatural entity packed into the shop. Oh yes. Packed being the optimal word. Whoever it was had enough power to their name that it had seeped out of their corporeal form and spilled onto the street, drawing the humans’ gaze even if they didn’t know what they were looking towards. Could be a whole army of angels stationed among the books. Demons even. That might generate the sort of skin-prickling heat Aziraphale could feel now, growing hotter which each step he took towards the door. More likely though it was a single archangel.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale whispered, now just an arm’s length from his well-worn handle; the collection of dates and times meant to deter too many from popping in. The faded paper seemed silly now, given that he would have rather hosted any thousands of humans over one of his brethren. So yes, perhaps he should rethink this. Head back out for a second lunch. A long, mid-day walk. Anything other then opening that door.

He could call Crowley.

Aziraphale was stepping across the threshold before he’d even finished the thought. No. They might be on the same side now, but that only meant he couldn’t throw his ally to the proverbial wolves. If his celestial siblings had decided to attempt a second punishment there was nowhere on Earth—or Alpha Centauri for that matter—where he could hide and Aziraphale’s last act as a Principality would not be dragging his beloved down with him.

“Crowley always did say I was stubborn as a mule,” he muttered. 

There was something quite freeing about committing to a decision. It allowed Aziraphale to finally still his hands and lift his chin, determined to meet this challenge with at least half the grace Crowley had afforded him during his first trial. Or the sham of one based on the story he’d heard. That alone was enough to give him a burst of something resembling courage, propelling him through the door.

Aziraphale was so certain he’d be greeted by Gabriel’s smug smile that he nearly tripped over himself when he... wasn’t.

“Ah,” he said, arms splayed out in a comical bid for balance. “Hello. You’re getting tar on my favorite cushion.”

Pollution tilted their head, much like an owl spotting prey. They sat slumped in the chair tucked between the counter and the first bookshelf, long legs stretched out and yes, a small puddle of what looked like tar dripping down from their ear. It settled on the tartan pillow wedged behind their back.

“Sorry,” Pollution said and smeared the muck further into the fabric.

Aziraphale swallowed.

This was most definitely unexpected. Unprecedented. Other un-words that Aziraphale couldn’t hope to think of because his brain was currently the equivalent of an egg frying on the pavement. Yes, a Horseman would most certainly generate the level of power he’d felt outside and—wait. Scratch that. Two Horsemen, Famine stepping out from the shadows to stand at Pollution’s side. He gave a jaunty little wave.

“Hello angel,” he said.

Aziraphale winced, unused to the endearment coming from anyone other then Crowley. Not that Famine meant it in such a way. He might be able to fake it though, with that relaxed posture and easy-going smile. Aziraphale looked around, a bit wild, now expecting the other two to close in on him. When nothing of the sort occurred he was left standing in the middle of his shop with two of the most destructive embodiments to ever exist staring like they expected him to start this conversation.

So Aziraphale did the only thing worth doing when things went pear shaped.

“I’ll make us some tea.”

***

Humans were quite right that there was an art to this practice and Aziraphale had spent many centuries mastering it. He’d never admit it aloud, but he found that the routine of boiling, steeping, and adding produced a drink far superior to what he could simply conjure up with angelic whim. Whether that said more about his skill or miracles themselves, Aziraphale wasn’t inclined to say. Perhaps it was simply the act of engaging in labor before reaping the reward.

Whatever it was, routine gave him a good ten minutes away from the Horsemen, allowing Aziraphale to pick up such useful information as, “I haven’t been attacked from behind yet” and “Apparently physical manifestations of mortal failings do enjoy a good drink now and again.” Famine asked for milk and three sugars. Pollution wanted nothing in theirs. Between checking the milk’s expiration date and pulling down honey for himself, Aziraphale felt another urge to dial a long-memorized number. He needn’t even say anything. The fact that he’d called at all would be more than enough to get Crowley here in record time.

Instead Aziraphale hefted a tray laden with tea and molasses cookies back into the shop, hoping he wasn’t making another wrong decision.

“Here you are,” he said, marveling at how steady his voice was. “I fear I’ve never entertained Horsemen before. Or, ah...” Aziraphale’s gaze landed on Pollution, something wet and sticky now seeping out of their boot. “Horse... people?”

Famine chuckled. “‘Horseman’ is traditional and I hardly care for the labels humans give us. Do you?”

It felt like a dangerous sort of question. Any would have really, so Aziraphale kept his mouth shut and made a non-committed sort of noise in the back of his throat. He poured the tea and tried not to spill too much of it into the saucers.

Pollution was still staring. Then suddenly they leaned forward in their seat, a squelching noise filling the silence, showing too many teeth when they smiled. “He’s nervous.”

“He’d better be.” Famine spoke as if Aziraphale were no longer in the room. “We may not have had our Armageddon, darling, but I hope we’re not that out of practice.”

Two pairs of eyes slid his way.

“Oh! Yes. Very, very nervous. That’s me. Nothing but nerves I should say. I’m positively stuffed with them—like a goose!—and that  certainly isn’t changing as you both... ah, look at me like that. Tea?” Aziraphale desperately held out a cup.

He shoved it towards Pollution though and there was a cold, suspended moment as he realized it was the one filled with sugar and milk. Then Famine stepped between them and took it for himself.

“Lovely,” he said, downing half in one go. This close Aziraphale could feel Famine’s aura, the gnawing, bottomless ache that had opened up in his stomach. Instinctually he reached for a cookie only to find that the box was already in Famine’s hands. “I fear we didn’t come here for the goodies though. Rather, we have a proposition for you, angel.”

“...Proposition?”

“Something fun.” Pollution had taken their cup as well, though they didn’t drink from it. Their finger just went round and round the rim as a pungent smell began to emanate from the tea. “There’s a war coming. Your boyfriend realized it first. We want in.”

Back in the 1740s Aziraphale had the dubious pleasure of befriending three young boys, each too rowdy and smart for their own good. A bit of mischief had resulted, in its final act, with them yanking a prayer rug Aziraphale stood on—perhaps the only literal example of someone having the rug pulled out from under them. He experienced the same stomach dropping sensation now, the instinctual urge to bring out his wings.

“War?” Aziraphale said faintly. “But... we avoided the—”

“Yes, but humans always find a way, don’t they? Eventually. They’re more resourceful than all of heaven and hell put together.” Famine took another cookie, eating it with a pleasure that contradicted his purpose. “We’re not stupid, angel. We knew going into the war that it would end in our demise. All but Death’s, of course. Angels and demons don’t need to eat, you see. Erasing humanity means erasing me too.”

“And me.” Pollution’s voice had grown softer, though Aziraphale was hesitant to call it laced with anything like fear. “War would survive...”

Famine grimaced. “In a fashion.”

“But humanity,” Pollution continued, not seeming to hear the interruption. “What wonderful creatures. Even if they learn from those brats at the airbase and improve themselves, the two of us can still go on. Famine lives in every holy man of yours, fasting in the name of the Lord. I exist in all the children leaving sweet wrappers in forests and gum under their chairs. We might not be powerful,”

“But you’d exist,” Aziraphale finished. Famine inclined his head.

“And that’s just the pessimistic view. I believe that humanity will continue on as it has, now that you’ve given them that chance.” Famine’s grin was nothing like Pollution’s and every bit as unsettling. “Gorging themselves. Leaving the mess behind.” He finished off the cookies and obligingly dropped the box on the carpet, inciting a happy squirm from Pollution.

“I see,” Aziraphale said. He wasn’t entirely sure he did. “So you need me to...?

“Do nothing. Nothing at all, angel. This was merely a polite acknowledgement. You and that demon started something when you stood at humanity’s side. Know that we have every expectation you’ll finish it.”

Famine clapped him on the shoulder as he went by and Aziraphale nearly buckled at the hunger that ran through him. Pollution followed, having taken nothing but leaving plenty behind. The stench was overwhelming.

“We’ll be in touch,” they said and left a smear of oil on the edge of Aziraphale’s sleeve, grasping it briefly like a child.

“Y-yes. Lovely to see you. Toodle pip!”

Aziraphale had his hands on the phone three seconds after his door closed.

“Crowley? Well of course it’s me, who else—? Never mind. I suggest you get over here quick as you can. No, no, nothing like that. Just... bring dinner would you? I hardly care, dear, just get lots of it. Yes, I’m alright. Quite ravenous though, I’ll explain later. Oh really, Crowley, there’s no need for that kind of... of... innuendo over the phone. I’m hanging up now. Yes. Right now. Goodbye, Crowley.”

A beat passed with the phone pressed against Aziraphale’s ear. Then Crowley’s tinny laughter filled the bookshop.

“Well I don’t hear you hanging up either,” he groused. All of it—the banter, Crowley’s voice, the utter absurdity of this little disagreement—helped to loosen the tension in Aziraphale’s shoulders; alleviated some of the stench from his nostrils and cleared out the air. He sat with a thump and listened to the familiar sounds of Crowley starting up the Bentley. It perhaps couldn’t hurt to stay on the line just a little bit longer.

“Best pick up a few bottles of wine while you’re at it,” Aziraphale said, staring at the empty cookie box. “I just had the most unexpected visitors. I fear we have a great deal to discuss, my dear.”

Crowley cracked another joke about Aziraphale’s visiting practices and that right there was their first miracle in a while. Because despite Horsemen and the presumption of inevitable war, even with the reminder of their newly minted side and all the consequences that came with it... 

One joke from Crowley made Aziraphale feel like it was all going to be okay.

[shkspr]

The Gospel according to David and Michael

transcribed from [x]

Good Omens, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s darkly comic novel about the battle between good and evil, comes to Amazon Prime this spring. To mark the occasion, the British stars of this hugely anticipated show  — Michael Sheen and David Tennant  — take New York in style. HAYLEY CAMPBELL meets them.

It’s Sunday morning in New York City and it’s snowing outside the warm, jazz-filled Beekman hotel, where a 50th-birthday balloon has been trapped for months at the apex of the glass atrium at the top of one of the city’s first skyscrapers. One thousand New Year’s Eve balloons have risen and fallen in the time this one silver balloon has taken to not die. If the apocalypse were to arrive tomorrow, this balloon would survive along with the cockroaches, the deep-sea fish, and the angel and the demon who tried to avert the disaster. If the prophecies of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s cult novel Good Omens prove to be correct, this balloon would bob high above their heads as it is doing now — above Michael Sheen and David Tennant, light and dark, good and evil, an angel and a demon sitting either side of me in lower Manhattan, eating eggs.

I last saw these two together in 2017, in the middle of London’s Battersea Park, shooting some early scenes of their hugely anticipated television show. Good Omens is about the birth of Satan, the coming of the End Times, and an angel (Aziraphale — who has been living on Earth since the dawn of creation and is currently working in a bookshop avoiding selling books because he really just likes to collect them) and a demon (Crowley — who used to be known as Crawly, the snake who tempted Eve with the apple). The pair have spent so much time on earth that they’ve come to quite like it, and don’t much fancy the idea of it all ending. The novel was published in 1990 and has gone on to become so loved that it is rare to see a pristine copy in the world: copies of Good Omens almost always come pre-dunked in tea. Shortly before his death from Alzheimer’s in early 2015, Pratchett wrote an email to his collaborator Gaiman asking him to take it to the screen, to do it properly. “I’m making it for Terry,” says Gaiman. “I wanted to make the thing that Terry would have liked.”

Sheen and Tennant star as the angelic and demonic representatives of their respective head offices, Heaven and Hell, along with a knee-weakening list of stars including Jon Hamm as the archangel Gabriel, Spinal Tap’s Michael McKean as the last of a once proud witchfinder army, and Frances McDormand as the voice of God. There’s Miranda Richardson, Jack Whitehall, three quarters of the League of Gentlemen, and Nick Offerman as the father of the Antichrist (sort of). The cast list reads like someone collecting acting talent to put on an ark ready for a biblical flood.

For months, we have tried to get them together again to talk about the end of the world. But life and work had them circling the globe separately, unmatchable as opposing magnets. Sheen is currently in New York filming The Good Fight, in which he plays a Machiavellian lawyer, and Tennant has flown in on the red-eye from Phoenix, Arizona, where he was appearing at the Ace Comic Con, mobbed by Doctor Who fans. Both of them have, since they last saw each other, grown beards. Tennant is ecstatic about the beards, and both are thrilled to see each other, and New York, again.

“I’ve spent a lot of time in New York over the years now,” says Sheen. “But still there’s times where you look at something and you think it just looks so incredibly beautiful, or strange, or filmic. It never loses that sense of unreality. I love being able to take it in by walking through the streets. Los Angeles feels like everything happens indoors, whereas here in New York, everything happens outdoors.”

“I do like New York,” adds Tennant. “I love a big city, and I love a busy city.”

Tennant and Sheen have bumped into each other before, both appearing in Stephen Fry’s 2003 film Bright Young Things, but they were never in the same scene. Sheen voice a character in an episode of Doctor Who written by Gaiman, but by then Tennant’s Doctor had regenerated. They tend to go for similar roles so there’s rarely a chance for them to both be cast — it’s usually one or the other. Gaiman, the author and showrunner of Good Omens, selected Sheen for the role. “I’ve known Michael for about a decade and one of the things that always impressed me about him was his goodness,” he says. “He’s just very good. He radiates goodness and lovability. I was always fascinated by the fact that he tends to play characters who, at least on the outside, are sort of brittle and perhaps a little damaged or dangerous.”

Selecting an actor to play the BMW driving, skinny-jeans-wearing demon was an equally tricky task. “For David, I was writing episode three and there is a scene set in a church. I had to bring Crowley on and suddenly I knew exactly how I needed that scene to be done in order to work: with him coming down the aisle hopping from foot to foot, going ‘ow ow ow ow ow!’ like he’s at the beach in bare feet. Only David Tennant could do that right. People seemed baffled when it was announced that they were cast because they’re a similar kind of actor, but the similarities between them felt so incredibly right when you’re building this kind of thing.”

Tennant and Sheen joke that when the theatre production of Good Omens (hold your horses, there isn’t one) travels the world, they will swap roles every night, even though Sheen says he couldn’t imagine it the other way around: “Ultimately I don’t think I can pull off cool,” he says, as Tennant scoffs in disbelief. “I think it just suits my natural being, that I’m kind of a worrier, and a little bit too anal for my own good. Things annoy me if they’re not quite right. And yet I like to think of myself as being a good person. So all of that hypocrisy and finickiness seems to lend itself to the natural rhythm of Aziraphale.”

“I love that you describe Crowley as cool,” laughs Tennant. “I think he thinks he’s cool, but isn’t.”

Tennant is adamant that having Gaiman as a showrunner is the pin that is holding this strange world together, one that is “tonally sort of nebulous”, but definitely very funny, and one that would benefit from a bingewatch to take it in all at once (all six episodes will be available on Amazon at once and later the BBC will broadcast them week-by-week). “I think if anyone else was running this they would’ve normalised it, would’ve made it saner, and would’ve ironed out some of the quirks of it,” he says. “Neil’s been fantastically clever at making it televisual where he had to, but it still has the madness, the impracticality of the book.”

Plus, there’s the fact that Gaiman is 50 per cent of the book. Because of that, his casting choices landed a little more softly in the world of Good Omens fandom. But Sheen and Tennant aren’t too worried about being unwelcome: they have in their short time as Aziraphale and Crowley discovered that Good Omens fans may be devoted to the point of madness (the cosplay and pornographic fan fiction has already begun), but they are certainly kind. “I have found that Neil’s work is almost like the Arthurian sword in the stone,” says Sheen. “You can only pull the sword out if you are pure of heart. And I think you only like Neil’s stuff if there’s something about you that means you won’t be mean to people on the whole.”

“I think that’s true of Doctor Who fans as well,” says Tennant. “If your mind is set in that way, then you have a generosity of spirit. And there’s quite an overlap between the two fandoms.”

They seem almost wistful until I bring up the airfield. Days after filming during a cold snap in Battersea Park, where we huddled like penguins around glowing heaters in tents, production moved to an airfield outside London where they had built a fake Soho to house Aziraphale’s bookshop. It was the place that changed everyone’s idea of what ‘cold’ actually meant, but it also became the ultimate green room of all time. Both of them look wide-eyed at the mention of the place, for both reasons.

“That blasted airfield! It was blasted in every sense of the word,” says Tennant. “But the great joy was you had all the cast together at once. Between takes we had this big trailer where they would blast the heaters and we’d go and recover.”

“We’d drink hot chocolate, tell stories, and watch TV,” beams Sheen, who says the thing he misses most about the UK is the fact that he can mention The Flumps and people actually know what that is.

“But the only TV channel that would work was some version of Turner Classic Movies,” says Tennant. “Ancient old movies on a loop. Michael McKean would just sit there telling us stories about people he knew or about some sort of terrible Hollywood lifestyle they’d once lived.”

Though it took months to get them both in the same room in the same city, it is a genuine treat to see Sheen and Tennant together. They seem to prop each other up, to fill the space where the other is not, in both acting and conversing. Neither steps on the other’s toes. Above all, they seem to have a deep respect for one another. “It genuinely made me sad when we stopped filming,” says Sheen. “I didn’t want to not be doing it any more.” Good Omens makes you wonder why nobody thought of putting them together sooner. It is the strangest buddy story so far, the one just before the end of the world, starring the most unlikely pals who for some reason quite like each other — mostly because they’ve just been posted here a bit too long by their superiors so they have more in common with each other than they do with Heaven or Hell — and, crucially, quite like us. It’s the kind of thing that makes you believe the world is worth saving.

[sterekchub]

Part 1.

A/N: I’m really sorry. This got SO far away from me and....yeah. 

OCTOBER:

Legend has it that that the Being created the Gods and Goddesses to bring balance to the newly created Earth. Heaven was split into two groups – the Virtues and Sins. The God of Giving and the Goddess of Greed. The Goddess of Moderation and the God of Gluttony. Chastity and Lust. Forgiveness and Wrath. Truth and Heresy. Peace and Violence. One day, Greed decided she wanted total dominion over the Earth. Joined by the other Sins, they tried to overthrow the Virtues.

As punishment, the Being cast the Sins out of Heaven. Unable to destroy immortal beings, they were sentenced to their own domain in the Circles of Hell. The Sins would be cursed for all eternity, unable to partake in their own sins,  only able to watch over other sinning souls.

Once every hundred years, on All Hallows Eve, the Sins can cross from the Circles of Hell into limbo into the mortal world. Only by possessing a kindred soul can the Sins stay in the mortal world for twelve lunar cycles, before returning to  - .

The last word got smeared out by a large blob of ketchup.

“Shit!” Stiles hurriedly grabbed a napkin to clean off the offending strain. He only succeeded in turning the majority of the page a dull red. Shrugging, he stuffed another handful of fries in his mouth, marking the page down as he did so with a blue sticky note, indicating a true myth, rather than a “myth likely to be factual.”

“How’s it going?” Scott stopped and sniffed the air. “Your room reeks like a drive-thru. Have you been eating fast food all week?”

Stiles waved a fry at him. “Hey, this is all brain food.  Deaton gave me all these books and I think half of them are all nonsense. Werewolves and banshees and wendigoes are one thing, Gods and circles of Hell are just made up stories.”

“Have time to take a break and catch a movie? It’s the Halloween double-feature: Scream and Nightmare on Elm Street.”

“Hell yes, Dude!”

***

NOVEMBER:

Two weeks after Halloween, Stiles finally caved and went to see Deaton. It took a while to explain his problem. He wasn’t being possessed like he had been before. There were no periods of time he couldn’t remember, no second voice in his head influencing his decisions. He wasn’t watching helplessly as someone else controlled his body. There was, however, something in his head constantly suggesting foods, regardless if he had just eaten or not. Stiles would eat his usual Chinese take-out order and suddenly find himself desperately craving pizza, his mind buzzing and unable to focus on anything else.

Deaton, as his usual expressive self, didn’t say a word until Stiles was finished his explanation. Then he pulled out the book Stiles had been pouring over weeks ago and opened to the ketchup-stained, blue tagged page.

“Are you kidding me? I thought it was a myth.”

“Most of the supernatural world is a myth.”

“So I’m possessed by an immortal being. Again.”

Deaton nodded. “Gluttony is not malicious in nature. The Sins only possess humans to ah – live vicariously through them. It cannot control you.  Likely it will seek to share and intensify any of you experiences, not try to manipulate you into new ones.”

Stiles’ stomach grumbled. “Really?’

‘It can offer suggestions and perhaps forceful persuasions but aside from the cravings, it holds no actual power.”

“Great. So I’m a demon’s personal eating machine.”

“You could try fighting it. It will only last a year. It may be beneficial. Typically Demon possession does offer the host with extra strength and stamina to ensure their health.”

“Wonderful.”

***

DECEMBER

Stiles had never been happier to have a job that allowed him to work from home. It turned out the trick to keep the cravings down was to either eat a lot at once, or be constantly snacking. So long as Stiles kept munching on things every few minutes, he could actually focus on his work, rather than focusing on his next meal. It had taken him a few weeks of trying to fight against the constant grumbling of his stomach and fleeing images of food running across his head, but finally Stiles had gotten into the swing of living with a Gluttony Demon residing in his head.

It started with Oreos. Stiles had pulled open his desk drawer to finish off the last row of Oreos, needing something sweet after his afternoon of munching on chips. Apparently, finishing those off wasn’t enough and Stiles found himself compelled to run to the store for more. Stiles felt a thrill of excitement that definitely did not belong to him when he saw just how many varieties the stored offered. Stiles supposed that, not having tasted food in a hundred years, the choices of the 21st century were overwhelming.

One of everything went into his basket, Oreos thins, mini, double-stuffed, golden, birthday cake, mega stuffed, mint, red velvet, cinnamon bun, lemon, mystery flavored, peanut butter, chocolate, chocolate hazelnut, chocolate peanut-butter, brownie batter, apple pie, fudge covered, and completely unnecessarily, regular. Stiles gave the Demon credit – he wasn’t picky and wanted to be very thorough in his attempts to try everything possible.

The boxes were finished by the end of the week. It really wasn’t a hardship. Stiles always had a big sweet tooth. Plus, who didn’t love Oreos? He tried not to think about how it took a few seconds longer to force his button his pants on Sunday. Or about how his normal junk-food cravings were becoming alarming frequent and a staple of his daily diet. Stiles’ always had a fast metabolism. For the amount of pizza and cafeteria food Stiles ate during college, he only had put on the freshman fifteen. So he could handle a few hundred Oreos. No problem.

“It’s really not that bad,” he told his father one night on the phone. “It’s an excuse to eat anything I want.”

“You have always been a model of restraint,” John replied sarcastically.

“Someone had to keep the unhealthy stuff away from you.”

‘Just take care of yourself, kid. And don’t call me when you get stuck in a doorway.”

“Haha. It’s under control, Dad. Don’t worry.”

***

JANUARY

Things were becoming less “under control” when the Demon had gone through all the possible snacks Stiles could think of and progressed to wanting full meals. Multiple meals. Several times a day. It was becoming increasingly frustrating to try and work on his novel. He was either focused on what he was going to eat or was sleepily watching dumb videos online as he fell into a food coma. Optimistically, he told himself it was just a phase. Last month it had been snacks, this month it was meals, next month maybe it would be fruit or salads or something.

Currently, he was laying on his couch, polishing off the last of his Chinese takeout order, with reruns of some HGTV show playing in the background. He really did feel like a glutton when he ate like this. He should have stopped a container of sweet and sour pork and five egg rolls ago, but he had kept going. It was hard to tell if the cravings were the Demon in his head or the subconscious need to finish everything. Just to see if he could. Just to feel the weight of having his gut filled, swollen and protruding over his waistband, forcing him to take a few more bites of food, pushing the final egg roll into his mouth before leaning back against the couch with a soft moan of relief. He closed his eyes, listening to woman on television debating what house she wanted. He nodded off before finding out what house she picked, an arm resting over his belly.

Stiles dreamed of pizza. He was in the pizza parlor, sitting at a lone table in the center of the restaurant. Servers stood around him, each offering him different slices, acting like he was some grand judge on a food competition, insisting he had to try them all before he made his decision. Stiles was reaching for piece after piece, stuffing them into his mouth impossibly fast while his belly started to push out in front of him. Another couples of pizza slices, or maybe entire pizza’s later, his stomach knocked over the table in front of him as it kept growing in size…

He woke up with a start and reached for his phone. He already had the pizza place on speed dial.

“Thank you for calling Charlie’s Pizza. What can I get for you?”

“A medium meat lover’s pizza and an order of wings.”

“Is that it?”

“Ye – ” Another craving hit him. Stiles rubbed his still full belly and added resignedly.  “ – and an order of breadsticks. And garlic bread.”

‘Your total will $21.27. See you in a half-hour.”

***

FEBRUARY

“Look, I get it. I’m getting fat and turning into a pig. You don’t need to bring me my – my daily feed or whatever!”

Derek stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You! I know you’ve been having the pack cook for me! Even Jackson dropped food off. From his personal chef!”

Derek set the bag of carefully packaged food he was holding on the counter. “We figured you were getting sick of takeout.”

“I can cook for myself.”

“You haven’t been cooking.”

“And how do you know that?” Stiles asked angrily. “Busy stalking me but couldn’t be bothered to actually say ‘Hi, Stiles, want to do something?’ Or do you just get a laugh watching me do nothing all day but eat alone?”

“I can tell by the trashcan overflowing with take-out containers, Stiles. Don’t blame me for this. I’ve been texting you. Scott has been texting you. You’ve ignored everyone.”

 Stiles shoulders sagged in defeat. “I know. I’m sorry. I thought I could handle this.”

Derek pulled the younger man against him, burying his face in the Stiles’ neck. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too, Big Guy.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Derek. “I do appreciate the food.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be eating only junk-food.”

“Yes, Dad,” Stiles said playfully. “I make sure I’m eating vegetables.”

“Fried vegetables don’t count.”

“They sort of count.”

Derek growled. Stiles stayed still for a few more minutes, content to just be in Derek’s reassuring embrace for a while longer.

“Hey, Der. What if – what it I don’t really mind this?”

There was no answer for a few seconds. Derek merely stiffened, then pulled pack enough to press a gentle kiss to Stiles’ lips. “It’s okay.”

“And I don’t mind getting to eat so much.”

“Okay.”

“And maybe I like being this heavy.”

“Okay.”

Stiles swatted him on the arm. “Forget how to use words again?”

“Ever think I don’t mind either?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank god.” Stiles squirmed out of Derek’s grip and started pulling Tupperware containers out of the bag. “Because I’m starving.”

“Wasting away.” Derek agreed.

Stiles response was lost behind the food he had already started shoveling in his mouth. “This is amazing. Have I ever said that you’re my favorite person?”

“Hmm. Nope. Never came up. Good thing we aren’t dating, or anything.”

“Ass. But I forgive you for making this amazing food.”

“They’re my mother’s recipes. I don’t know if I got them quite right, but I thought you might want something new.”

“Any free food is good food. My entire paycheck has been going to food and new jeans.”

“You know I can pay – ”

“ I am not being the sugar baby in this relationship.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me,” Stiles grinned. He tossed the empty container into the sink and grabbed a second one. “Sorry, I’d offer you some but –” Stiles gestured to his protruding middle. There was a clear few inches of pale skin sticking out from under his shirt. Time to size up. Again. “Unless you want to hear this complaining all night, I need all the food I can get.”

The food Derek had brought was sufficient enough to keep Stiles’ stomach from growling through the night. In the early hours of the morning, before Stiles was even awake, his stomach started rumbling. Derek left him a stack of pancakes and bacon. Next to the plate was a credit card with a scribbled note: Use it. Please.

***

MARCH (Sorry for Derek and Stiles both being a little bad about respecting each other’s privacy in this section. Not that either of them mind…)

Derek never had a very interesting browser history. He had left it open on his computer, which was just unfairly asking for someone to take a quick peek. Stiles felt mildly guilty about it, comforted only by telling himself Derek eavesdropped on most his conversations and always pointed out when he was lying. Granted, Derek couldn’t exactly lose his werewolf abilities, but still, boundaries. Stiles considered it even.

The browser history had, unsurprisingly, nothing interesting.  A few recipes, a couple of monster lore searches, a least once a week a visit to his credit card statement… That seemed unusual. Derek didn’t even have that card on him; it was the one he had left for Stiles (which he had reluctantly agreed to use after a few arguments. Stiles wasn’t a starving artist per say, but nor was he independently wealthy).

Now it seemed like an even trade off. His boyfriend pays for his food and then – Stiles grinned. Really, it was a miracle Derek hadn’t gotten possessed by the Lust demon. There must be a level of hell reserved for getting off this many times to their boyfriend, without telling them….

Stiles was still sitting in front of the computer when Derek came back to the loft. “So, worried I’m spending too much money, or just very interested in how much I’ve been eating?”

Derek turned so red Stiles was concerned he had forgot how to breath for a few moments. “I can explain.”

“That you’ve been getting off to how much food I’ve ordered? That’s pretty kinky, Derek.” He lifted up the hem of his shirt, letting his belly wobble out. It took up a considerable amount of space in his lap now. “I’d say you like thinking about how fat I’m getting.”

“Jesus, Stiles, I can’t pay my bills without being turned on. Do you know how many times you’ve ordered food in the past month?

Stiles grinned wider. “Just think that isn’t all I’ve eaten. I’ve been putting groceries on my card, and Lydia dropped off some pies and Mrs. McCall made the best mac&cheese casseroles for me….”

“I know,” Derek groaned. “Look at this, Stiles.” He knelt in front of Stiles, lifting his belly up, struggling to undo the button of his jeans, before letting it thud back into his lap jiggling. “You haven’t – stopped – eating.”

“Can’t help it. A glutton has to eat. ‘M getting so fat, Derek.”  “Can’t believe how much food you order in a day. How much does it take to fill this belly now, Stiles? 

“Why don’t - ah” Stiles moaned, leaning further back in his chair as Derek started mouthing at Stiles’ sensitive underbelly. “Why don’t you order some food and I’ll show you.”

[grannysgraceblog]

I am trying 2 simplify my life. I have spent far 2 much time surrounded by chaos & I desire a peace-filled environment for the last part of the journey. Unfortunately, the instructions for doing so were a bit limited in our home growing up. To say my mother was a hoarder is like saying horses like hay. Uhhh, DUH!! When my dad was living he kind of kept the clutter @ bay- note I said clutter- chaos still loomed around every corner. It was comparable to taking a bubble bath in the ocean.

My parents were in a lot of pain & dealt w/ it the best they knew how. After he went 2 be w/ the Lord, stacks of unneccessary items littered every room, leaving it in a state of gallimaufry. My mother had always been somewhat obsessed w/ shopping, never missing a coveted sale, but w/o him there keeping her in check it was as if a yard sale had exploded in our living room. Cans of vegetables filled the trunk of her car & spilled from the bathroom cupboards. 20+ frying pans & pots threatened 2 bust the hinges wide open. Rubberbands wrapped around the knobs kept things from falling out on2 the floor. There were literally coupons that had expired the year before I was born. I don’t know if it was the residue of being poor or the result of parents that survived the Great Depression, all I know is that the consequences exacerbated my already disorganized brain.

  To this day I struggle w/ not collecting unnecessary trinkets & bringing them in2 my own home. I remember when my children were small, going 2 her home 2 help her put things in order & then compulsively returning 2 my own home & throwing everything I could get my hands on in the trash bin. I was resolved 2 not leave the same headache for my own children. Still, I had far, far 2 many things that truly held no value for myself. 

Losing everything I ever held dear has definitely been a wake up call. Very few material items hold the same meaning 2 me that they once had. Relationships hold much more value than baubles or knick-knacks, especially when those relatio ships no longer exist. What I miss the most are the sweet suffocating hugs from pudgy little arms, or laying smack in the middle of several petite little bodies re-reading Green Eggs & Ham for the 4th time, listening 2 bedtime prayers & the sound of tiny sleepy feet making their way 2 the bathroom early in the dawn of morning. I miss the tug of my blankets, immediately after falling asleep, & hearing “Granny, can I sleep w/ you?” The boisterous laughter of excited children chasing a mischievous puppy who has stolen a treaured toy. I yearn for the simple sweet smiles accompanied by the whispers of “Love you 2 the Moon Granny” followed by a sticky PBJ kiss on the cheek. The spot of flour on the end of a cherub nose while the smell of fresh baked cookies fill the air. These are things that one cannot collect enough. Simple, pure memories that are far more valuable than any diamonds or gold. Simple living simply means this; honoring the special people in our lives w/ our time. And all people are special. All people. Regardless of race, religion, gender, etc. We are ALL precious 2 the God of Wonders.

Christmas is past us now & as we push trash receptacles 2 the street, brimming w/ colorful paper, frilly bows & a few quickly broken toys, let us move forward 2 a New Year w/ a new resolve 2 cherish the things that really matter. Relationships.. w/ others. Our loved ones, our neighbors, the overworked clerks in the grocery store, the poor hungry souls living on the street, who had no tree in which 2 gather around or family 2 wish good tidings. The relationship w/ our Father in Heaven. The Giver of Peace. Simple pure unadulterated Love & Peace. Cling tightly 2 that source of True Simplicity & then spread it around. It’s simple. Have a great morning & a wonderful new year.

[shhiatusbang-blog]

Tier 2

All Tier 2 fics, below. 

A Universal Mishap ( Main Pairing: Alec/Magnus // Side Pairing(s): Clary/Jace, Isabelle/Simon, Luke/Maryse //  Mature )

WARNINGS:   Mature Content

Summary: Alternate Universe Malec are unexpectedly thrown into the main verse after a magical mishap. The issue is AU Magnus has still not told his Alec about being a warlock.

Special Requests: Must be 18+.

City of Stars ( Main Pairing: Alec/Personal Growth //  Side Pairing(s): Alec/Magnus, Aline/Helen  //  Teen and Up )

WARNINGS:  No Warnings Apply

Summary: S1 Canon Divergent Alec-Centric. 

When the punishment for their unsanctioned missions comes down in the form of a transfer to another institute, Alec must navigate a land far from everyone he knows and loves alone. 

Heaven is a Taste on Earth ( Main Pairing: Alec/Magnus // Side Pairing(s): Clary/Jace, Isabelle/Maia, Raphael/Simon //   Teen and Up )

WARNINGS:   (Past) Abusive Relationship (Cannot be endgame)

Summary: Making a birthday cake for the renowned chef Magnus Bane is a hard enough task – made harder still by the fact his girlfriend doesn’t seem to know Magnus’ likes or dislikes at all. Alec Lightwood, maker of some of the finest cakes in Brooklyn, is up to the challenge, even if he can’t take his eyes off the birthday boy. But as Alec and Magnus grow closer, could it be that the missing ingredient is true love?

Idris Troje( Main Pairing: Alec/Magnus // Side Pairing(s): Clary/Jace //   Explicit )

WARNINGS:  Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Mature Content

Summary: As a child, Magnus is cursed by his father Asmodeus. Cursed with foresight, with the knowledge of what the future will bring, and that no matter what he tries... no one will ever believe his warnings.  

Except one.    

Magnus sees fire and death brought by ships, sees years of war, a city in ruin, a people destroyed... But he never did see Alexander coming.  

***

AKA, the Iliad AU where Magnus is Cassandra/Andromache, Alec is Hector, and Idris is Troy.  

Not based on the movie, but inspired by the actual Iliad. Which means there's going to be a lot of character death, violence, tragedy and angst, and I genuinely can't guarantee a happy ending.    

Special Requests: For a beta I was really hoping for someone with a little knowledge of the Iliad and greek tragedy, and/or someone with experience or the motivation to tackle non-linear narratives, since that's so far out of my comfort zone (also I still can't believe I'm doing ANGST!) I'm ESL so I also commit a lot of crimes against comma's and tenses.

Special Requests: Must be 18+.

Magic [when I'm with you] ( Main Pairing: Multi // Side Pairing(s):  Alec/Magnus, Clary/Jace, Isabelle/Simon, Luke/Maryse, Maia/Simon  //  Gen )

WARNINGS:   (Past) Abusive Relationship (Cannot be endgame), Graphic Depictions of Violence, Suicide/Suicidal Thoughts

Summary: Alec is dying on the floor, Magnus can't save him, Clary is missing, Simon thinks he killed her, and Jace is stressed. What happens now? Or: a fic exploring what happens after the events of the 3A finale.

Marine Biology ( Main Pairing: Clary /Maia // Side Pairing(s): Alec/Magnus, Isabelle/Meliorn, Luke/Maryse //   Mature )

WARNINGS:   (Past) Abusive Relationship (Cannot be endgame)

Summary: When Marine Biologist Maia Roberts signs in the Blue Hotel to pursue her research on the bay’s wildlife, she has no idea that the pretty girl at the reception is the most interesting of wildlife: a mermaid. We follow her through her discovery of the town, its strange inhabitants, and her falling for mermaid Clary Fray. Main ship: Claia, side ships: Malec, Marcian, Melizzy

Orphan Alec ( Main Pairing: Alec/Magnus //  Side Pairing(s): N/A  //   Mature )

WARNINGS:  No Warnings Apply

Summary: As a teenager Alec woke up in an alley behind a Burger King, with no memory and nothing but a leather jacket to his name. Now, there are only three things he can be completely sure about: he can't fry an egg without burning it, he needs to walk around the block twice before turning in at night, and he can only depend on himself to get by.    

Two teenagers and a handsome business man are about to change all that.  

Or the one where I play around with Alec's relationships and literally no one knows who he is (yet).

Special Requests: Must be 18+.

Puppy Love( Main Pairing: Alec/Magnus //  Side Pairing(s): N/A  //  Gen )

WARNINGS:  No Warnings Apply

Summary: When his guardian Ragnor gets a position as a professor at the Shadowhunter Academy in Idris, Magnus has no choice but to follow along, being only four years old.  At the same time in New York, Maryse Lightwood comes to her senses and leaves her husband, taking a position as Headmistress of the Shadowhunter Academy.  Along with her were her two children, Alec who was three and Izzy who was still an infant.    ----   Over the years, everyone comments on the sweet relationship between Magnus and Alec, as the two grow up in the Academy in Idris.  "Puppy love" they called it.  ----   A 5+1 fic, the five times people referred to Magnus and Alec's relationship as puppy love and the one time they couldn't anymore.

Some Secret Histories ( Main Pairing: Alec/Magnus  // Side Pairing(s): Clary/Jace, Clary/Simon, Maia/Simon //   Mature )

WARNINGS:   Anti-LGBT+ Issues (in a non-supporting narrative), Mature Content

Summary: Magnus delights in broadening Alec's horizons, taking him to new places, showing him the world. So, when Alec asks, after one more globetrotting date, "When do I get to take you somewhere?", he's not really prepared for the question. The sharing of experiences is a two-way street, and some things can only be seen by looking close.  ---   Five times Magnus finds himself in Alec's spaces, and the little discoveries they both make there. Fluff, slow romance, and a dash of drama and smut.

Something Else  ( Main Pairing: Alec/Magnus // Side Pairing(s): Clary/Jace, May add others, currently any side pairings will be very vaguely mentioned/implied. //   Explicit )

WARNINGS:   Mature Content, Memory Erasure (amnesia)

Summary: Alec Lightwood doesn't understand why his mother always seems so sad when she looks at him. He also doesn't understand why the former High Warlock of Brooklyn saved his life and avoided him like the plague afterward

Asmodeus took away the Shadowhunters’ personal memories of Magnus as payment for his help. (Post 3x10 where instead of taking Magnus’ magic, Asmodeus is just making Magnus suffer.)   

Beginning premise/prologue: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1486841

The work won't interact with this fic directly. It will be a canon divergent version of events following Lilith's ritual.

Special Requests: Must be 18+.

The Only Good Guys You Get ( Main Pairing: Gen Fic/No Pairings // Side Pairing(s): Alec/Magnus, Clary/Isabelle //   Mature )

WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Summary: Former Interpol agent Luke Garroway has lost everything. Or so he thinks. An offer to turn his life around comes with just one catch: switching sides. Leading a team of hackers and thieves, Luke's biggest challenge might be making them all get along.

Special Requests: Must be 18+.

This Book is Great (Who's the Author?) ( Main Pairing: Gen Fic/No Pairings // Side Pairing(s): Alec/Magnus, Clary/Jace, Maia/Simon //  Gen )

WARNINGS:  No Warnings Apply

Summary: No one knew that Maia liked to write except for her boyfriend, Simon. 

And then she wrote a book. That got published. Under a pseudonym. That caught fire and acclaim in the publishing world. 

And now she’s in her book club, with her best friend Alec and her other friend Magnus, who she may or might of not based two of the more prominent characters off.  

And now Alec’s holding up her book - that no one knows she wrote - which, apparently, they’re going to study for this month’s book. 

Well.   

Crap. 

(A.k.a Maia wants Magnus and Alec to get together so badly that she wrote a book where they did.)

Unexpected (  Main Pairing: Alec/Magnus ,//  Side Pairing(s):N/A  //  Mature )

WARNINGS:  No Warnings Apply

Summary: A sort of enemies to lovers college au where Magnus is the drum major of the band and Alec is captain of the lacrosse team and they have a rivalry over who gets to use the field. Until one day, they end up having to share a table at a coffee shop to study and realize they might not hate each other all that much.

Special Requests: Must be 18+.

[arrowstheory]

ARROW THEORY LIFE CARAVAGGIO TS046A

I remembered there were once iconoclasts. To this day, the Eastern Church approves only icons. Islam only abstract arabesques without figurative representations of the personifications of deities and forces of nature. Only writing, which is necessarily elevated to the pictogram of an ideal pattern, is the graphic message of abstraction. Protestants in Europe threatened the Catholic Church. It is best to burn all images, because they are unworthy to represent divine beings. What about the poor who can't read? Are they not worthy to learn the truths of God from the paintings? In response, Catholicism began to paint the churches richly. Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio luminist was a Lombard. The gynecologist treats the eye, and it should ... an ophthalmologist! Do you make cloves? Do you spark with rage? Because he sparked all his life from 1573 to 1610. The plague took his parents. He apprenticed in Milan and went to Rome in 1596. He created realistic, avant-garde painting with a revolutionary, provocative, shocking view of the world. tenebross manners. But first he overcame the icing and glaze of academic copying and realistic mannerism. He knew how to make a career in Rome. Who cares today? When is this 1596? Was sugar and mirrors more expensive then? Did Toruń gingerbread reach the Vatican? Or maybe the cars have installed a catalyst and mufflers? How many were burned at the stake? How many virgins, at the age of nine, were married off to unwanted husbands, wealthy old men who were to be respected and poisoned quietly? He humbly copied the old masters until they cried out to him: You dumb asshole! This is how the visions of paradise and the most subtle, tasteful shapes were created, shrouded in vibrating light and the glow of internal colors. He suddenly changed the whole world and the existing order of drawing and colors. Darkness and Chaos were his guardians. Glowing colors emerged from the background lit by a candle, flash, dawn, glow. Caravaggio didn't draw anything. Observation and painting immediately. He took people from the market, from the street. He was painting. It was like the sergeant's rough friendship. A boy with a basket of fruit, clumsy and clumsy in his movements. Then his self-portrait as Bacchus, a symbol of beauty and youth. Nothing could be more wrong! The grapes are dead and rotten. Greasy hand with a border of dirt. Sick face with greenish lips. And not sleepy eyes. The cardinal learned about this miracle. Del Monte. Michelangelo paints sharpshirts with rose lips and firm cheeks. The cardinal buys the painting for a song and brings Caravaggio into his home. Caravaggio liked music. Was he playing the cornet? The singer is already crying his eyes, and yet he is tuning the lute. Maybe he couldn't tune? Instrument for a song of love. Amor sits next to it, showing a hump on his back. Caravaggio paints closeness. No distance between the souls in the painting and the souls of the viewers. He is the master. General Tarik from beyond the grave kisses the country of his robe, not to say brush tip ... silly associations.

The painting Martyrdom of Matthew asked for an angelic host in heaven. The church itself asked for filth. Jesus points at Matthew with his finger in a small dive. He turns a sinner into a disciple of Christ. Mateusz was a rogue and was chosen. Would we call him a terrorist or a partisan today? He had no choice and it fell on him. Well, it's God's finger. Christ placed in the shadow. We see the finger in brightness.

Trembling. Flickering light. Whirling worlds. The illuminated figure of the sinner is getting ready to strike. The coward escapes death. It shows the second face. Impetuous, brutal, unpredictable. He renounces his own brother and thinks that he will get away with everything. He teaches his dog, Raven, to walk on its hind legs. We'll fry your eggs in olive oil. It's a threat written in court files. The finger of unfaithful Thomas was deeply inserted into the open wound of Jesus. Everyone believed. Jesus took his wrist and pulled Thomas's hand towards him. This is the most important truth about people. How to hurt divinity to convince man? How to bite a wound to experience the truth? Shocking faces, hardened feet, dirty nails. His painting was more and more often referred to as indecent. Caravaggio is released from custody after months. No judgment. He trains dagger fights. Michelangelo da Caravaggio. He told the guard, who checked his written permission for the sword and dagger, to stick his good night up his ass. And he was arrested again. He brutally ordered the servant to sniff the artichokes, trying to force them to be in butter or olive oil. He made a fuss not only in taverns. Brushes, the dampness of paints, he painted not disembodied but the body. The green skin of a drowned prostitute stolen from the dissecting room. Caravaggio paints her as a saint for the Carmelite nuns in Rome's poorest neighborhood, as a pieta. The one who supposedly fell asleep before she ascended. What is this biscuit so thin and a bit of liver on top? I roll down to the monastery. A Jewish girl to the convent? beginning on www.kuby.pl in chapter TS001

[dontdropthattuturu]

One year further

Written for day 1 of ushioi week. Prompt: Celebration Warning: just pure fluff

Ushijima awoke to an rather odd beginning for his 24th birthday. Normally his significant other woke him by showering him with gentle kisses, he would have prefered that to the smell of burnt food. Sighing he got up from their comfortable king size bed and begrudgingly made his way over to the kitchen, yawning and scratching his belly . What awaits him is both beautiful and a desaster. On the one hand his pretty boyfriend looked really cute pouting and cursing under his breath as he eyes the indefinable burnt mess that should be breakfasts, On the other hand the kitchen was a mess. The fire alarm beeped, the frying pan had burnt food in it, that stuck to it and would be a hassle to clean later, their was smoke and the awful smell of burnt food that would lingerin their whole apartment for days. Not to mention that spilled food and messy cooking items were everywhere. Oikawa still hadn’t noticed him, so he walked up to him and snuck his arms around his lovers waist Startled Oikawa let out a little scream before he pouted:“ Ushi-baka your not supposed to be up yet. I was supposed to wake you with a flawless selfmade breakfast.“ Deeply inhaling the scent of his boyfriends coconut shampoo while nuzzling his hair he hums:“ Good morning Tooru.“ At these words the brunet flushes lightly and mumbled:“ Happy Birthday Wakatoshi.“ Ushijima couldn’t help himself as a small content smile etches itself on his face. Silently he ushered Oikawa over to sit down on the table while he cleans up the kitchen and made breakfast for them. All the while Oikawa moped in his corner contemplating how he had wanted to surprise Wakatoshi because he was as good as never up before him and never made him breakfast. Ushijima just smiles to himself and assured Tooru calmly that he had no problem with making breakfast.

Shortly after Ushijima finished cooking and served them scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. At first they eat in silence but Oikawa vastly overcame his of state and started rambling about anything and nothing. How iwa- Chan will come back from his Europe trip in a few weeks, what happened in the most recent X- file episodes and whatever interesting thing happened at his part time job. Occasionally sipping his coffee and munching happily Ushijima contents himself with listening to Oikawas ramble while observing whatever cute expression he makes while rambling. Just as Oikawa is complaining about a new part timer at his part time job he couldn’t hold it in anymore and interrupts his speech with the words:“ Your cute when your so worked up. You get that sweet little flush.“ To empathise his point the taller man reaches over the table to cup Oikawa cheek within his big hand and strokes over it with his thump. Ironically Oikawa blushes even harder at that, while huffing:“ Of course I am I’m always cute.“ After breakfast Oikawa excitedly told him that they would go out on a date, since it had been a while since their last. First off they go to the cinema near their apartment. It been a while since Ushijima last went so he decides to let Tooru decide, he always seems more informed about such things anyway. They stand a good fifteen minutes in front of the cinema, in which Tooru contemplates which movie they should watch. To Wakatoshi it’s obvious that his lover wanted to see the new alien film and in fact isn’t to thrilled to watch the documentary about bees. As much as Tooru tried to hide it the adorable sparkle in his eyes at the mear mention of the alien movie gave him away and to stay truthfully Wakatoshi would give everything to see that sparkle paired with the genuine wide goofy smile of his lover. Five more minutes of watching Tooru struggle to decide and Wakatoshi walked over to the cashier and paid for two tickets for that indie alien film. Oikawa just huffed at that, murmering something about always trying to decide for him, even though he knows that Wakatoshi just wants to make him happy. They leave it at that and move on to buying two large sodas and a gigantic popcorn bowl. The film was okay, nothing to fancy or interesting in Ushijima opinion

Then they went to go casually shopping with Oikawa promising to buy him anything he wants. Tooru has to backpaddle with that statement as soon as they walk past the port shop, where there are puppies visible through the window. It’s love at first sight. Ushijima saw the Labrador puppy and he was gone. Those big soulful eye begging him to buy him, to give him a loving home. With gleaming eyes he looked over to Tooru and whispered with a pleading voice:“ We need to adopt this puppy. Can we? I mean think of what horrible people would adopt her instead. We need to make her happy. She deserved it. She’s a good puppy.“ Oikawa just laughed and told them that they neither had the time to care properly for a puppy nor were they allowed in their apartment. In order to drag Ushijima from his spot in front of the pet shop window Oikawa linked their hands together, gave him a tiny peck on the cheek and purred:“ Come on Toshi, if you desperately need someone at your command I can fill that gap.“ Wakatoshi just looked at him unblinkly saying:“ You can’t fill the place of the puppy silly.“ Tooru just sighted with a pained expression and drags Ushijima further down the street away fronbyhe pet shop. Neither of them lets go of the others hand.

Next of the went to a flower shop down the road. It was a charming little shop, a bell gave of a pleasing ding when they entered. They were surrounded by the smell and sight of fresh flowers. This must be what heaven must be like , Ushijima thought to himself. The two of them ventured further into the shop looking at the various flowers. Soon Oikawa spots the cacti, excitedly pointing them out.“ Look Ushiwaka-chan, they fit you perfectly. They’re just as prickly and bland as you.“, there is no malice in Toorus voice, just playfulness. Wakatoshi just huffed and moved in, leaving Oikawa behind. Tooru decides to not follow him since he may feel a little petty after just being so blandly disregarded. Exactly what Wakatoshi had hoped, with a small smile playing his lips he moves towards the cashier. He asked for a dozen red roses, pays and looks around searching for Tooru. As soon as he laid eyes on him, he moves over, presenting him the roses while whispering in his ear:“ In think those flowers fit you just perfectly. Your just as lovely as them, even more so if you ask me.“ This is met with a second of stunned silence in which Tooru processes what just happened. Oikawa blushes an impossible shade of crimson as he takes the bouquet ant tries to hide his face behind It in embarrassment, mumbling with a slight tremble in his voice:“ You can’t just go and do something that romantic out of nowhere Ushiwaka-chan. This was so cheesy.“ Tooru shyly lowered the bouquet, still blushing, giving him the most brilliant smile and softly said:“ Thank you Wakatoshi.“ Ushijima couldn’t help himself and answered the smile with an equal happy one. They exit the flower shop, both in a happy daze, holding hands and on Oikawa part also a lovely flower bouquet.

At last Tooru proposed the idea of going shopping for Ushijima , so that he quote: looks as cute as me(Tooru). Ushijima just nods in agreement. Soon they enter the shopping centre and Tooru drags Wakatoshi from one shop to the next. Pushing him into the changing room with the clothes he picked out, taking pictures and giggling when he emerges out of them. To Ushijima this feels less like serious shopping and more like playing dress up but as long as Tooru is happy he is too. In the end they don’t buy anything for Wakatoshi but Tooru finds a cute oversized sweater, with a space background and the rainbow caption: too alien for earth, to human for outer-space and buys it. They decided to take a short breather before continuing to go shopping by taking a stroll through a park nearby their apartment. Just five minutes into their stroll it starts to rain and with that he meant that it rained cats and dogs. They share a Look, silently conversation and decided to run back to their apartment. Even though they’re getting soaked by the rain there’s just this certain appeal of running through the rain, holding hands with the person you love that makes you smile and laugh in delight. It had been a short run to their apartment, still try arrive soaked to the bones but smiling and slightly out of breath from all the laughing while running. The flower bouquet Tooru had managed to hold onto all the while got placed in a vase on their dining table.

Giggling Tooru decides they should shower together, so that they both could warm up again. Wakatoshi is more than happy to oblige. Under the shower they share sweet kisses and gentle touches full of affection.

Dressing comfortable they cuddle up on the sofa under a cozy blanket. They order pizza and put on Wakatoshis favourite movie. The lion king. Halfway through the film Tooru to freely murmers:“ I’m sorry. I wanted you to have the perfect birthday since you always make me so happy on mine but I failed. I didn’t even buy you anything. I don’t deserve you, always making me your priority and having so much patience with me even though I frustrate you so much and never listen.‘ Pressing a gentle kiss atop of Tooru fluffy locks Wakatoshi answers gently:“ What are you even saying? Today was perfect. We spent the whole day together and had a lot of fun. There couldn’t ever be a better birthday. If anything I don’t deserve you and your dedication. I love you Tooru.“ Tooru just hums already dozing off:“ Love you too Toshi..“

[natequarter]

the armageddon factor isn't even all that but that exchange. good heavens you could fry eggs in the streets. every single line is pure gold

[nautilusopus]

The Number I

Chapter 1: A Very Normal Opening Chapter For This Post-Series Fluff Piece

Hooooooooooooooooooly fuck this thing's live now. This is easily the stupidest thing I've ever written. It's also the first thing I've ever technically published. Thank you so much to @cateringisalie, @fury-brand, and @limbostratus for helping me proofread and copyedit this magnificent piece of self-indulgent, petty, overcomplicated garbage for the world to see.

And to think this thing spawned from a joke about watching someone take a piss.

Four years after meteor-fall and Cloud Strife still isn't himself. The thing that haunts him comes always at the same time... and when it does, on a distant far-off world, a needle moves. Twisty AU. Warnings for future chapters.

At precisely 6:09 am, Cloud Strife heard a creak outside his window, sighed, and quietly reached for the hunting knife under his pillow.

He had already been up at that point, partially for a quick workout -- it didn't really do much for his actual physique due to the enhancements, but it had been a habit for so long it felt wrong not to. There was a small part of him that still felt a small thrill of satisfaction at his own ability to put himself through a morning routine that would have had most professional athletes red-faced and exhausted and not even feel winded.

He carefully crept towards the window, staying low to the ground, and crouched underneath it. If they were burglars, they were certainly persistent. Any thief with half a brain would have moved onto another building by now, after he had noticed them the first eight times. Salvagers didn't come in this far from the ruins of Midgar. And it should have been obvious, given the shabby look of nearly everything in Edge, that he didn't have anything worth stealing, save perhaps his bike, which wasn't even upstairs anyway. Yet nearly every morning at the same time, there they were. Figures, outside his window, in the corner of his eye. Watching, until the minute it was clear he knew they were there -- and, he somehow knew, trying to get in.

He hadn't brought it up to Tifa, let alone anyone else. They'd have thought he was mad, which was an option he hadn't entirely ruled out himself -- they never left any scent for him to follow, and he wasn't really sure how they had gotten onto the roof anyway. The hallucinations were one of the few things he had managed to leave behind with that mess four years ago, and what sort of hallucinations woke you up eight days in a row at the same time?

Barret would probably suggest a shrink again, and Cloud would brush him off and say he was fine, really, and Barret would just shake his head and give him a look and mutter under his breath. Tifa might actually believe him, but the thought of that appealed to Cloud even less. She did enough worrying about him as it was. And about the bar, and the kids that passed through it, and who knew what else she hadn't told him about. Tifa needed good news.

So, here he was, crouched under the window next to the tire he'd been using as a chair for months on end, ready to stab a complete stranger that for all he knew maybe just really really wanted food. There was a bar and grill one floor down, after all.

He sat in silence for what must have been two minutes. A quiet tapping started against the wood -- quiet at first, and slowly, then louder and more insistent. It grew in volume until a hundred fingers must have been drumming against the window, and a rushing sound began building behind it, until it felt as though the noise was coming from every wall. Something moved through it all.

Cloud jumped up from under the windowsill and yanked the window open, brandishing the knife at the rain.

"...fuck's sake..." he muttered, sitting down on the chair his family had insisted he replace his tire with, dropping the knife on the table. Upon further reflection, he got back up and pulled the screen down, the water already starting to spray on the papers on his desk.

He turned his chair back to the desk and away from the window. If he didn’t look directly at it, then nothing would be there, and there would be nothing to worry about. And truth be told, he was worried that if he looked at them, they’d somehow be able to see him. Today was a good day -- he had woken up and gotten out of bed knowing exactly what he was doing and why. No need to acknowledge anything to the contrary.

He thumbed through the papers absently. Most of them were bills -- not for him this time, thankfully. Invoices he had been meaning to send out to clients, largely for repair work, or delivery. A couple were accounts, but the numbers part of it all never made much sense to him, so he often had to drag in someone that had actually finished their primary education to help him. Usually that was Reeve, but Reeve's time was extremely limited these days now that the rebuilding effort had moved beyond literal construction of roads and buildings and was now focused on political infrastructure, and Cloud always felt a bit guilty about calling him over for the sake of paperwork, and therefore never brought it up. The end result was a large pile of stressful charts that he could never motivate himself to do alone.

A noise from the end of the hall snapped him out of his intense focus on absolutely nothing constructive, and he hastily flicked the water off an account involving a leaking roof and got up, stashing the hunting knife back under his pillow. Tifa was awake.

Cloud crept downstairs, careful not to wake whoever was asleep on the couch in the back. He'd since lost track of who was here this week. Maybe Yuffie? He probably should have written it down somewhere.

"You're up early," he commented as Tifa came downstairs. Cloud was usually up by 7 (they had talked him down from 4 am, reminding him that most of society didn't run on military time and the extra sleep would do him some good), but Tifa usually slept in until 10 in preparation for the late shifts the bar usually offered.

"The storm woke me up," she said, rummaging through the fridge for eggs. "Maybe I should start a garden, with all this rain.” She paused, staring out the window for a moment. “Wouldn't have to bother taking care of it much." She took a can of corned beef hash from the cupboard and set about dumping the mixture into a frying pan.

Cloud watched her intently. He was banned from the kitchen after the incident with the dishwasher. "It's nice," he said quietly. Tifa looked faintly uncomfortable and refocused her efforts on chopping mushrooms, so he looked away.

The streets would likely be empty today. Cloud was one of the few people in the city that owned a vehicle, by dint of him building it himself, and nobody wanted to walk in the rain. Tifa wasn't the only one it set on edge these days.

"...Gonna be across town today. Broken roof," he continued. "Was gonna save it for tomorrow, but they'll probably want that finished now."

"You should visit Yuffie while you're out," she replied, grateful for the change in subject. "She stole from the till last time she was here, and she knows I'd probably break her fingers. She'd listen to you."

He shrugged. "Headed into the ruins today, too. Maybe she'll turn up. Don't think she's left for home yet."

Tifa looked up from the pan on top of the stove, which was now giving off the tantalising scent of grilled mushrooms. "You're fixing a roof in the ruins?" she asked, doing her best not to sound as though she thought he was wasting his time.

He seemed to notice anyway, and shook his head, looking a bit embarrassed. "No. Was thinking, it's been a while since anyone's checked on... things, out there."

A look of comprehension settled on her face, and she looked up from the pan at him. "D'you want me to come with you?"

He scratched his neck nervously. "If you like. You didn't really know him. Wouldn't you be bored?"

"No."

Cloud looked at her appraisingly.

"...It's something that matters to you. And I figured you'd need someone with you anyway," she said, shrugging. "Johnny comes in at five today anyway. We'll switch off and I'll meet you there." She dumped half the mixture in the pan into a bowl and set it in front of Cloud, and he relented.

They ate mostly in silence, with Tifa intermittently speaking to him about the bar, or the relief effort, or how he really should remember to lock the back door more often, but he didn't mind it much. He appreciated the company, and it was nice to spend time with someone that realised you couldn't really have much to say. Mornings made it more difficult. At the very least, his family said he'd been getting much better, and it helped to hear speech.

Eventually he got up and pulled on his boots. "You'll be here later tonight, for the dinner rush?" asked Tifa.

He nodded, so she could see. "See you later tonight," he confirmed, and turned to leave, pulling on his jacket from the hook on the wall nearby and opening the door to the now slightly less street empty.

Tifa dashed forward and quickly slammed the door shut again, causing him to jump. "Wait!" She produced a pair of tinted sunglasses he had left on the counter the night before. "Don't forget."

Cloud grimaced and put them on. He would look a bit odd, he supposed, wearing sunglasses in the rain, but that was the least of his problems. "Right. Sorry. Later tonight."

Tifa moved away from the door and went back upstairs, probably to resume sleeping. Cloud left Seventh Heaven and headed around out back for his bike and the crate of supplies he kept next to it.

He stuffed the crate awkwardly into the harness on his back (it wasn't really meant for things that weren't swords, but it would hold well enough for a few short trips through even roads), and dug his phone out of his pocket, flipping it open and cupping it under his body to shield it from the rain, scrolling through the tiny two inch calendar the screen offered. Roof, moved up to today. That first.

The drive over helped wake him up a bit more -- weather was another thing that helped, he had noticed. Outside stimulus that wasn't overwhelming, the way sound and light and scent could be, and the act of driving gave him something familiar to focus on.

He should have been focusing on it, anyway. After the first two days, he had started keeping track of it. 6:09 am, every day, without fail. It seemed like the sort of thing a human would do -- whatever they were up to, it was planned and consistently executed. But they didn’t have any scent. Everything had a scent. Even water, if you could believe it. Maybe they were hallucinations after all. He considered sleeping outside, and seeing if he could get a glimpse of them as they approached the building. The idea didn’t appeal to him much, though. If he was outside, they would know he was there, and see him, and…

He couldn’t think of anything worse than having them see him, but that only made him feel worse.

A loud honk cut off his train of thought, and he swerved quickly to avoid an oncoming truck. You’re still thinking about it, he chided himself. That’s not important. Your job is.

His hair was plastered to his face from the wind and the rain by the time he pulled off the overpass. He didn't speak much to the first clients -- out of pragmatism, not inability -- and got straight to work after a few quick questions. An out-of-place pipe rather than an actual hole in the roof, fortunately, that was welded back into place with fire in about an hour. The couple had been a bit suspicious as to how he got onto the roof of a five storey building that quickly, but then he was a young man in his prime who did this for a living.

By this point the rain had let up a bit, and he checked his phone again in the lobby of their flat. Dislodged pipe, check. Next... of course, that sink. It had been a week already, hadn’t it?

He checked the time and saw he had about an hour left to get there, so he made a quick run to the nearest store, consulting another list on his phone that he'd saved as a memo by now: bread; tomatoes; some sort of greens he couldn't pronounce the name of; dish soap; and two rolls, the kind with berries baked into them. He awkwardly shoved the bag over his shoulder to hold it in place during the trip, and made his way back into the city again.

He had barely knocked on the door when it flew open and he was hurriedly pulled inside. "You look like a drowned cat. Didn't I tell you last time to get a hat or something?" said the old woman currently somehow leading him into the kitchen by his sleeve. Ms. Suk. She was a regular of his. He opened his mouth to answer and she cut him off again. "Never mind that. Get yourself situated, I've got a lot more work for you today than I planned."

He unpacked the groceries and sat down at the table, not removing his jacket. She simply shook her head and busied herself with the tea kettle. "How's that nice young lady doing? Tessa?"

"Tifa," he said. "We hired some extra hands. Too busy for just the three of us anymore." He watched her work, suppressing a pang of guilt.

"Mm. About time, too. It's a shame about Shinra, really, she could have been quite successful working for the president, all his fancy dinners and such. She's got the talent to. Don't get up," she warned, as he moved his leg slightly in preparation to help her with one of the lower cupboards, "I'll not have you tiring yourself out this early."

A few minutes later, and after much uncomfortable staring at the tablecloth on his part, she had tea set out for the both of them, and a cheese sandwich for Cloud, with the rolls set off to the side. Cloud chewed in silence for another few minutes.

"My sink," she began, regarding him shrewdly over her teacup, "has not been draining properly since the day before yesterday. I suspect I must have accidentally dropped some silverware down it. I'm sure you're aware of how clumsy I can be. Bad joints, you know."

Cloud nodded. It seemed like a fork and bits of cloth lodged itself in the drain every week at about the same time, for about two months now.

"It's very fortunate you're here, I can never make heads or tails of any of this myself," she continued. "You can take off your glasses, you know. I don't know why you'd bother in this weather."

Cloud finished his sandwich and started on his roll. "Medical condition," he said. That part wasn't entirely a lie. "Too much light gives me headaches."

"Mm. Well, it's a good thing it's raining out then, isn't it?" she said brusquely. "When you're finished, we can get started."

It didn't take long to get the dishes cleared away, and after setting then by the sink, he had the u-bend unscrewed, this time removing a handful of yarn. He reassembled the pipe and showed it to her.

"Well, how about that," she said offhandedly, and he set about washing their dishes while she fiddled with the portable radio in the background. She was unable to get it to produce anything other than heavy static and distorted, indistinct voices neither of them could make out properly.

"Damn weather," muttered Ms. Suk, and switched it back off. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to talk to each other, won't we?" She led him upstairs and gestured to several boxes.

"I need all of this moved downstairs and out of the way. It's mostly things my son sent me from Kalm four years ago to help us get by, but it doesn't do me much good these days, and if I trip over them one more time in the dark I'm going to disown him." She brought out a mug of water and set it on a nearby table for him. "Off you go. I'll let you know what needs keeping."

In the next hour he'd come to regret the lack of a functioning radio. She spoke frequently of her own family in between sorting through dusty boxes of blankets and unused china, of how her son had gone to work for Shinra and had set aside some money for her to live, about how much nicer things had been since she had come to Midgar from western Wutai, about her sister who hadn't gotten out of the city in time, but when the conversation turned to him he found himself drawing a blank. He mostly tried to redirect it about his family as well -- Barret, coming by with Marlene to visit every other week, Nanaki's letters (he wasn't entirely sure how he was writing them), Cid visiting every now and then to remark on his bike or other things he'd built. Ms. Suk continued to probe elsewhere.

"What about you, dear? Where are you from?" she asked.

"...Nibel," he said, after a pause. She nodded thoughtfully.

"Thought you had a bit of an accent, but I couldn't quite place it. Your Standard's quite good." He took a sip of the water and unpacked another box that only looked a few years old compared to everything else. Clothes, mostly, with some photographs he set aside for an end table downstairs. "You don't see many people around from that region. Was it nice there?"

"Cold, mostly." Ha. "The weather's nicer down here."

"I'd imagine so. Your parents, were they natives?"

"I --" Something tore through him, like putting weight on a broken leg, and it opened its mouth to speak. He tore himself away from the daze in his head back to the dimly lit room and the sound of rain, suppressing a wince. "Yeah. Yeah, they were."

"Do you speak much of the language yourself?" she asked. He took deep, slow breaths, not caring for the moment about the mess of old scents that did nothing to help him orient himself. "You're a bit young to, I'd think, but if they knew some perhaps you picked it up?"

"A bit. Just phrases. Suffixes. Stuff that gets mixed in." God, how he missed that radio.

"You've got a good ear, then. Most boys your age don't even know there are other languages. I suppose they speak it up there a bit more. Pah! They did a lot of good for the world, but if there's one thing I begrudge Shinra for, I suppose it's all that culture that got washed away. Nobody's bothered to remember. When I was a girl, we used to... did you want to take off your jacket?" she suddenly interjected. "You look like you're about to have a heat stroke."

It was true. The heat of the house, combined with the work, his own body temperature, and the stress (god, the stress) had sweat running down his face. He hesitated for a moment, braced himself for the inevitable, then obliged. If it'd keep her on the subject of Wutai, maybe his head would stop pounding.

Instead she fixed her eyes on the melted-looking scar running up his left arm and disappearing into his sleeve. "Ah. Goodness, you're certainly lucky, aren't you? Or perhaps very unlucky, as it were. How old are you?" she asked, scrutinising him more carefully.

"Nibel was hit pretty hard. That's why I came to live here, after it was over." Another lie, covering up more questions he couldn't answer.

She nodded curtly. "Well, we're happy to have you, dear," she said. He felt the pit of guilt in his stomach twist a bit tighter, but at least it had the intended effect, and she switched the topic to the rebuilding effort and kept it there for the next half hour.

By the time they were finished, he had a trash bag he dumped out the back, a full bin for recycling, and a pile of old clothes. Ms. Suk scooped the clothes into an empty bag and pushed it into his arms.

He stared at it blankly for a moment. "...Should I put them in the wash?"

She "hmphed" amusedly. "Those? Of course not. What am I going to do, wear them? At my age? Something like that, it'd be awful on my figure. I'd look like porridge someone poured into a sock, if they fit at all. They're yours now."

Cloud blinked. "I can't take these," he objected.

"Why not? They look about your size, and you could do with something decent to wear that isn't worn thin. Makes you look like a hoodlum, and we both know you're certainly not too good for anything I could offer you, don't we?" she said pointedly. "Go, get them out of my sight. They're only taking up space. And here, for your trouble," she added, pressing a wad of gil into his hand. He was certain it was quite a bit more than what he had asked for. She handed him the pocket radio, too. "Something else for you to fix. It's obviously broken."

Cloud nodded numbly, struggling to come up with something to say that wouldn't sound as inadequate as "thanks".

After another quick exchange and her thrusting another package into his hands "for the road", this one containing some sort of spicy baked egg and cabbage mixture that he could never remember the name of, and he was hustled out the door into the now sunny street again, until she found something creative to stuff down her drain next week.

“Get a hat!” she yelled after him.

He flipped open his phone again, wondering if he should perhaps get a proper watch. A bit past noon, with five hours to kill. He could head out to the ruins early and see if there was anything worth salvaging, but it'd be more efficient if he just picked Tifa up himself. And besides that, it'd be easier to get where he was going without carrying a box full of scrap metal and screwdrivers and a bag of clothes all day.

There was a small crowd of patrons in the bar by the time he got back. He came in through the back, set down the crate and the clothes, put his food in the fridge, and made his way towards the front and slipped in behind the bar and began washing the dust off his hands.

"You're back early," she said over her shoulder, fetching him an apron.

"The roof thing took less time than I thought," he explained. "Tables or bar?"

"Bar. I need to help out in the kitchen," she said, and slipped into the back without another word as he set about making drinks for the patrons.

As it turned out, there wasn't much to do either way. Once the initial crowd cleared out, business slowed to a trickle, and Cloud found himself leaning against the counter with his back to the door, chewing at a hangnail on his thumb.

Tifa reemerged from the kitchen and crossed her arms. "That's bad form. What if someone walked in?"

"Nobody's gonna walk in."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. There aren't any cars coming, and the sidewalks are empty for at least a block both ways."

Tifa uncrossed her arms and sat down. The vibrations-off-the-sidewalk thing still freaked her out a bit, he suspected, but also Cloud really wanted to win his petty argument for not doing anything.

"I brought food."

"I saw. Kimchijeon?"

"Sorry?"

"The food."

"Oh." He scratched his neck. "Got some clothes, too. Dunno how well they'll fit. The shirts'll be nice, at least. See if there's anything that'll fit you in there."

"Oh!" She smiled. Most of her clothes doubled as work clothes these days and were worn threadbare much like his own, and she'd been putting off buying anything nice for herself for months. "I'll make something for you to bring over next time."

"That'd be nice."

He stood in silence for another few moments. Now that the sky had cleared up, the whole bar was comfortably warm from the sun filtering in through the windows. Tifa was prepping some sort of drink mix, occasionally glancing out the window just in case. His hair and jacket had finally dried out.

They were always busy, it seemed -- he and Tifa and Barret and the rest of the family. That was a new experience; having something to do or be done constantly. People to see, and things to fix, and a room of his own to keep tidy. Or not keep tidy at all. If he wanted he could do nothing at all, for a whole hour. Maybe two. Maybe even a day. (A day, he had thought, seemed like far too much time. It wasn't as though he disliked work.) And then, if he got lonely, he could go downstairs or open his phone and talk to someone that expected nothing of him but his company, and maybe for him to wash dishes or do laundry sometimes.

It was too perfect. He had always suspected as much, and two years ago he'd received an unpleasant reminder of how easily it could be taken away. Having something to lose, for the first time in years... that was a new experience, too. All it took was one mistake.

He thought of the people looking in through his window and wondered if he was on the verge of one of those mistakes right now.

"Hey... Tifa?"

She looked up from the bottle she'd been unscrewing. "Yeah?"

The words caught in his throat. "...If it's all the same to you, I'm gonna head out early," he managed to get out. "Let me know when you switch off, and I'll come pick you up."

"Alright," said Tifa. "Remember, later tonight."

"Later tonight."

Cloud quietly seethed at himself the entire ride back into what was left of Midgar. She'd been so patient. Coming up with the system they had, letting him live in her building, putting up with his presence. If we're having any trouble, we'll talk to each other. Even if it's stupid, she'd said.

All it would take was one mistake, though. Maybe a panic attack at a bad time. Maybe if he had one of his bad days at the same time as one of hers, and neither one of them handled it well. Maybe if Marlene saw. She wasn't there often, and she had seen quite a lot for a girl her age, but there was no point in scarring her further.

That was the point of this trip, though, wasn't it? For his own benefit. Something like that. Some things were a lot more difficult to fix than others.

He pulled his bike up alongside an old abandoned church in what used to be Sector 5, opened up Fenrir and removed the centre blade Vigilante, and proceeded into the city. Strictly speaking, civilians weren't supposed to be here, and going any further on a vehicle was impossible due to the millions of tonnes of twisted steel piled high, with human remains they hadn't been able to retrieve sealed away under concrete and melted skyscrapers. If it was decomposing at all, it was doing it very, very slowly. The earth here was still barren -- not even bacteria seemed to thrive here anymore.

Cloud had been one of the few people "allowed" to head as deep into the city as he was today. If a building collapsed on or underneath from anyone else, it would have been a problem. Cloud and Yuffie were both light enough to navigate unstable ground, and athletic enough to get through what would be completely impassable territory to anyone else.

It had to be him, visiting like this. There was nobody left that would care about that spot on what was left of the sixty-eighth floor. So every week, he came back. One day it would all crumble, but until then it was something that he considered his duty. The world had already forgotten him, so Cloud couldn’t afford to.

It was eerily silent as he climbed higher and deeper into the ruins. Occasionally he'd hear the creaking of metal, as more infrastructure crumbled in on itself, but there was nothing living here for hundreds of miles. The silence set him on edge, and he switched on the radio, which now seemed to be working properly. He'd try to get her to take it back later, if he could convince her to.

Cloud delicately hopped off the top of the six storey building he'd scaled and landed lightly on the wreckage of a train below it. The tracks were mangled and the supports keeping them up had collapsed years ago, but he'd found one could still mostly follow them in towards the centre of the city. Every now and then, he thought he recognised a building. It was impossible to tell anymore. Sector 6 looked just as bad as everything else.

Eventually he reached something that did look familiar -- a pile of shattered glass that had once been part of the neon sign next to it: Shinra Electric Power Company. He made sure his gloves were on properly, bent his knees, and took another leap, managing to get a handhold on the ledge of the second storey. The stairs were blocked on many floors due to collapse, and some passages he'd discovered the last time around had since collapsed in on themselves, so he'd opted to cut his way straight through the ceiling rather than bother shifting rubble. It was faster that way, and at the very least if the building collapsed in on itself anyway he'd already have his sword out to cut himself free before he was crushed.

On the sixtieth floor, the trumpet solo the radio had been broadcasting was suddenly replaced with heavy static again. He stopped to retune it, but it only got louder. He was surprised it had gotten reception this far out at all, and clipped it onto his back pocket again. Perhaps the signal would sharpen if he made it back outside at the top.

On the sixty-first floor, the signal did sharpen, but the jazz solo did not resume. The indistinct voices he had heard before became slightly clearer, but no more intelligible. Cloud saw something move out of the corner of his eye.

His sword had already been out, but now he switched it to its wider stance with a quick flick of his wrist and held it at the ready. Something else moved, and he whipped around to face it.

They were all around him now, and no longer at the periphery of his vision. Shapes he couldn't make out, as though his eyes didn't quite focus on them. The shadows outside his window were here now, with no glass to view them through. He took a step back, and they seemed to move with him. He could hear the distorted noises more clearly now, and it was no longer coming from the radio. They had no scent.

He wanted to get away, to attack, to yell at the shapes, anything, but suddenly his thoughts felt muddy and confused, and his sword clattered to the ground as his hand didn't quite want to grip it properly anymore. The shapes moved faster and they seemed to twist the world around him as they moved, as though they were taking the world and dragging it with them, like ink splashed through water. The noise was deafening and overwhelming, and the air felt thick.

Cloud Strife abruptly stopped thinking.

It was a curious sensation, if it could be called a sensation at all, given he couldn't process it. Every thought he'd had was snuffed out as quickly as it came, and nothing else followed them up. He simply existed, mind inert, his sword still lying at his feet. If the shapes were still there, he wouldn't have known, or cared.

He stood there, completely motionless, scarcely breathing. He took a step forward, then another. He began to walk, at first aimlessly, and then with purpose. He went to the sixty-second floor, and then the sixty third. At the sixty fourth floor, he stood in the centre again, this time for longer. The world seemed static at times, and spun around him at others. His breathing came in odd spurts, as though his lungs simply stopped working on and off.

His phone rang.

Cloud coughed, stumbled forward onto his stomach, and cried out, his sunglasses clattering off his face.

He didn't answer it right away, nor did he pick up on the second or third calls, and simply lay there, trying to pretend he wasn't shaking slightly. The radio had moved onto another song more prominently featuring a saxophone. He felt sick and disoriented.

He put his glasses back on, went back downstairs, collected his sword, and began descending Shinra Tower, frequently stealing glances over his shoulder. He saw nothing but rubble.

He walked back to Fenrir, replaced his sword in his harness, rather than inside his bike, and drove back into Edge, trying to sort out his thoughts. His head throbbed.

He remembered very clearly walking up the stairs. The motion, the sounds of his footsteps, the careful observation of his surroundings and the fixed staring at nothing with his eyes unfocused. But there was a strange period of nothing that accompanied all of it. He hadn't thought anything, been aware of anything, felt anything the entire time. It was as though a portion of his life had simply been replaced with images shot from a camera.

There had been something in that tower with him. He was certain of it, though he didn't know how. He wasn't harmed, as far as he could tell, apart from a scuff on his cheek that would already be healed by the time he got home. It hadn't felt like anything he'd experienced before, even with Sephiroth. That was the worst part of it all, he thought. If it was related to him, he'd at least know how to deal with it. Sephiroth was dead. Explicitly dead, killed twice over. The first time had been fairly thorough, he'd thought, until it had turned out the dead part of him needed killing again, two years after that. None of it had made much sense to any of them, but that had destroyed him for good. He had at least sensed that.

A sharp stab of pain in his head brought him back to the present. Sephiroth might have been dead, but the genetic tampering was still irreversible. He'd have to deal with it sooner rather than later.

When he got back home, Tifa was standing there looking concerned, which was almost worse than looking angry. "You didn't answer the phone. What happened?"

"...Not really feeling well," he supplied lamely. "We'll go back out there some other time."

"Jenova?" she asked, to which he gave a small nod. Whether or not it was the problem before, it was certainly the problem right now.

"If you need me to find someone to cover for you, you'll have to let me know now. If you’re not feeling up to it I can find someone to fill in." She looked over her shoulder at the clock. It was nearly eight. “Do you need me to sit with you for a bit, or…?”

He waved her off. "No, I can still help. Just gotta deal with this real quick."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. S'cuse me." He hurried up the stairs to Tifa's room and closed the door. She'd almost certainly seen his sword out of its storage and on his back.

He removed his boots, his harness, and his gloves, and sat in the middle of her bed with his legs crossed. He took a deep breath and calmed himself, and quietly found the source of his headache and dove into it.

This "meditation" was something he did every day, as a means of keeping himself in check. Jenova would always be a part of him, whether it was in his head or his DNA, so Cloud had given up suppressing it. In his case it was a temporary measure at best. Instead he had opened himself to it, trying to supplant it and incorporate it into himself, to take all that deliberate gnawing at his psyche and make it his own. Progress had been slow but steady, although not without its drawbacks. The benefits far outweighed them, as far as he was concerned. And he'd learned quite a bit more about Sephiroth, and himself perhaps, than he'd intended to. Some things he'd shown to his family. Others, he'd been afraid to acknowledge, even though he knew he'd have to sooner or later.

Usually it was something he did before bed. Clearly that wasn't an option today.

Half an hour later, he emerged, feeling a bit odd as he usually did after it was done. He glanced around the room and noted that there hadn't been any fallout from the process this time. If he were in a better mood and didn't have a dinner shift to attend to, he might've taken that as a sign to experiment with some of the more mundane things he'd uncovered. He slid off the bed and put his boots back on.

As he headed to the door, he paused and glanced under the bed, at the box he knew was hidden there, and the odd white materia kept stored in it. Perhaps it would help if he...

Best not to, he thought, and closed the door.

[criticalthinkingedu-blog]

The Ransom of Red Chief by O. Henry

It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama - Bill Driscoll and myself-when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but we didn't find that out till later.

    There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.

    Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities therefore, and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables and, maybe, some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good.

    We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you.

    About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions.

    One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.

    "Hey, little boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?"

The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick.

    "That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says Bill, climbing over the wheel.

    That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave, and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.

    Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tailfeathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says:

    "Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?"

    "He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief's captive, and I'm to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard."

    Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun.

    Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He made a during-dinner speech something like this:

    "I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet 'possum once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's speckled hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't like girls. You dassent catch toads unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make twelve?"

Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin, and pick up his stick rifle and tiptoe to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a warwhoop that made Old Hank the Trapper, shiver. That boy had Bill terrorised from the start.

    "Red Chief," says I to the kid, "would you like to go home?"

    "Aw, what for?" says he. "I don't have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You won't take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?"

    "Not right away," says I. "We'll stay here in the cave a while."

    "All right!" says he. "That'll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life."

    We went to bed about eleven o'clock. We spread down some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren't afraid he'd run away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for his rifle and screeching: "Hist! pard," in mine and Bill's ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band. At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair.

    Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from Bill. They weren't yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you'd expect from a manly set of vocal organs - they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak.

    I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill's chest, with one hand twined in Bill's hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously and realistically trying to take Bill's scalp, according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before.

I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again. But, from that moment, Bill's spirit was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn't nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe and leaned against a rock.

    "What you getting up so soon for, Sam?" asked Bill.

    "Me?" says I. "Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it."

    "You're a liar!" says Bill. "You're afraid. You was to be burned at sunrise, and you was afraid he'd do it. And he would, too, if he could find a match. Ain't it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?"

    "Sure," said I. "A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this mountain and reconnoitre."

    I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. "Perhaps," says I to myself, "it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have borne away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!" says I, and I went down the mountain to breakfast.

When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock half as big as a cocoanut.

    "He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back," explained Bill, "and then mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, Sam?"

    I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the argument. "I'll fix you," says the kid to Bill. "No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he got paid for it. You better beware!"

    After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it.

    "What's he up to now?" says Bill, anxiously. "You don't think he'll run away, do you, Sam?"

    "No fear of it," says I. "He don't seem to be much of a home body. But we've got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don't seem to be much excitement around Summit on account of his disappearance; but maybe they haven't realised yet that he's gone. His folks may think he's spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbours. Anyhow, he'll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for his return."

    Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as David might have emitted when he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head.

    I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill, like a horse gives out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg had caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened himself all over and fell in the fire across the frying pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged him out and poured cold water on his head for half an hour.

By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: "Sam, do you know who my favourite Biblical character is?"

    "Take it easy," says I. "You'll come to your senses presently."

    "King Herod," says he. "You won't go away and leave me here alone, will you, Sam?"

    I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles rattled.

    "If you don't behave," says I, "I'll take you straight home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?"

    "I was only funning," says he sullenly. "I didn't mean to hurt Old Hank. But what did he hit me for? I'll behave, Snake-eye, if you won't send me home, and if you'll let me play the Black Scout to-day."

    "I don't know the game," says I. "That's for you and Mr. Bill to decide. He's your playmate for the day. I'm going away for a while, on business. Now, you come in and make friends with him and say you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once."

    I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from the cave, and find out what I could about how the kidnapping had been regarded in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and dictating how it should be paid.

    "You know, Sam," says Bill, "I've stood by you without batting an eye in earthquakes, fire and flood - in poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train robberies and cyclones. I never lost my nerve yet till we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a kid. He's got me going. You won't leave me long with him, will you, Sam?"

    "I'll be back some time this afternoon," says I. "You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I return. And now we'll write the letter to old Dorset."

Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. "I ain't attempting," says he, "to decry the celebrated moral aspect of parental affection, but we're dealing with humans, and it ain't human for anybody to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk of freckled wildcat. I'm willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference up to me."

    So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter that ran this way:

Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.:

    We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is useless for you or the most skilful detectives to attempt to find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and in the same box as your reply - as hereinafter described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight o'clock. After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard box.

    The messenger will place the answer in this box and return immediately to Summit.

    If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as stated, you will never see your boy again.

    If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if you do not accede to them no further communication will be attempted.

    TWO DESPERATE MEN.

I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I was about to start, the kid comes up to me and says:

    "Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you was gone."

    "Play it, of course," says I. "Mr. Bill will play with you. What kind of a game is it?"

    "I'm the Black Scout," says Red Chief, "and I have to ride to the stockade to warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I 'm tired of playing Indian myself. I want to be the Black Scout."

    "All right," says I. "It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. Bill will help you foil the pesky savages."

    "What am I to do?" asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously.

    "You are the hoss," says Black Scout. "Get down on your hands and knees. How can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?"

    "You'd better keep him interested," said I, "till we get the scheme going. Loosen up."

    Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye like a rabbit's when you catch it in a trap.

    " How far is it to the stockade, kid? " he asks, in a husky manner of voice.

    "Ninety miles," says the Black Scout. "And you have to hump yourself to get there on time. Whoa, now!"

    The Black Scout jumps on Bill's back and digs his heels in his side.

    "For Heaven's sake," says Bill, "hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can. I wish we hadn't made the ransom more than a thousand. Say, you quit kicking me or I '11 get up and warm you good."

    I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the post office and store, talking with the chawbacons that came in to trade. One whiskerand says that he hears Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset's boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred casually to the price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter surreptitiously and came away. The postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to Summit.

 When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to be found. I explored the vicinity of the cave, and risked a yodel or two, but there was no response.

    So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to await developments.

    In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill wabbled out into the little glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took off his hat and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet behind him.

    "Sam," says Bill, "I suppose you'll think I'm a renegade, but I couldn't help it. I'm a grown person with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defence, but there is a time when all systems of egotism and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him home. All is off. There was martyrs in old times," goes on Bill, "that suffered death rather than give up the particular graft they enjoyed. None of 'em ever was subjugated to such supernatural tortures as I have been. I tried to be faithful to our articles of depredation; but there came a limit."

    "What's the trouble, Bill?" I asks him.

    "I was rode," says Bill, "the ninety miles to the stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain't a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to explain to him why there was nothin' in holes, how a road can run both ways and what makes the grass green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and I've got two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterised.

    "But he's gone" - continues Bill - "gone home. I showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I'm sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to the madhouse."

Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable peace and growing content on his rose-pink features.

    "Bill," says I, "there isn't any heart disease in your family, is there?"

    "No," says Bill, "nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?"

    "Then you might turn around," says I, "and have a look behind you."

    Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down plump on the ground and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese war with him as soon as he felt a little better.

    I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger of being caught by counterplots that ought to commend itself to professional kidnappers. The tree under which the answer was to be left - and the money later on - was close to the road fence with big, bare fields on all sides. If a gang of constables should be watching for any one to come for the note they could see him a long way off crossing the fields or in the road. But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up in that tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger to arrive.

    Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the fencepost, slips a folded piece of paper into it and pedals away again back toward Summit.

    I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was square. I slid down the tree, got the note, slipped along the fence till I struck the woods, and was back at the cave in another half an hour. I opened the note, got near the lantern and read it to Bill. It was written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of it was this:

Two Desperate Men.

    Gentlemen: I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better come at night, for the neighbours believe he is lost, and I couldn't be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back.

    Very respectfully,

    Ebenezer Dorset.

"Great pirates of Penzance!" says I; "of all the impudent - "

    But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute.

    "Sam," says he, "what's two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We've got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You ain't going to let the chance go, are you?"

    "Tell you the truth, Bill," says I, "this little he ewe lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We'll take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away."

    We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his father had bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day.

    It was just twelve o'clock when we knocked at Ebenezer's front door. Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to the original proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset's hand.

    When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started up a howl like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill's leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster.

"How long can you hold him?" asks Bill.

    "I'm not as strong as I used to be," says old Dorset, "but I think I can promise you ten minutes."

    "Enough," says Bill. "In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border."

    And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him.