#had a woman (I hope? a tourist?) loudly declaring how

[curiosity-killed]

Absolutely fascinating behavior by the public tonight

[dragonkeeper19600]

Jaws: The Musical (Concept)

So, out of curiosity, I looked online to see if anyone had ever adapted a musical from Jaws. There is a musical called Bruce that’s scheduled to debut in Seattle next year about the production of Jaws (and I would be interested in seeing that), but as for a musical of the Jaws story itself, I found one that’s for kids and about 48 minutes long.

Now, I’ve never seen this musical, so I cannot attest as to its quality, but, in my opinion, both of those choices are wrong. This musical should be the full two acts, and it should be aimed at adults. 

I’ve been brainstorming, and I think I’ve got a hypothetical musical all mapped out. You might think a musical based on Jaws is silly, but a lot of successful musicals have been adapted from really strange things (such as a comic book artist’s coming-out memoir, a crappy Roger Corman movie, and a collection of goofy cat poems), and I feel like a Jaws musical could be really epic. The story easily lends itself into a two-act structure. The first act is the shark attacks on Amity Island, and the second act is the hunt for the shark in the Orca. 

However, the musical wouldn’t make the mistake of putting lyrics to John Williams’s iconic Jaws theme. The theme would obviously be used as a leitmotif throughout the show, but it’s not the type of song that lends itself to lyrics, and I think that would be corny,

So, the musical would play out like this:

ACT ONE:

The movie opened with Chrissie’s death, so the stage show will do the same. The scene will be short and all dialogue, no singing. The shark will also not be seen, but its presence will be implied by the music, lighting, and Chrissy’s acting.

First song: “Welcome to Amity Island.” Functions as an intro to the setting of Act One. The tone is joyous and celebratory as the islanders welcome the flood of tourists that always come in the summer. A big portion of the song is sung by Mayor Vaughn as he sings about what a wonderful vacation spot Amity Island is. We also meet Brody, and a dark undercurrent is introduced to the song as he finds Chrissy’s mangled body.

Brody, of course, takes steps to close the beach right away, but he’s stopped by the Mayor, who sings the second song, “Summer Dollars,” where the Mayor insists that closing the beaches is bad for the town and that Brody shouldn’t be causing an unnecessary panic and causing hysteria that could drive tourists away. Brody tries to argue back but in the end, Vaughn has his way.

Brody returns to the station, apprehensive about keeping the beaches open. Here, we’re introduced to Brody’s wife, Ellen, who saw no problem with visiting him at work since nothing ever happens on Amity Island. Brody expresses his uneasiness, but Ellen assures him that his fear of the water is making him overestimate the danger. This gets Brody’s coworkers curious, so, with a little prompting from Ellen, Brody sings his first solo, “Drowning,” about his fear of the water. In the song, Brody sings about a childhood incident where a bully held him underwater at a public swimming pool. Not only did this give him a fear of water, but the bullying he received as a child is what set him on the path to become a cop, since he wanted to be able to protect people from suffering the same mistreatment he did. However, he moved from New York City because the working environment there was unfriendly to cops who wish to protect and serve instead of, well, being typical American cops.

Next song: “Blue Sky” Just as the Mayor wished, the beaches are open, and summer is in full swing. Brody is there with his family, anxiously keeping an eye on the water. The rest of the ensemble doesn’t share his anxiety, however, as they frolic and play in the sun. Brody is jolted to his feet several times by the sound of screaming, but it’s always a false alarm. However, the mood turns scary as we segue into the next song:

“Shark!” - While out swimming on his raft, young Alex Kintner is attacked and eaten. Brody sees it and screams the title of the song. It’s pandemonium as people rush out of the water, and the song is fast-paced and chaotic. However, it ends on a mournfully quiet note as Mrs. Kintner calls for her son. (”Alex? Alex!?”)

Quick scene transition, and we move immediately into he next song, called “Something Must Be Done.” Here, at a town council meeting, the townspeople argue back and forth about what to do about their shark problem. I imagine the music here sounding like the “Mayor’s Meeting” theme from The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask. Brody argues strongly in favor of closing the beaches (in song, of course), but he is shut down not only by the Mayor but by the rest of the townspeople, who still rely on the income brought in by the tourists. People throw around various suggestions, with one woman finally declaring that she’ll reward whoever catches the shark with three thousand dollars. The song descends into a cacophony as people argue over each other.

The noise is interrupted by the screech of nails on a chalkboard. It’s Quint who sings the titular song, “Jaws,” as he sings about his job as a shark hunter and how dangerous sharks can be. (”Those jaws will swallow you whole. / A little shakin’, tenderizing’, down you go.”) He offers to kill the shark for ten grand, not three. The woman who made the offer balks at the high price, and the Mayor explains that kind of money isn’t in the budget “right now.” Quint takes it in stride and tells everyone they’ll know where to find him if they change their minds. He’s supposedly addressing the room, but he looks right at Brody as he says it. He can tell Brody is the only one who will actually listen.

Many sailors of various aptitudes come to Amity Island, hoping to catch the shark and cash in on that three thousand dollars. Among the new arrivals is Hooper, who introduces himself to Brody as a marine biologist from the Oceanographic Institute. Hooper sings his intro song, “Beautiful,” referring to his views on sharks. Hooper recounts how he was bitten by a shark as a child, but instead of coming to fear them, Hooper walked away fascinated by them and now views sharks to be beautiful creatures. However, the song takes a somber note as Hooper is brought in to examine Chrissie’s remains, and the word “Beautiful” is shifted from referring to sharks to referring to Chrissie when she was alive. (“She was just a kid. / So much of life to live. / Now, bits and scraps are all that’s left. / Of a girl who was once so beautiful.”)

“Hell of a Fish” - The fishermen succeed in catching a large tiger shark, presumed to be the shark that killed Alex and Chrissie. Brody joins in the celebratory atmosphere, but Hooper examines the dead shark’s teeth and is convinced they’ve got the wrong fish. The Mayor and the fisherman who caught the tiger shark argue that this is the shark that’s been causing the trouble, while Hooper argues back that it’s definitely not. Hooper angrily demands that he be allowed to dissect the shark to confirm whether there are human remains inside, but Mayor Vaughn rejects his request. He doesn't care if they’ve got the right shark. He doesn’t believe a third attack will happen either way. (”We’ve got a hell of a fish to show. / And shark attacks are pretty rare, you know?”) 

This song is interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Kintner, in funeral attire, who goes up to Brody and slaps him. She then sings “My Boy Is Dead,” a slow, tragic lament about her son, Alex. (“He was just a boy. His whole life still ahead. / Now, I’ll never know what he would’ve been. / Because my boy is dead.”) Mrs. Kintner blames Brody for not warning the town after Chrissie’s death, and Brody takes the blame to heart. The song ends with a callback to “Hell of a Fish,” as Hooper bitterly remarks that he hopes Mayor Vaughn is right about the tiger shark being the culprit, otherwise there’s a “hell of a fish” still out there somewhere.

“Cloud on the Horizon” - Song is kicked off by a TV reporter, who delivers a brief story to the audience about the recent shark attacks on Amity Island. The holiday-making resumes on Amity’s beaches, but people are more nervous than before, The ensemble sings amongst themselves about whether they should go in the water. They finally do so with a little encouragement from the Mayor. Meanwhile, Brody encourages his son Michael to stay in the shallow pond.

“Shark! (Reprise)” - A shark fin is spotted in the water, and the ensemble takes up the alarm, scrambling while frantically singing a reprise of “Shark!” However, the alarm dies down when the fin is revealed to be a fake worn by a swimmer. However, a lone woman takes up the cry again as the shark is spotted swimming toward the pond where Michael is. The music ramps up as the shark takes down a boater mere feet away from Michael, and the audience gets their first clear view of the shark.

“Red Sea” - The song functions as a reprise of “Blue Sky,” but also contains musical elements from “My Boy is Dead.” Brody pulls his son Michael out of the water, unsure of whether he’s still alive. Luckily, Michael is only in shock. Ellen runs to call for an ambulance. As he waits by Michael’s body, Brody sings his second solo, loudly berating everyone in town, including himself, for allowing this to happen three times. All of the beachgoers, including the Mayor, are cowed by his song.

“(Can’t Find) a Good Man” - This is the first song between all three crew members of the Orca. Brody goes to hire Quint to kill the shark, agreeing to pay whatever he wants. Quint knows he has Brody by the balls and keeps upping the price, demanding additional payments like various kinds of booze and a color TV in addition to the ten thousand dollars. Brody agrees to all of it, but Quint’s one crew member refuses to go out after the shark, so Quint fires him. Hooper and Brody volunteer to go along, but Quint is reluctant to bring them aboard. He contemplates whether he should go alone, since Hooper and Brody will be useless on deck. Hooper loudly argues that he's qualified and “doesn’t need this working class hero crap,” but Brody is more gentle and persuasive. He reminds Quint that his own son was nearly killed by this shark and feels he owes it to both his family and the town to help in whatever way he can. Quint is won over by Brody’s humility and agrees to take them both on.

“Farewell, Amity Island” - Reprise of “Welcome to Amity Island” and the Act One Finale. Like “Welcome to Amity Island,” this is a huge ensemble number, this time centering around the Orca’s upcoming departure. Several characters come to see the ship off as Quint yells at Hooper and Brody, including the Mayor and Ellen. The Mayor apologizes to Brody (“I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. / My own children were there in that same red sea.”), where Ellen bids a tearful farewell, knowing she might never see Brody again. Brody’s sung farewells are intercut with a spoken back and forth between Quint and Hooper, as Quint snarks at everything Hooper does. The song also contains instrumental traces of “Spanish Ladies.” Brody and Ellen’s embrace is broken up by Quint as the Orca shoves off.

ACT TWO:

After the act two opener (which is an instrumental of “Jaws,” the song Quint sang earlier), we return to the Orca where Quint fishes off the stern, loudly singing “Spanish Ladies” a cappella. It sounds pretty good, but he’s interrupted by Hooper, who yells that he’s been listening to Quint sing for three hours and can’t take it any more. Brody has no choice but to listen to the ensuing back and forth as he chums the water. 

The childish behavior is interrupted when Quint gets a bite. He's convinced it’s the shark, but Hooper, still annoyed with Quint, believes it’s some kind of sport fish. Hooper begrudgingly goes to help Quint pull in the line, but a moment of inattention causes the line to snap.

“City Hands” - Quint berates Hooper for losing the shark and trying to tell a professional shark hunter how to hunt sharks. Their animosity finally erupts into an angry duet as they hurl very personal insults at each other, with Hooper calling Quint a drunken, senile sea dog, while Quint berates Hooper for being a coddled, privileged city boy. Their musical fight looks like it’ll get physical when Hooper snatches the beer Quint was drinking out of his hand and chucks it into the ocean. Luckily, Brody breaks it up, pointedly reminding them why they’re here and that they don’t need to be at each other’s throats when the shark will gladly do that for them. Quint sheepishly apologizes to Brody and only Brody. Hooper likewise backs down.

Brody returns to chumming the water only to toss a shovelful of chum directly into the shark’s face. The shark is right beside the Orca, and it’s huge. There is an instrumental score but no singing as all three men work together to try and bring in the shark. The shark seems unfazed by all the bullets and harpoons they shoot into it, but they manage to attach one barrel to the shark. Quint is satisfied that the shark will tire itself out with the barrel attached and that all they have to do is wait it out. Brody is all for returning to shore and calling the Coast Guard, but Quint ignores him.

Scene transition, and we’re in the ship’s cabin that night. All three men are staying up to wait for the shark, and they’ve had a bit to drink. Quint catches Brody examining the rope burn he got on his hand earlier in the day and reassures him that it won't leave a permanent scar. This segues into the duet “Something Permanent,” as Hooper and Quint compare scars. The tone isn’t angry and harsh as before but jovial and upbeat. Clearly, the earlier animosity is forgiven. 

“Those Eyes” - This is Quint’s solo about the sinking of the Indianapolis. Brody asks Quint about a scar on his arm that he hasn’t mentioned. Quint offhandedly mentions it’s a tattoo he had removed. When Hooper makes a joke about it being a “Mother” tattoo, Quint informs him it’s actually for the U.S.S. Indianapolis. Hooper clearly knows the story, but Brody doesn't, so Quint tells it. The song is slow and eerie. The words “those eyes” are used to refer to both the sharks’ eyes and the eyes of his crew mates as they were devoured or lay dead in the water. Quint sings that he still sees those eyes looming up at him in the dark of the night. He then catches the looks on Brody and Hooper’s faces and chuckles darkly, telling them not to look at him with “those eyes.” After all, they delivered the bomb. No one comments on this, but all three men have now sung their backstories at some point in the show.

Hooper quietly starts to sing “Show Me the Way to Go Home.” The other two join in. Their singing is interrupted by the shark ramming into the ship.

The crew scramble back on deck. Quint, his mind still swimming in the memory of the Indianapolis, wildly fires a rifle at the shark, but he only succeeds in driving it away, Hooper goes belowdeck  to assess the damage. The ship can still run, but it’s struggling. Brody loudly advocates returning to shore, but Quint refuses.

The shark returns, leading to the next song, “Barrels.” The song has a lot of dialogue and instrumental but also functions as a reprise of “Something Permanent,” as Quint gleefully proclaims his intent to leave “something permanent” on the shark. The crew manages to attach three barrels to the shark, but they lose track of it again. 

Quint decides that since barrels and weapons don’t seem to be working, and the ship is only becoming more damaged, that the thing to do is lure the shark back to shore and drown it in the shallow water. Hooper warns Quint that he’s overtaxing the engine, but Quint only leans harder on the throttle. The engine gives out. 

Brody goes to the radio to call the Coast Guard for help but is shocked when Quint smashes the radio with a baseball bat before the message can get out. This leads to an even angrier reprise of “City Hands,” now with Brody insulting Quint instead of Hooper, calling him “certifiable.” Quint shouts more than sings that he can handle it and he doesn’t need rescuing “this time.” The song shifts to the slower, gentler melody that was used when Brody calmed Hooper and Quint before as Quint tells Brody he vowed that would never be helpless in the water again. Both Brody and Hooper, who was heard the entire outburst, are struck silent.

“Beautiful (Reprise)” - Hooper somberly volunteers to be lowered into the anti-shark cage. Brody argues against it, but, for once, Quint is willing to hear Hooper out. Hooper sings about how putting himself in harm’s way is his only chance to the tune of his intro song, “Beautiful.” Hooper then admits that Quint is right, he hasn’t been through what Quint has, but he’s willing to try and prove his worth. Quint and Brody realize they don't have much choice and agree.

Hooper goes into the cage. Brody takes Hooper’s glasses, and Hooper gives them both one last look before he puts on his mask and goes under. 

“In the Cage” - Instrumental. While below the water (which is just another part of the stage covered in blue spotlights), Hooper tries to attack the shark with the syringe on the end of a spear, but he drops it. The shark begins to break its way into the cage, but Hooper manages to escape and hides behind some rocks, apologizing to the men above for failing.

Quint and Brody, of course, can’t hear him, nor can they see what’s happening below. Quint and Brody pull up the cage to find it mangled and empty. Brody is devastated, thinking that Hooper is dead, but Quint seems to be truly unraveling. He sings a shaky reprise of “Those Eyes,” this time obsessing over the look Hooper gave them before he went under. He frantically recalls that he saw the same look on the faces of his crew mates after the sinking of the Indianapolis. Tragically, the song also functions as a callback to “My Boy Is Dead.” (”It’s far too late for me now to take back the things I’ve said. / They’ll haunt me ‘til my dying day. / Because that boy is dead.”)

“Quint’s End” - Instrumental, spoken dialogue. Quint can’t get the last image of Hooper out of his mind and begs him to stop looking at him like that. Brody is alarmed as Quint’s pleas to Hooper change to pleas to his dead crew mate, Herbie Robinson. Quint has slid into a full-blown PTSD flashback. In his mind, he’s back in the waters of the Pacific thirty years ago, surrounded by sharks and dead crew mates. Brody tries to calm Quint down by reminding him where he is, but at that moment, the shark leaps onto the stern, and the Orca lists backwards. (In my head, the Orca set is on some kind of platform that can be raised at an incline.) Both men begin to slide toward the waiting jaws of the shark. Brody manages to grab onto the door frame leading into the cabin. He tries to hold onto Quint, but Quint slips out of his hand. Quint tries to fight back against the shark, but with a sickening crunch, Quint falls silent. The shark retreats with Quint’s lifeless body.

“Smile!” - Payback time. The Orca is sinking fast, and Brody knows that if he ends up in the water, it’s game over. Brody manages to ward the shark off with one of Hooper’s scuba tanks. The shark takes the scuba tank into its mouth, giving Brody the chance to climb onto the mast with Quint’s rifle. The music ramps up in speed and intensity as the shark closes in. Brody’s singing ramps up to match as he fires at the shark again and again, reminding himself of his promise to protect others and vowing that this shark will never kill anyone again. Then, with a final, bombastic, “So, smile you son of a bitch!” he gets a hit on the tank, and the shark explodes. He whoops and hollers as the music swells.

The finale instrumental is both sad and sweet. The sinking mast deposits Brody in the water. Hooper surfaces besides him. They laugh together, relieved that it’s over. Hooper asks about Quint, but Brody only responds with the single word, “No.” Hooper and Brody are close enough to paddle back to shore, so they do just that. As they set off, Brody begins to sing, “Show Me the Way to Go Home.” Hooper joins in. The curtain falls.

[artificialqueens]

Down with the Recipe, Bake from the Heart, 1/10 (Multi) - Juno

Summary: This year’s Great British Bake Off will see some baking for sure, but also a few surprises. Tayce goes into the Bake Off tent determined to bring the winning cake stand to Wales, along with a few Star Baker badges, but her attention may not be on baking for too long as she gets to know fellow baker Aurora, on the same row as her. And judging by the other contestants, Tayce might not be the only one focusing on something other than baking this season.

A/N: This is a DRUK2 group based on GBBO - there are a few ships! It’s also on AO3 with 12 chapters but I will post here with 10 for ease as the first two and last two will are being done together. No CWs for this chapter! I hope you enjoy.

PROLOGUE - October 2021

It had been Cheryl who had suggested a live react to the grand finale of this season of Bake Off, so the twelve finalists could all gather together, watch the finale, and then the winner’s reaction could be captured on film and put on the internet for the whole world to see. Cheryl hadn’t even been in the cast - she’d been on the previous season - but she said she’d become invested in the season and the bakers so much so that she hadn’t wanted to let them go yet.

And judging by the public’s reaction to her tweet about it, she wasn’t alone.

Pip had mentioned in their group chat that her sister had a big town house in the Wirral, and she’d offered to let them all use it as a base for their live watch. Channel 4 didn’t have anything purpose-built for them, and the filming location wasn’t available, so they’d all jumped at the chance. Plus, Liverpool served as a good mid-point for them all - it saved Joe having to go all the way to Dundee or Ellie having to go to Brighton.

Aurora had marvelled at the amount of space there was once they’d all arrived the previous day. The living room and dining area were one, with a dining table probably big enough to fit a couple of football teams at it; and the kitchen led into the room with an arched doorway. The kitchen itself was enormous too, in highly polished white surfaces that Aurora was terrified to touch with her probably-impure fingers

“Bit posh, isn’t it!” She’d muttered to Tayce.

Pip’s sister and her husband were staying away, and they had the place all to themselves - the twelve of them reunited, with just Blu and Cheryl for company, operating a handheld camera with the intention of sending the finale footage for Channel 4.

As three endings had been recorded back in June, with each of the finalists winning one of the takes, the actual winner’s reveal would be a surprise to all of them, including the three finalists, and ensure no slip ups from the production team.

That didn’t stop all twelve of them worrying. None of them had slept a wink, all of them keeping an eye on Prue’s twitter to make sure she hadn’t accidentally tweeted the winner again. But mostly they’d been together, reminiscing on some of the moments from the season that had made them laugh. All the funny moments, all the tense moments, and one or two viral moments loaded with innuendo.

Not to mention everything else that had blossomed in tandem with nature that springtime.

It had been quite a season. They’d started out as strangers, and now they were so tightly-knit that they hadn’t even entertained the thought that they would possibly be watching the finale without all of them in the same space.

Aurora swilled the glass of champagne that Joe had insisted on pouring for everyone, and watched all of the people she’d grown close to on the season, a peaceful atmosphere in the room as they waited for the finale to start.

Well, not all of them were peaceful. Lawrence and Ellie were being their usual loud selves, jousting with wooden spoons and shrieking as loudly as they ever did - but Bimini was utterly still for the first time since Aurora had met them, laid against Asttina’s chest as they both reclined on one of the sofas, while Asttina raked her fingers through their mullet; and Bimini’s eyes were closed, their lips in a sleepy smile.

Aurora felt familiar hands creep around her waist, a familiar chin rest on her shoulder from behind, and familiar lips at her cheek.

“I can’t believe it’s coming to an end now,” Aurora murmured, her thoughts escaping her unfiltered, as they sometimes did with Tayce at this close range.

“Well, it was never gonna be forever,” Tayce said into her ear. “But we’re all gonna be friends after this, aren’t we! The wonders of technology! Come into the twenty-first century, Rory. We have this thing called the internet, and group chats, and phones -”

“We’re not all just gonna be friends, though, are we?” Aurora replied.

“We’re all just besties, nothing more than that. Rory, I’m joking!” Tayce laughed at Aurora’s horrified expression. “All I’m saying is that this isn’t the end - just the beginning.”

“That’s so cheesy.”

“Yeah, but I’m right, you can’t deny that!”

Aurora let her eyes drift around everyone else in the room.

Tia and Veronica who had barely left their corner of the sofa, hands and legs wound tightly together, both with hearts in their eyes and bigger smiles than anyone else in the room as they chatted quietly, simply enjoying each others’ company.

Lawrence and Ellie, wooden spoons still in hand, making the most noise in the room in delighted laughter as they jousted with each other, almost knocking Pip over as she carried in another tray of snacks to lay on the dining table.

Bimini resting against Asttina’s chest as they reclined on the other sofa, Asttina still running her fingers through Bimini’s freshly-dyed mullet, both of them letting out a contented sigh in tandem.

“Yeah,” Aurora murmured, as Tayce held her tighter, “I guess so.”

——

WEEK 1: BISCUIT WEEK

April 2021

Tayce grinned at the cameras as they panned around everyone. She’d given the interviewer her spiel about how much she’d always dreamt of being in the gingham tent and how excited she was to bring the winning cake stand to Wales for the first time in Bake Off history; and a surprising calm settled in her chest, nerves dissipating, at the genuine warm aura from everyone and everything in the room.

At least Tayce wasn’t in full view of the judges right at the front. That privilege was reserved for two people from London, both of whom looked right at home in front of the cameras, although their names were a mystery for now.

It was all very familiar from seeing it on the telly the last eleven years. Immaculate worktops with varnish that shone like glass; the tent walls decorated with bunting and flowers, and the pastel shelves and adorned with china cups; the multi-coloured KitchenAids ready to whisk, fold and anything else - Tayce’s was pure white, while the woman from Nottingham on the bench opposite her had a turquoise one.

Tayce chanced another glance at her; the tight-lipped smile showed a single dimple, and her long blonde hair was tied off her face, but her fingers drummed nervously on the workbench, and she evidently wasn’t as poised as the veneer she displayed for the cameras.

Tayce smiled to herself. It’ll be fun winning this thing.

——

Signature: 24 Iced Biscuits

The best bit of the show when it was on the telly was the banter between Matt and Noel. Seeing them in person, even from a distance away, made Tayce’s stomach bubble with excitement, and she had to cling to the workbench a little tighter to stay upright.

“Well, bakers, welcome to the gingham tent! Back for another season of Prue-Paul’s Baking Race!”

Prue’s sweet smile was complemented by her brightly-coloured glasses and sharp, matching blazer, while Paul’s cool stare lingered on everyone in the room a split second longer than they all would have liked.

“For the signature today,” Matt said, “the judges would like you to make twenty-four iced biscuits. The biscuits can be any flavour -“

“ - but should tell the judges a little bit about yourselves or where you’re from.”

“Where are you from, Noel?”

“Oh, you know, the moon.”

Everyone was laughing, even Tayce; although it wasn’t that funny - but the whole room was dancing with nerves by now, starting to become contagious from the people around her.

“On your marks -“

“Get set -“

“BAKE!”

Once Matt Lucas and Noel Fielding had declared the immortal lines to the room, everyone was scrambling for ingredients from their bags and the fridges.

Tayce was still cringing a bit at the dragon-shaped cookie-cutter her mum had found in some gift shop near the castle in Cardiff. She didn’t understand why tourists would be making dragon-shaped biscuits inspired by their trip to Wales, but for once she was thankful for tourists. Her friend Cara had customised it a little when she’d seen her a couple of weeks ago, by melting the tail with her lighter, elongating it a little, and extending the jaw and ears to make it look a little more ferocious.

“Can’t have people thinking you’re not breathing fire,” she’d said, passing the cigarette back to Tayce, “otherwise they won’t think you’re competition.”

And Tayce had nodded, holding smoke in her lungs half a beat longer than usual, wondering if she cared whether anyone thought of her as competition. After all, it was Bake Off. The last sabotage attempt there had been a national scandal the following day.

The most unproblematic, drama-free show on the telly.

Nothing was going to happen here.

——

“The judges are coming for you next,” one of the cameramen nudged Tayce out of her thoughts, just as she was measuring out her flour, causing it to fly upwards in a cloud “Just a heads up. Oh, sorry love.”

“Right, right.” Tayce nodded, brushing flour from her face. “What do I say to them again?”

“Just … talk. It’s the first episode. Show them your personality.”

“Personality,” Tayce repeated, nodding. “I’ve got oodles of that.”

“Great stuff. And don’t forget to be doing something bake-ey while they’re coming over.”

The cameraman dodged out of the way to make room for the medical team, running to help the woman in front of Nottingham, who had managed to slice her finger on something already.

“Here they are,” Tayce muttered to herself, taking a deep breath and straightening as the judges, along with Matt and Noel, came over to her.

“Morning, Tayce!”

Paul Hollywood was shorter than he appeared to be, and Prue Leith was taller, but nothing prepared Tayce for meeting either of them. Tayce held her breath for a split second, smiling somewhat mechanically to try to mask the sudden heat in her face.

“Bore da, folks! I’ve brought the weather with me!” Tayce beamed, indicating the heaving downpour of rain that was falling outside the tent; and they all laughed politely.

Tayce momentarily stopped concentrating on the judges and noticed the woman opposite her, turning to watch Tayce interact with the judges. And every time she was describing the perfect quality that her dragon-shaped shortbread biscuits would turn out, she seemed to slow her actions, looking up over at them.

The conversation was light, but Tayce could feel the calm authority of both judges before her, making words freeze on her tongue. It only went on for a minute or two, but Tayce was left feeling as if she should have prepared more.

Oh well. What’s done is done.

The ingredients for her biscuits were mixing slowly in the KitchenAid, the gentle whirr of the blades almost lulling Tayce to sleep as she sipped her cup of tea, before she took out the ball of shortbread dough and rolled it out to cut into biscuits.

“Your accent is so nice.”

Tayce looked up from her biscuits, to see the woman from Nottingham had come over, tucking her hair behind her ear, leaving her hand resting at the back of her neck to play absently with the strings of her apron. Up close, the dimple in her cheek was emphasised as a shy smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you!” Tayce stood to her full height. “This place doesn’t look like Barry Island yet but give it some time!” She leaned against the workbench, tossing her hair away from her shoulders.

“My accent is … well, it’s just … northern,” she continued with a giggle. “I’m Aurora, by the way. I’m so bad at names, I’m sorry, you’ve probably already said yours!”

“Don’t worry, I am too. I’m Tayce. And if I forget your name, well - yeah, same.”

Aurora’s gaze lingered half a second too long as she tested the name on her tongue.

“Tayce.” Her smile widened. “Nice to meet you.”

——

Tayce was terrible at names. She had no idea how she was going to remember who all eleven of these other people were, especially as one of them would be going every week - the pool of people getting smaller and smaller until Tayce would be remaining with whoever else was any good out of these lot.

As the day went on, she started to pick them up.

She had to learn Asttina’s for one, because Asttina seemed to know everyone’s name from the word go. Asttina was one of the two Londoners at the front, and was the only one of the group who had made a deliberate effort to come round to all their workbenches to formally introduce herself during the bake itself, her demeanour confident but her handshake gentle and light as air.

“Nice to meet you, Tayce,” she’d said, with a cool smile that reminded Tayce of a Miss World competition. “Looking forward to tasting all your bakes!”

She knew Pip’s name too, on the bench just behind Asttina, as she’d turned up in the tent wearing elf ears, claiming they were for luck. Everyone had been staring at her workbench, where she’d positioned a tiny blue handbag with a red circle in the middle, saying she took it with her wherever she went.

“I had a sesh with a psychic,” Pip explained to them all as a group of them crowded round her. “She’s a bit of a local celeb in Liverpool, Psychic Sally they call her, but - anyway, she told me to look for a sign in blue and red, said it was from me great-grandpa - and the same day I walked past one of those handbag shops on Paradise Street and there it was, in the window, 70% off!”

“Definitely couldn’t have been a coincidence, Pippa,” Tayce grinned, and Pip shook her head in agreement, but she had a mischievous glint in her eye and Tayce wasn’t entirely sure how serious she was about the whole affair.

Ellie’s name too had become familiar, because of the amount of times the show’s medics would groan it when she managed to hurt herself on something that episode. Ellie herself had been quiet most of the day, seemingly a little shy and evidently the youngest in the room; but she’d bounced on the balls of her feet at meeting Matt Lucas, garbling something about her and her brother doing all the impersonations as kids.

The soft-spoken woman in front of Tayce was called Cherry, and Tayce had found that out because she’d pointed it out to everyone when she put cherry flavouring in her biscuits.

“Does that actually, y’know, work as a flavour?” Tia had asked her when she was explaining it to them.

Tia was another name that Tayce knew, mainly because the woman was so tall and striking. She looked like she’d come straight off a catwalk and wandered into the Bake Off tent by complete accident on her way to London Fashion Week, happening to become covered in flour in the process.

Cherry had huffed. “I don’t know, but you eat cherry-flavoured things all the time! What could go wrong with putting it in biscuits?”

Tia grimaced. “Wait. Have you … never put cherry flavouring in biscuits before? Didn’t you practise at home?”

Tayce couldn’t help but feel a twinge of mirth as she watched Cherry chew her tongue, her cheeks flushing, but her jaw set obstinately. “I know what I’m doing. I can do this.”

“You haven’t even practised this bake? Okay. So how late do the trains run from here to Newcastle?” Tayce had asked Cherry, and Aurora had doubled over in wheezing laughter as Cherry had folded her arms.

“Darlington. Darlington, not Newcastle. And there’s been trains there for nearly two hundred years, love.”

That had just made Aurora laugh harder, clutching her stomach and shaking in silent giggles, leaning on Tayce as Tayce had led her back to her workbench and let her wipe the tears from her eyes before continuing with her biscuit dough.

That was the most important thing Tayce had learned so far in the tent. The woman from Nottingham opposite her was Aurora, and Aurora lit up the whole bench.

When the judges had stood with her earlier, she’d cooed about how much she adored baking everything for all her family - making fairy cakes for charity bakes for work, birthday cakes for her family, tipsy cakes for her best friends for their birthdays, or anniversaries, or whenever they were just feeling crap.

From the smile that she couldn’t hold back, Tayce knew that Aurora was the only person in the room who meant it when she said that she loved baking.

——

“One hour break, folks, and then filming starts for Technical, okay?”

The first bake was over, and Tayce’s shortbread biscuits shaped like dragons had gone down pretty well with the judges. She wasn’t sure if she’d had the best feedback, her nerves kicking in and blocking out most of the other contestants’ comments; but she thought she’d done enough for this round at least.

One of the producers herded them like sheep - or maybe cats, judging by how Ginny had gone chasing after a squirrel they’d seen - back into Norton Hall where they were all staying for the weekends while filming was happening. It was a huge, Georgian manor mouse with ceilings touching the clouds, far more halls than were necessary, and so many excessive bedrooms that each contestant had a room each.

Tayce had half-expected four-poster regal luxury as she’d opened the door to her own, twice the size of her room in her flat; but no such luck - it was furnished sparingly, and all the beds were normal. A small double, she noted. Not that she was likely to get lucky with these master bakers, but a woman could dream.

The floorboards creaked as she crossed the room and flopped backwards onto the bed, gazing at the ceiling, the elation sending a shiver through her skin as she realised again that she had made it to Bake Off.

The Bake Off!

They weren’t meant to change clothes between takes unless they’d made a huge mess with the food, so Tayce just retouched her eyeliner and went back down to the communal room, where most of them had gathered back in the group, polite conversations carrying on amongst relative strangers as they sampled each others’ biscuits.

What a surreal scene.

A group of almost strangers, half of their names unfamiliar, and she was meant to discuss baking with them all.

“Alright, babs?” She heard someone pushing a plate in front of her. “My name’s Ginny, Ginny Lemon, and if you don’t like lemon, well - just skip my biccies, alright love?”

“No, lemon is great,” Tayce forced a smile, taking one of Ginny’s biscuits. “Thanks hun.”

“You’re welcome! Which ones did you make - wait, I remember, the Welsh dragons?”

“Now how did you guess that one?” Tayce raised an eyebrow at them. “My mum’s idea, she was like, do it for the Welsh! So of course she found a dragon-shaped cookie cutter from somewhere. One of the tourist shops in Cardiff. Tourists love dragon biscuits apparently.”

“Oh I know love, I know - speaking of weird biscuits, have you ever tried a Worcester sauce biscuit? I don’t recommend it if you haven’t, but have you?” Ginny shook their head, tutting. “Tastes like shit! Waste of biscuit. Waste of Worcester sauce too, though. Anyway, Pip’s looking lonely without me. Nice to see you!”

And Ginny fled from Tayce’s arm, scurrying back over to Pip. Tayce tasted the biscuit, bracing herself for Worcester sauce, blinking with surprise to find it was actually pretty good, the lemon flavour really tasty, and finding she wanted another.

Most of the rest of the biscuits were arranged on a bench at the back. Tayce picked up another of her own and went down the line, eager to see which had depleted the most.

Gravestone biscuits were the biggest shocker for her - two different sets of biscuits were there, iced to resemble gravestones, mostly untouched - but Tayce politely picked up the better-looking of the two and found a lovely chilli kick to it when she tasted. But gravestones weren’t the only common theme - two different rose patterns were there, one set iced in different shades of pink, and the other with a deep red icing. The pink roses were almost all gone, and Tayce took the second-to-last one, enjoying the raspberry flavour, and grabbing one of the other roses to go.

Tayce peered around the room at the other contestants from her vantage point at the table. Most of them had dropped into twos and threes - with twelve people it was bound to happen - chatting amongst themselves, quietly and politely for the most part, although the two Scottish women in one corner were laughing as if they’d known each other for years.

Eventually, she joined Aurora, who was talking to someone whose white-blonde hair and pencil-thin eyebrows looked very familiar …

“Joe Black,” she said, extending a heavily-tattooed hand to Tayce, whose stomach flipped upon hearing the name.

“You’re - on Instagram, that woman -“

“My internet infamy precedes me, but in that case I hope so too do my bakes, and of course my sense of fun.” Joe’s voice was theatrical, her gestures affected; but her smile was warm, and Cherry looked as enamoured with her as Tayce was feeling.

“And who wins the biscuit version of the wars of the roses?” Joe continued, pointing down at the two rose-shaped iced biscuits on Tayce’s plate. “Lawrence, or Veronica? I must say, the amount that Veronica worried about her own bake, that time probably could have been spent thinking up a better biscuit flavour than rosewater, don’t you agree?”

Tayce glanced at Veronica’s biscuit, then up at Aurora. “Does it taste that bad?”

But before Aurora could answer, they were interrupted by “Alright, babes! How’s it hanging?”

The woman joining them had rich violet hair scraped off her face into a bun at the crown of her head, and an intense green stare. Tayce took the hand that was extended to her, finding a firmer handshake than Asttina’s, trying to follow the stream of words from this woman’s mouth.

“I’m Lauren, but you might as well call me Lawrence, that’s all Ellie’s been calling me all day, thinks she’s fucking hilarious, and I’ve not really met any of you yet because, you know,” Lawrence paused for breath, waving her hands, “baking contest, ooh I’m not here to make friends, et cetera, but now that we’re all here and we’re not baking right now, I thought I’d better find out who everyone is! Are you the one who made the dragon biccies?”

“That’s me, baby!” Tayce grinned. “Bore da, bitches!”

“See, I knew you were Welsh, and there Ellie was trying to convince me the dragon biccies were by someone who just really liked Puff the Magic Dragon, she owes me a tenner now - and you’re - oh wait, I know you!” Lawrence wagged her finger at Joe, whose expression didn’t change apart from the slow blink. “That Instagram video!”

Joe fixed Lawrence with a stare. “Yes, that Instagram video; I know that precedes me, but I hope by the end of this competition that can be eclipsed by my culinary skills.” Her voice still kept the throaty drawl, but Tayce was starting to sense her irritation at the association.

Cherry had already offered her hand to shake, and Lawrence took it. “Alright, I remember your name, because you put it in your biccies as flavouring! Where’re you from, do they grow cherries there?”

“No - I’m from Darlington.”

Lawrence blinked, frowning. “Darlington, near Sweetie-shire is that?”

“No, it’s near -“

“I’m joking babes, I’m joking! I know it’s - hey, hey Ellie!” Lawrence stopped to shout to Ellie, who had evidently reappeared. “Els! It’s not Puff the Magic Dragon! Where’s my tenner? Hey!” And she was gone in an instant, Tayce turning to watch her chase Ellie as she scurried out.

“Anyway,” Joe continued, motioning to Tayce’s plate and one of the gravestone biscuits, “I’m so glad you’re enjoying mine! I know my sense of humour is a little … ah, morbid, but I didn’t count on being one of two people with this bake, let me tell you that!”

Joe glanced over to the left out the sides of her eyes; Tayce followed her gaze to Pip, oblivious, making herself a cup of tea.

“She didn’t - like, you don’t think she -“

“Oh, no, not in a month of Sundays! But it’s a strange little coincidence, isn’t it? The viewers will love the drama!”

Joe opened her mouth wide to let out a violent cackle, a sound that might have made a shiver glide down Tayce’s spine if she hadn’t been mid-biscuit.

——

Technical: 8 Wagon Wheels

The Technical challenge was the first time Tayce felt her nerves return in a rush.

Everyone had identical ingredients and an identical recipe, but nothing prepared any of them for whipping the gingham cloth from them all and flipping the instructions over. Tayce ran her pencil down them, her head spinning.

On the first read, she recalled nothing.

Focus.

She took one steadying breath, letting go of as many nerves as she could, and then ran her pencil back down the list, jotting down timings and a couple of notes. They only had an hour and a half; precision was key.

On her right, Aurora was fidgeting with her apron, twisting her hair around her finger, before grabbing as many bowls as she could from the drawers and setting them all down ready.

It almost felt like more pressure, rather than less, having no judges in the room - just Matt and Noel, and they couldn’t really interact with the bakers at this point, mostly just talking amongst each other and having to film occasional silly quips for the television interludes.

You’re not gonna get this finished if you keep looking at Matt and Noel!

So Tayce mentally blocked out everything and anything around her, not taking her eyes off her workbench. Instructions, ingredients, whisk, repeat. Oven, timers, filling, cooling, done.

She barely remembered anything else that happened in the room.

As she put the last wagon wheel on the tray to take to the front, she wiped her brow, took a swig of tea, and then heard the immortal lines.

“Bakers! You have one minute to go!”

Tayce looked around the room. Tia, three desks ahead, was looking flustered, covered in flour from head to toe - a difficult feat when you were six feet tall - and Veronica, just behind her, was rounding the corner to help her move the biscuits over to the tray one by one as she spread on the jam and marshmallow fluff. Bimini, who Tayce was sure had finished about ten minutes earlier than everyone else, was doing the same thing for Asttina, leaning over her workbench and talking soothingly to her as they both moved biscuits around.

On the other side, Ginny was rubbing Pip’s back, trying to help her load wagon wheels onto the tray but only succeeding in knocking the handbag to the ground. Ellie broke two of her wagon wheels by dropping a palette knife on them, her squeak causing Lawrence to turn from her bench and put her hands on her hips.

But Tayce felt an unexpected wave of relief when she saw Aurora finishing her own biscuits right on schedule, stepping back with a sigh, rolling her head and her eyes to the ceiling.

They had to bring the biscuits to the front table, and put them behind their respective photographs for blind judging. Looking at the other biscuits on the bench, Tayce nodded to herself in satisfaction. She definitely wasn’t the worst. The photos were all a blur, but there was definitely one disaster, chocolate and marshmallow oozing; Ellie’s broken biscuits; and another tray with a biscuit missing.

It was easy to breathe a sigh of relief for herself.

“Just get into any order,” the producer said, pointing to the stools that had been set in front of the table, “but don’t sit directly behind your photo. Otherwise it just looks obvious.”

Tayce’s biscuits were second from the right, so she bunched towards the left, and found herself between Aurora and Joe. Joe had pretended to trip over her feet while carrying her own biscuits up, cackling gleefully at Veronica’s pained expression as she watched. Veronica, mercifully, had sat as far from Joe as she could.

Aurora was breathing rapidly next to her, and Tayce gave her a nudge with her knee.

“Chill girl! Relax! It will be fine!”

Aurora nodded, but said nothing, focusing on trying to breathe at a normal rate once again. Tayce could practically hear her heart hammering. She nudged her again playfully, and Aurora nudged her back, taking a deep breath out and seeming to calm from then.

Once Prue and Paul were back, Tayce grew a little sleepy. The judging went on for much longer than on telly, and tent was hot from all the baking and warm bodies, plus Aurora’s knee jogging rhythmically was enough to make her feel a little drowsy. Her biscuits were second to last, and Tayce wasn’t really focusing on any of the other critiques as they went down the line, not even those of the two women on either side of her.

She hated tents. They reminded her of camping. This one wasn’t like any of the camping tents, propped by firm wooden walls and decorations but it still reminded her of trips to the Gower when she was at primary school. And thinking of the Gower made her think of day-tripping to Tenby, where the air was hazy with salt and fresh fish, and the sea was far too cold as they skimmed stones, watching them bounce once, twice, three times …

A nudge at her side from Aurora brought her down from her reverie; blinking, Tayce saw the judges had reached the biscuits behind her photo, looking up expectantly to see who would claim them.

Oh, yeah. It’s the Technical, and I’m here to be judged.

She raised her hand, realising that she’d been in a dream so long that she didn’t even know what place the judges had called her for.

“Tayce - good flavour, biscuits had a good crunch, and the chocolate has set well; it just wasn’t quite filled enough.”

Nodding and smiling, she waited for them to move on to the next person before she leaned over towards Aurora, muttering from the corner of her mouth “Where did they put me again?”

But before Aurora could answer, Paul spoke up. “And in second place, we have -“

“You came third, you bitch!” Aurora whispered, her mouth open in awe, and she looped her hand into Tayce’s and squeezed. “How do you do it? You always look so put-together! Not like - Miss Second-Place down there.”

Tayce glanced at Veronica, right at the end of the line of bakers on their stools, whose hand was raised to claim second place. She was nodding earnestly at the praise, but she still wasn’t smiling, her lips tight and her other hand still quivering a little in her lap.

“That means that first place goes to - Asttina!”

But Aurora hadn’t let go of Tayce’s hand, and Tayce was suddenly more aware of that contact than whoever the winner was, even as she slowly drew her hand away for the polite applause that followed.

“Where did you come?” Tayce asked her in a whisper.

“Seventh. Not great. I over-baked them a little bit,” Aurora shrugged. “I’m never gonna be good at technical.”

——

“Congrats on coming top of Technical!” Tia clapped Asttina on the back as they came back into Norton Hall, and Asttina responded with her winning smile.

“Thanks, babe. I thought you all deserved a taste of what I can do!”

There was a collective amused murmur around the other bakers at Asttina’s slightly smug tone. Tayce grinned, staying silent for now, wondering what the others would have to say to that.

“Oh, there’s more to come, is there?” Tia continued.

“I should hope so.” Asttina licked her lips. “From all of you lot as well.”

“There’s no need to be cocky,” Veronica said, the first time any of them had really heard her speak. Veronica was tiny, with blonde hair and a nasal voice that was louder than any of them had expected; most likely feeling the sting of coming second.

Asttina shook her hair back. “I’m not cocky, Veronica, I just know what I can do. Read the CV, it’s all there! If you want to win stuff, you need to know yourself. Do you want to win?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” Veronica retorted.

It was Tia’s snort of laughter that started them all off, diffusing the vague tension creeping into the room. Asttina’s laugh was only drowned out by Veronica’s as she realised what she’d said.

“Is the Pope a Catholic, does a bear shit in the woods … I know, I know. I mean, yeah, I definitely do want to win.”

Asttina shrugged. “Then there’s no point being modest about what you can do. Let your bakes do the talking!”

One of the producers came in at that moment, motioning for them all to come round, and they all bunched together.

“Alright folks, the day’s filming is done, we’ll begin tomorrow at nine sharp for the Showstopper challenges. Until then you’re free to relax and have a nice time - please don’t go into any areas marked as Private, and no excessive drinking, but otherwise, have a good night!”

“Thank you!” They chorused, clapping for some unknown reason, as some of the staff rounded up the leftover biscuits and cleared them away.

“The filming crew get them,” Veronica explained to Tia, “I asked earlier what happened to them all because I knew we wouldn’t be able to eat them all.”

“You know what this means?” Cherry said, addressing them all from on top of one of the sofas. “This is the last evening we’ll all be together. Let’s all cheers to the cast of GBBO!”

She pulled a bottle of something from her bag, and the rest of them grabbed a mug each, sharing out the gin Cherry had brought, and bringing all their drinks together in cheers.

——

Showstopper: A gingerbread sculpture of a place that makes you nostalgic.

The Showstopper was about as broad as you could get. Everyone seemed to have something different in mind. Bimini and Asttina, on the two front benches, looked as poised and confident as they had all the previous day; and Asttina, buoyed by her Technical challenge win, puffed her chest in pride.

Tayce had practised her gingerbread over and over, but nothing prepared any of them for being in the tent, where the pastel colours and the novelty of the bright, friendly conversations started to switch to a competitive edge.

Especially after the Technical, where they had all been ranked. Having a number against your name now, combined with a vague grade against the Signature challenge, meant the Showstopper was the be-all and end-all for some of them.

That was it Tayce thought to herself, as she watched Aurora’s grim determination pass her face every second.

And she wasn’t the only one.

Cherry, on the workbench in front of her, had come sixth; but she’d been much quieter all morning, concentrating on reading and re-reading her instructions, tapping her pencil against her chin and growling frustratedly every now and then.

Ellie, wearing a pair or Pip’s elf ears, was doing even worse. Being ranked eleventh had done very little to ease the nerves she had displayed the day before, and her morning had already started with another blue plaster on yet another finger.

But Aurora was the only person Tayce was concentrating on. Something about the way she’d held her hand … and Tayce was far too quick to let her mind run away without her, thinking it meant anything, when obviously it probably didn’t.

“What are you doing?” Tayce called to Aurora over the chatter of everyone else around the room; but Aurora didn’t reply, her tongue running over her lips as she surveyed the mess that was the butter and sugar mix before her.

“Aurora?” She asked, making her way to stand by her behind the bench.

Aurora was still silent, but the noise from the bowls and KitchenAid she was using spoke volumes for her without her needing to say a word.

“D’you want a cup of tea?” Tayce asked her eventually, waiting for the curt nod from Aurora before sprinting to the tea station, in a tent outside.

When she got back, Aurora had moved up to Ellie’s workbench, and even though her back was to Tayce, she could see her shoulders shaking and Ellie’s hand rubbing her back, before offering her a can of the Monster she always had to have, the label covered in masking tape to escape product placement.

Tayce approached them both to comfort Aurora too, but as she did, cameras zoomed in on all three of them. Aurora pushed them both away and walked out of the tent, covering her face.

Ellie looked from the camera to Tayce and then back again, confused more than anything, and Lawrence, turning from her bench, looked back at them all with a frown.

“What’s going on here? Is she alright?” Lawrence pointed to Aurora, who was busy wiping her tears away in the far corner, with Matt Lucas at her side and a camera in her face.

“No,” Tayce muttered, “and she won’t be while there’s a lens on her.”

After that, Tayce kept half an eye on Aurora as she baked. She mostly ignored the cameramen as they hurried around the tent, taking stock footage of them cutting gingerbread shapes, using their ovens, and decorating, but Tayce purposely kept her mouth tightly closed, and her expression firmly neutral.

As Noel called for ten minutes remaining, Tayce was finishing the detailing of the roof of the stadium. The band were meant to be playing biscuit instruments and there was meant to be a crowd, but Tayce had settled for calling it a backstage pass moment, where VIPs could meet them, and just made models of herself and her friends.

“Time is up! Bakers, step away from your bakes!”

Noel called time, and Tayce took a step back to properly admire her finished product - and really, she was blown away by her own bake. The gingerbread houses she’d made in practise had gone alright, but this one, even in the pressure cooker environment of the tent, had gone almost perfectly, down to the timing of the bakes.

“Wow,” Tayce whispered to herself, “week one is done!”

She took a few seconds to admire everyone else’s in the tent. Some were much better than others. Joe’s looked a little strange - she’d meant to do a wedding scene with the gingerbread church, but the roof was crooked, and the gravestones falling over, not supported by the sticky sugar mixture they’d all used as adhesive. Cherry’s ambitious building was incomplete, and Tayce didn’t even know what it was meant to be.

But Asttina’s was incredible - a beautiful beach scene with a model of a beach hut and even a Ferris wheel. Ellie’s technical slip up was definitely repaired by the pub she’d built, adding fondant banners inside and making the dull gingerbread colours come alive with her imaginative take on the icing outside; while Lawrence had made a theatre, melting jelly babies to create beautiful stained glass in the windows, something Tayce kicked herself for not thinking of.

They all had a chance to leave the tent for a break, to sit outside in the shelter, and to have a breather before the actual judging of the bakes was done.

“I don’t envy the judges,” Joe said, her drawling voice awed, as she took in all of the gingerbread houses from their vantage point outside the tent. “They definitely have their work cut out for them, don’t they?”

“Everyone did amazing,” Aurora nodded, “it’s just a case of who did less amazing. D’you reckon they’ll just take this into account, or the whole weekend?”

Tayce didn’t know why she was worrying. Aurora had come middle of the pack in technical, but had been praised for her Signature, and her gingerbread house - modelled on her Nan’s, she had said - was so prim and dainty that Tayce knew the judges were going to eat it up, and not only literally.

“It won’t be you, chillax!” Tayce reached to rub her hand.

“Who d’you reckon it will be then?”

“Well, they tend to take into account the numbers assigned at the Technical challenge, and the Signature comments, to make the first analysis, at least,” Joe chuckled, “that’s what we see on the television. Who were the bottom three for Technical? I was tenth, Ellie was eleventh, who was twelfth again?”

“It’s - erm,” Aurora pointed, but the name escaped her for a second. “Tia. Tia was twelfth.”

“It’s probably between the three of us, then,” Joe said brightly, “unless something goes … horribly wrong to one of the Showstoppers. And how likely is that?”

As they looked through the panels of the tent, one of the gingerbread houses collapsed into pieces onto the tray it was set on.

Tayce glanced around the other eleven bakers to see whose it was.

One of the bakers had her head in her hands, shoulders tensed, while the two people on either side of her hugged her tightly.

——

“Seriously, Joe, how did you make that happen?” Aurora’s voice was hushed, tense, after the award for Star Baker and the first elimination had taken place.

Joe’s eyes widened as she shook her head. “I don’t quite know - maybe it was just something, spoken into the universe, made to happen.”

“Or maybe it was just gravity and shitty caramelised sugar sticking it all together,” Tayce added.

“Yes,” Joe replied, “or that too.”

Joe, Ellie and Tia had all survived their stint in the bottom at Technical - but Pip, who had come ninth in Technical, and whose Signature had received mediocre feedback, had laughed behind gritted teeth at presenting her collapsed gingerbread house - “More of an Ikea house,” Paul had commented cheerily - which had ultimately turned out to be too hard to bite into and had sealed her fate. Not even the lucky elf ears saved her from the first elimination.

“I was so sure I was going home this week,” Aurora sighed later that night, back at Norton Hall, where everyone had eaten so much of each others’ gingerbread houses that they all felt ill.

“You wouldn’t have, yours was good!” Tayce rubbed her arm. “Relax! It’s done now. Just focus on next week instead.”

“And I can’t believe Prue said she’d like to try a bit of carpet when they were looking at Ellie’s pub,” Aurora said, shaking her head. “Did anyone else catch that?”

“Yeah, I did!” Tayce sniggered. “They’re so innocent! This is just gonna be a load of innuendos all season, isn’t it? Imagine what they’re gonna say for next week too.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s cake week, isn’t it?” Aurora seemed to perk up. “That’s a bit more my comfort zone.”

Suddenly the door opened, and Asttina was led back inside the area by the cameraman and a producer. Everyone broke into applause - this time genuine, not the muted, polite sound that had echoed round the tent in the technical. Asttina had just given her winner’s interview and called her family, and now wore the Star Baker badge proudly on the lapel of her jacket, her grin wider than the Cheshire Cat’s.

“How did your mum react when you said you were Star Baker this week?” Bimini asked her.

Asttina smiled the warmest smile any of them had seen all weekend from her at the mention of her family. “They screamed so loud that you probably all heard it in here. My mum was falling off the sofa, my dad was waving a wooden spoon, my brother was banging on the floor with his feet - oh, it was great.”

“Well-deserved, babes,” Bimini nodded, and Asttina pulled them in for a hug.

Everyone else was clamouring around Asttina, congratulating her on her Star Baker win this week and admiring the badge she’d won - biscuit-shaped, or at least cookie-shaped - but Tayce hung back, exchanging a glance with Aurora, a glint in her eye; and both of them knew what the other was thinking.

Let’s not cross Joe Black. She might make our Showstoppers crumble.

——

ELEVEN BAKERS REMAIN

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 23

AO3 link here

It starts with England for their thirtieth anniversary. He surprises her with the tickets three weeks in advance, mid-August, so that she has enough time to arrange to be away. She’s been back since the end of the war, but mostly on business and they’ve never been together. Now Peggy takes him to what was once her house, sketching with hands and words the way things had been, the way that they still are in her memories, although the reality has changed so much. He had done the same as they went past now-demolished tenements and renovated schoolhouses back in Brooklyn. They walk arm in arm down London streets they once strode down in uniform, side by careful side, and marvel at how different it all has become.

After that, they chose somewhere new every year: Spain, Japan, Brazil, Morocco. They try to find native guides in each destination, someone to show off the hidden treasures that tourists don’t usually know about or take the time to see. Steve puts together albums to show the kids when they come home. As he flips through the pages, he notices that they have automatic positions that they assume for pictures together, wherever they are in the world.

They have been in Russia for a week before they go to Volgograd, and even then Steve delays. They go to a few museums, take a city walking tour, visit the Eltonsky Natural Park and its surprisingly lovely salt lake, and Peggy is wondering how much longer he is going to put it off when he asks her if she would like to do some shopping after lunch.

“Certainly,” she says, finishing off the last of the medovik she had ordered for dessert. “And it seems the perfect time for it: to be honest, I’m not sure that even I could tour another war monument.”

They pick up some general souvenirs for the kids - pretty little pottery dishes, elaborately painted Matryoshka dolls, lovely and delicate Orenburg shawls - at the various shops along the street. They are each carrying a weighty bag by the time they reach the music store.

“Good afternoon,” a woman’s voice calls in Russian from deep in the crowded shop, and a moment later she steps out to rest her hands on the counter. Her face is young but a bit careworn, a few silvery strands already sneaking into her hair, although it is hard to tell whether it is from age or simply the propensity for redheads to begin getting white hairs early.

“Can I help you?” she asks, looking between Peggy and Steve.

Peggy steps forward. “Good afternoon. We are visiting from America, and were doing some shopping in your neighborhood.” Her Russian is, as she would say with just a bit of satisfaction, quite serviceable. The woman smiles.

“We do not see many tourists here, so I am happy you were able to visit. Are you shopping for something special?”

Before Peggy can answer, there is the light, sharp sound of heels tapping downstairs and a small girl, red hair pinned back from her face, enters behind her mother.

“Mamochka, are you certain I don’t have my dancing class today?” she asks winningly, barely glancing at the strangers in the shop.

“Yes, Natashenka,” says the woman, with that mix of fondness and real weariness that Steve knows well. “I am certain that you don’t have your dancing class today, because it is Wednesday and you dance on Monday.”

“Ah.” The girl purses her lips, standing on her tiptoes and taking a few steps back and forth, running a finger along the counter.

“But Wednesday,” continues her mother, “is the perfect day to practice the violin, hmm?”

With a charming smile: “Are you sure? Maybe Thursday would be better.”

“Wednesday and also Thursday would be just fine for me,” and Steve stifles a laugh at the pout on Natasha’s face before she sighs and moves back among the rows of instruments and sheet music.

“I apologize,” says the woman, turning back to Steve and Peggy. “What were you looking for?”

“Our daughter plays the piano,” Peggy lies. “And we wondered if you might have some traditional sheet music for us to bring back. Folk songs, perhaps.”

“I’d like to explore the shop, if you don’t mind,” Steve says, knowing that his Russian is more formal and less fluid or practiced than Peggy’s. It doesn’t seem to matter; he is waved back as the two women fall into conversation.

The shop is narrow but fairly deep. There are thick carpets on the floors, handheld instruments along one wall - strings hanging or propped on stands, woodwinds in little carved nooks, a few brass items and an accordian interspersed between - and drawers along the other, presumably for sheet music. He follows the tentative plucking of violin strings back until he finds a little rehearsal space with music stands and a small upright piano. Little Natasha stands in the center with her shoes off, toes curling in the carpet as she rests the instrument on her shoulder.

“Hello,” he says, his voice pitched not loudly enough to disturb, but not softly enough for a secret either.

“Hello,” she returns, eagerly letting her bow rest against the floor as she turns to him, ready to be distracted.

“Would you play something for me?” he asks. “It can be anything you like.”

“I don’t know how to play songs I like yet,” she says, drooping a little. He smiles. He remembers a preference for - simultaneously - classical music and female fronted punk, but he doesn’t think that’s what this girl has in mind.

“Then maybe just something you’ve been practicing? I’d like to hear you.”

She takes a deep breath in and plays a simple but lively piece. Even he can hear the mistakes, but it’s pretty and more than he could ever attempt. The melody continues rising, not quite hitting a crescendo before she pulls the bow away and says, “That’s all I remember.”

He puts down his bag to clap politely. “That was very good,” he says. “I’m sure your mother is very proud.”

She makes a face. “She says that I could be better, that she started practicing when she was even younger than me. But she also says that Papa was born with a violin in his hand, and I don’t think that can be true.”

“I suppose you come from a very musical family,” Steve says, trying to blank his face although he suspects that a smile is still playing around his mouth.

“Mama says that music comes to us like water comes to the Volga.” She sets the violin on the piano bench and perches up on her tiptoes again. “But I have a secret.” She tilts her head in question, wondering if he is trustworthy, and he crouches automatically, tilting his head in receptive return.

She leans in a little before she whispers, “I want to be a dancer, not a musician.” She does a little pirouette, girlish and clumsy and eager, her arms out and toes barely avoiding being tangled in the carpet pile. She faces him again with an enormous smile, a little mischievous in a way that is familiar, free in a way that is not.

Steve thinks of the restraint in Natasha as he knew her, the deliberation taken with every action, even with her joy. He swallows against the pain in his throat.

“I think that you will be a very excellent dancer,” he says. “But music is good for learning too. My children did not learn about music from me, and needed to learn on their own.”

“How many children do you have?”

“Four.” He takes a photo out of his wallet and shows her. “My daughters,” he says, pointing. “And my son. And my grandsons. And two husbands and one wife.”

She looks at the smiling strangers in the picture then back up at him. “Why do you talk like that? Your words are so strange.”

“I’m American. I usually speak English. I haven’t spoken Russian in a long time.”

Natasha considers this, then declares magnanimously, “For a Russian, you do not speak very good Russian, but for an American you are excellent.”

“Thank you.” Steve laughs, and stands to his feet once more. “A friend taught me.”

He had not asked her to do it, but in those years of partnering on missions for SHIELD and then later, after Tony had stepped away and Clint had left and Bruce was locked in his lab, when it was just the shattered two of them helping to keep some sort of order...He never questioned when or why she started her little lessons, just took them in. He had trusted Natasha, had admired and fought beside her, had mourned her, mourns her still in some ways, but there was so much he had hoped to understand about her and never can.

The little girl who will never be Natasha Romanoff slips her hand into his. “She must have been a very good friend. I would not have so much patience.”

“She was,” Steve says, gently squeezing her small fingers, “a very good friend.”

The information he had to find her had been so limited. Red hair. Russia. “Natasha, daughter of Ivan,” Clint had reported to them, and despite its source, Steve trusted that more than he did whatever information had been fed to Zola. He assumed that Natalia Alianovna Romanoff was a Red Room created background, but even that couldn’t be certain.

“Less common names would have been quite helpful,” Peggy had said each time she watched Steve pore over SHIELD-provided records of births in Russia. Later, once they had narrowed things down and moved on to the photographs snapped by agents in the area on other assignments, she reminded him carefully that they did not know whether she had been born somewhere rural or at home, without complete records, with a different name, if her parents had perhaps never been in a position to meet at all. But Peggy also never stopped him or told him to give up or refused to transmit his requests. She would have done the same for a missing agent, an untraceable friend.

(There were so many factors and it was still quicksilver confusion, even after all this time, especially after all this time - the changes and their ripples. Twenty-five years ago, he had the SHIELD clipping bureau on a standing assignment for local Iowa birth announcements, ten years ago for circus advertisements. Now he’s moved on to crime blotters, and in the surrounding states too, but he hasn’t found a trace of Clint or his brother. He doesn’t know if they’ve disappeared or if he just hasn’t come across them.)

And then the Volgograd file had been delivered.

She was a year younger than had been claimed, not quite three in the picture he saw and more daughter of Alyona now, considering Ivan had been killed in a car accident before she could walk. Living in an apartment above the family music store, living in a world where the Red Room would never come knocking, where she would grow up entirely different from the person he had known. He had recognized her immediately.

He had told Peggy for several years that he hadn’t needed to see her, that he knew that she was safe and that was enough.

And then she suggested Russia. And suddenly he did want to see.

They are slightly quieter than usual but only slightly as they return to their hotel to deposit their bags, as they find a restaurant for dinner and chat over their meal (lamb-filled dumplings called beriki for Peggy, a delicious but less adventurous beef stroganoff for Steve), take a short walk and return to their hotel to get ready for bed.

Steve can’t sleep. He lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling until he finally whispers, “Peg? Are you awake?”

Though she’s turned over on her side and burrowed beneath the blankets, she answers immediately and with surprising lucidity. “Well, I was wondering how long you would take.”

“What do you mean?”

She eases over onto her other side to look at him even in the darkness. “You were going to ask me once again if I think that you’ve endangered the world further by shifting the circumstances that resulted in your friends becoming heroes. And I would remind you that people can have perfectly average and non-traumatic childhoods and still find courage within themselves when called for it, and also point out that fortunately, shifting the circumstances has created less of a need for a band of enhanced crime-fighters and will hopefully continue to do so. And then you were to have some sweet and honorable realization about human nature being good at the core and not needing the crucible of damage for that to come out, and you would tell me that I’m correct and kiss me and then finally be able to fall asleep.”

He laughs. “We’ve done this before, huh?”

“Several times,” she says dryly, but not without fondness.

“It’s hard for me to really take it in,” he says, turning toward her too. His voice is serious again. “I keep wondering if I’ve taken away these amazing people who could have been, who could have protected the world if we had made a mess of things.”

“Or,” she points out, equally serious now, “you’ve simply allowed them to be amazing in different ways, and to suffer less as they work toward it.”

He thinks of Bruce, in school even now, still brilliant, with a mother and stepfather he apparently goes to visit over breaks. Steve had glimpsed him once while visiting Drea in Boston. They had passed each other at the Public Gardens entirely by coincidence, Bruce grinning at a friend as they went down into the subway station in a way that Steve almost didn’t recognize, not noticing the man staring at him. He thinks of Sam, still a kid now. Military recruiters don’t come to high schools anymore. He remembers Natasha today, loved and loving, unbounded.

“It’s harder than I thought it would be,” he says. “Thinking of them out in the world, but that I’m the only one who will ever know the versions of them that I did. It’s hard to carry the reality of it alone, even if I think they’re better for it.”

“It’s always been hard, the things we carry, but worthwhile, I think. And necessary.”

He kisses her. “You’re probably right,” he says, stroking a thumb along her temple and brushing the hair back gently from her face.

“Hmm.” She turns back over, settling against him. After a moment she says, “Perhaps someplace warm and relaxing for next year?”

“We’ve tried that. You always say that you want to relax but then end up solving a local murder or getting rid of a corrupt police chief,” Steve points out.

“Well, precisely,” she says, and he laughs and puts an arm around her and allows himself to try for sleep.

More chapters here

[notapaladin]

all the rainbow’s heavy tones

okay. so. this is LONG AS SHIT and contains, in no particular order: fight scenes, concussions, blood loss, death magic, and a Very Good Dog. but i decided obsblood needed a modern au, and so i have provided! can also be read on AO3, as usual.

Acatl, chief of the Mictlan Division, hunts a beast of shadow on what was supposed to be his day off. Fortunately, he has help in the form of one (1) confident young undergraduate and his trusty dog. The dog is fine. Acatl...less so.

At least he manages to get Teomitl's number out of it.

-

-

Acatl was halfway through his morning routine (offer blood to the gods, brush teeth, wash face, feed the cat, grudgingly remember to feed himself while Little Skull twined around his shins and purred) when his phone rang.

When he realized the ringtone was the one he used only for work calls, he closed his eyes briefly. He’d been having a good morning, too; he’d slept well for once, without any nightmares of failure in his new post or wistful dreams of his old one. The sheets had been the perfect temperature when he’d woken, and he’d allowed himself five extra minutes to just lay there and enjoy it. Little Skull had been sleeping on his chest as a ghost’s butterfly investigated the potted plant Mihmatini had brought him to, in her words, “make it look less like Mictlan in here.” (He hadn’t bothered to point out that, as the new head of the Mictlan Division, he knew very well it was impossible to mistake Mexico City for the land of the dead no matter how small his apartment was.)

The phone was still ringing. Sighing, he picked it up. It looked like he wasn’t going to get to use his day off to catch up on any of his much-needed rest after all. “Yes?”

“You picked up so early even on your day off! Wonderful.” Acatl felt a muscle start to twitch in his cheek, but held his tongue as Ichtaca continued. “We need you here. There’s been a body found.”

There were always bodies being found in Mexico City, but if it was a work matter, that meant the death had underworld magic about it. Acatl hoped fervently that it hadn’t been found near the sewers. Ahuizotls could and did swim up the larger pipes, and they would require help from the Tlaloc Division to track down. A particularly bad infestation would even mean he’d have to work with Acamapichtli again.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for informing me.”

As soon as he could meant he would have to ride his bike. It was the only way to get through the traffic near the Old City in any reasonable amount of time; he’d made the same trip a million times in his college days. Unfortunately, it made Ichtaca twitch in fury every time he saw him showing up to work on a battered gray bike; though Acatl’s second-in-command never said a word to him about it, he knew he thought it was unbecoming for the dignity of someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a modern-day priest of the dead. He could handle that; a priest was meant to serve their people, and there was no need to put on unnecessary airs. Besides, he liked the city, liked the noise and the chaos of it. It was home. It was—alive.

Of course, in another way, it was also quite dead.

The crowd on the sidewalks ebbed and flowed around little pockets of cold emptiness; as he turned his head at one stop sign, a translucent woman in an old-fashioned tunic and skirt bowed to him, and he nodded back. It always paid to be polite to ghosts. Cars in front of him stopped in the middle of the street to let a faded, barely visible man push a wheelbarrow across a road that no longer existed; despite the delay in their commutes, nobody honked their horns. Acatl quietly approved. In other places, he knew, people were much less calm about bits of the underworld leaking through to their everyday lives, but in Mexico—and especially in this city—the underworld very nearly was their everyday lives. Ghosts walked the streets they had loved in life, and when they passed on, they took the forms of butterflies that brightened the hearts of their loved ones. And if they made trouble...well, that was what people like him were there for.

He pedaled on, thinking of work. It wasn’t anything he was looking forward to; though he’d never been good with people, he’d truly enjoyed his post in Coyoacan where much of the job had lay in talking to bereaved families, following threads of magic, and occasional heartstopping moments of sheer terror as whatever had crawled out of the underworld decided to take a bite out of him instead. It had all been very straightforward. Meanwhile, being the Chief of the entire Mictlan Division meant any case he had to examine himself was going to involve politics, and he knew he was entirely out of his depth there. Fuck you, Ceyaxochitl, he thought grumpily—but not too loudly. He wouldn’t have put it past her to be able to read his mind from across the city.

He doubted the last High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli had had to deal with a Ceyaxochitl of his own. And if he had, at least she hadn’t had a cell phone.

Then again, I’m sure he had much more immediate problems to deal with. The Europeans showing up with steel and horses, for one thing. The history books all said that the Mexica had held out for a time, but when they faced total annihilation—their deaths, the destruction of their temples, the destruction of their gods—the last High Priest had joined together with his fellows, the last Guardian of the Duality (his little sister, the codices said, and Acatl thought of Mihmatini with a pang every time), and the last Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan (the Guardian’s husband, and the High Priest’s...friend said the grammar school textbooks, and lover said the college ones on the strength of some very emotional surviving poetry) in a desperate ritual to...well, nobody, even now, could agree on what they had been trying to do. Kill all the Spaniards? Save their own lives? Strengthen the wards between all three realms, so that even if they died the world would live on? Whatever their goals had been, the result was this: a world where very few people rested quietly in death, where monsters sometimes walked the streets, and where the gods’ gift of magic was spread thin to keep the world intact.

Of course, the distance of the gods worked in their favor now. The sun rose without being fed by human hearts, and star demons were a thing of the distant past. (Election years were bad enough. He didn’t even want to imagine how bad they’d be with the threat of Coyolxauhqui hanging over everyone’s heads.) Only minor, more-easily-killable creatures still threatened them. Historians generally agreed it had also spared a larger part of his people and culture than might otherwise have been the case (he’d had nightmares as a child of what could have happened, of the Great Temple trampled into the dust and a church built atop it), so on the whole Acatl was inclined to look very favorably upon the spiritual predecessor whose knives allegedly were the ones sealed in a glass case in his office. And if he happened to have been intimate with Emperor Ahuizotl (whose namesakes had very explicitly eaten Hernan Cortez, described with glee by contemporary commentators), then good for him.

Eventually, after thirty minutes of weaving through traffic and an unpleasantly exciting near-collision with a car that was apparently immune to a Mictlan officer’s aura, he came to the Division headquarters. From a distance it looked just like any other office building, until you got close enough to notice the owl-and-spider motifs in the stone and the skull prominently displayed over the door. They might no longer officially be priests of Mictlantecuhtli, but the symbols remained. (Including the official regalia of the High Priests, which Acatl had to wear for the big rituals and feast days, and which he hated more than he thought he could hate a bit of fabric and feathers. The loincloth helped, but ritual sites never had air conditioning; adding a giant skull mask and heavy cloak only made it worse.) He attempted to smooth down the mess the trip had made of his hair and was about to lock his bike up when the doors slid open and Ichtaca strolled out.

Unlike Acatl—windblown, sweaty, sporting a black mark of uncertain provenance on his uniform pants—Ichtaca was immaculate. His standard-issue uncut hair was pulled back neatly, his shoes gleamed, and the prominently displayed owl badge on his chest proclaimed his status to anyone who cared to look. Even his short-sleeved uniform shirt had been pressed and ironed, and the spider trim shimmered. “Don’t bother, sir. The...deceased is in the Old City. We’ll be heading there straightaway.” Unspoken, but clear in his tone was I would have told you that but you hung up on me, you idiot.

Acatl grimaced. Trying to take bodies out of the Old City without at least some token prayers tended to end badly. “To the Old City, then. You’ll be walking?”

“...I also brought a bike.”

When the last High Priests and the last Emperor had snapped the boundaries like so many dry twigs, they had succeeded in preserving a single part of their city. In the middle of Mexico City, a mile-wide circle of Tenochtitlan remained as it had been in the last days of the Empire, a place of perfectly preserved adobe buildings and now-dry canals with the Sacred Precinct at its center. Between the ghosts and the fact that electronics tended to fail there, it had been abandoned for centuries—the province of religious rituals, heavily supervised archaeological expeditions, and rare tourist walks. These days, there were checkpoints with armed guards to make sure nobody snuck in and got themselves eaten; rumors that vagrants seeking a place to sleep had woken up covered in a protective blanket of butterflies were officially declared false. (Acatl believed them. The people that had laid the spell had loved their city.)

Acatl waited until they were within the borders, away from the noise of traffic, to say, “Tell me about the deceased. What do we know so far?”

Ichtaca set a hand to the hilt of one of his regulation knives (obsidian, six inches, fixed-blade, sanctified by three drops of human blood and sharp enough to slice a single hair). “Female, possibly Nahua, roughly in her late forties. The body was...mauled, and the area stinks of magic.” At Acatl’s look, he added, “More than the usual, anyway. It’s how we found her; we were exercising the xolos.”

He nodded. While humans could sense magic, dogs were better at it, and the best breeds for it were those that were native to the area. The three main divisions all had their K-9 units. “No identification on her?”

Ichtaca shook his head. “None. We think she must have been trying to sleep in one of the buildings...ah. Here.”

‘Here’ turned out to be a tiny adobe house by a canal, watched over by a young officer, her dog, and a wheelbarrow full of ice. Acatl could smell the blood from the street, and something else…

When he stood in the doorway, the howling emptiness of Mictlan hit him like a truck. For a moment he could barely see the woman’s corpse curled up on the floor, and then his gaze focused again. Ichtaca was right. She had been mauled. Her limbs were still attached, but something had raked its claws over her to the bone, and giant jaws had opened her chest. It was impossible to tell the original color of her tank top.

“We leave this earth,” he whispered. “This world of jade and flowers—the quetzal feathers, the silver. Down into the darkness we must go, leaving behind the marigolds and the ceder trees. Safe journeys, my friend. Safe journeys. All the way to the end.”

And then he pulled his rubber gloves on and knelt to examine her corpse, turning her over gently to inspect the wounds. He almost didn’t have to; the bottom of his stomach felt like it had dropped to hell and froze over there, which would have been a clear indicator of something from the underworld even if her heart and lungs hadn’t been torn from her chest cavity. A beast of shadows, he thought, and then, Damn it. They could only prowl in places where no light shone, making them the chief predators of anyone sleeping alone in the Old City and blessedly rare everywhere else, and only obsidian could kill them. He still had the scars where one had caught his arm before his comrades had saved him. At least they were solitary, unable to bear the presence of another even in the same city; he didn’t even want to think about dealing with a pack of the things. The problem was that he couldn’t tell where this one had gone. And if it managed to escape the Old City, the mayor would have his head.

The young officer—he hadn’t gotten her nametag—spoke up. “We couldn’t find a trail, sir. It’s like it was summoned here.”

He shook his head. “Impossible. There would be signs. It must have slipped in from somewhere. You couldn’t even track it with the dogs?” There had once been spells that would track things from the underworld—he’d seen the codices—but with the breaking of the boundaries they were weak and unreliable, prone to throwing up false positives.

“No, sir.”

He sighed. “Let’s take her to the morgue and see what comes up. If it’s necessary, I’ll get us the permits for a full search of the Old City.”

&

In the end, there wasn’t anything to find. The autopsy showed nothing suggesting the woman had been targeted by a sorcerer with a grudge, so Acatl returned to the Old City on his own; by the time he finally stopped for a rest—dusty, footsore, and exhausted—in the house that had once belonged to the last High Priest of the Dead, he’d checked every inch of it and wanted nothing more than to go home. A dead end. Wonderful.

He fiddled with his earrings, running his fingers over the thin scars at his earlobes. His gaze drifted over the worn frescoes of owls and spiders without really seeing them. Five hundred years ago, his spiritual predecessor had lived and grown old here; Acatl had seen reconstructions of the place before the museums had descended and knew that there had been a quetzal-feather fan there, that just over there had been a single well-worn reed sleeping mat. Judging by the childish paint smears at roughly knee height, he’d also played host to a number of the Emperor’s children and grandchildren. He’d probably shed blood from his own earlobes here every morning, just as Acatl did. He wondered how he’d feel to be summoned for advice; it was a seriously tempting prospect, but one he ultimately dismissed. One did not summon the Last Priest on a whim; he surely had enough to do with guiding the dead through Mictlan safely.

He checked his phone, mostly to have something to do with his hands. As expected, it was hovering at a dismal 30% battery life and no signal, but the picture on his lock screen—Neutemoc and his children, with Mihmatini holding Little Skull in her lap—was as clear as ever, and still made him smile.

Impatient footsteps—one set human, one set canine—made him look up just as a boy entered the doorway. Silhouetted by the setting sun, at first Acatl couldn’t make out his features; then he stepped inside, leading a truly impressive xoloitzcuintle, and Acatl felt his heart drop into his shoes. He knew the features of that face. He’d seen them in the news and in a dozen press releases, every time the mayor gave speeches with his family in tow. If he wasn’t a relative of some sort, Acatl would eat his own shoes.

The boy—a young man, really, around his sister’s age—had dressed for the weather, at least. Acatl took in the sight of sandals, cargo shorts, a camo-print tank top, a thermos clipped to his belt along with a stone knife. The high cheekbones and hawkish nose that were so familiar sat on a face that looked much more used to smiling than anything else; the military-style buzz cut was at odds with the gold studs in each ear and below his lip. “Excuse me. Are you Chief Acatl?” He was eyeing him like a tricky page in a codex.

Acatl studied him for a moment. He felt human, though the faint glitter of the light caught in the little hairs on his arms spoke of powerful magical protections on him. (He was also very handsome when he started to smile, but Acatl told himself firmly that now was not the time to be noticing that.) “I am. How can I help you?”

“Actually, I was hoping I could help you. Ceyaxochitl sent me; she said you’d need assistance.” Acatl’s heart wanted to sink, but it was somehow very hard to manage when the young man aimed that confident half-smile at him. “My name is Teomitl, and this—” he gestured to the dog “—is Yaotl." Acatl wondered if Ceyaxochitl knew the man's dog shared a name with her PA. "We were told there was underworld magic to track.”

“There is.” But Teomitl shouldn’t be doing it. This was a beast of shadows, a matter for the Mictlan Division, not a boy with a dog. On the other hand, Ceyaxochitl had sent him, and it was best not to anger her if he could avoid it. Sighing, he started to stand up and immediately dropped his phone in the dirt.

Teomitl bent and picked it up, only to stare at the lock screen. “How do you know Mihmatini?”

Acatl blinked at him. What a small world we live in. “She’s my younger sister. Why?” When Teomitl handed him his phone back, he made sure to slip it safely into his back pocket.

He grinned. “I’m in Advanced Solar Divinity and Warding Magic 201 with her. She’s amazing.”

Great. Mihm, you have another admirer. On one hand, Mihmatini deserved everything she could ever wish for. On the other hand, a possible relative of the mayor...he thought back to the aftermath of a few family dinners when she and Neutemoc had started discussing (arguing about) politics, and decided she could definitely do better. At least their shared university courses explained the glimmering magic around Teomitl; Mihm had once turned in a term paper in a similar class that had left flowers appearing in her steps for a week. They’d had to stop their nephew from putting them in his mouth. Teomitl was clearly skilled enough with Huitzilpochtli’s magic to protect himself. “Mm-hmm. How much were you told regarding this case?”

Teomitl fixed his gaze to a point over Acatl’s shoulder and rattled off, “An unknown woman was found dead eight hours ago—“

Has it really been eight hours? Gods.

“—with the clear marks of a Beast of Mictlan on her corpse, and no trail to follow. It’ll be easier to track now that the sun’s going down.” Now he made eye contact, and Acatl spared no thought to hiding the expression on his face.

Because the idea of tracking a beast of shadows at dusk—never mind at night—was certainly more effective, but it was also suicidally dangerous. It wasn’t something Acatl would dare attempt without backup. A thousand retorts flew through his mind—you’re insane, we’d both be torn apart, it’s slower but so much safer to just kill it while it sleeps—but, looking at Teomitl’s proud eyes, he found he couldn’t voice any of them. What came out instead was, “Are you telling me you can track it now?”

Teomitl patted Yaotl’s head. The dog whuffed quietly. “Yaotl can. He’s descended from the Emperor’s hounds and blessed by Mixcoatl. And I can fight it.”

Acatl rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on, and it wasn’t all due to the fizzing, hot-blood sensation of Mixcoatl’s magic he could sense on Yaotl when he focused. I owe Ceyaxochitl much. I can recognize that. But to put this young man at risk… It took no effort at all for him to remember his last junior partner. Payaxin had died in front of him. He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t.

Teomitl spoke again, voice low. “Please. Let me prove myself. Let me help. This is my city too, and my people’s heritage this thing is using for a hunting ground. I’ll be of use to you, I swear it.”

He closed his eyes and allowed himself a single aggrieved sigh. “Very well. Follow me.”

Back to the scene of the crime. It was too hot for anyone sensible to exert themselves, but this didn’t appear to stop Teomitl. He power-walked like he thought the sun couldn’t touch him. Acatl trailed behind, finding his gaze lingering for a moment longer than it should on broad shoulders and lean, strong back muscles; he was perversely grateful Teomitl wasn’t looking at him. Pathetic. I’m on the clock. I have to keep my mind on the job. (Also, if he went to school with Mihm, he was almost definitely too young for him even leaving aside the obvious admiration when he spoke of her; Acatl might have been lonely, but he had some standards.)

Teomitl turned the wrong way, and he cleared his throat. “We make a left here.”

The boy shook his head. “Yaotl really wants to go this way.”

He eyed the dog. Blessed or not, if you are chasing after a dead pigeon I will be very upset. “...Fine. But slow down, Teomitl. You’ll give yourself heatstroke.”

Teomitl unhooked his thermos; Acatl must have made a noise at that, because he looked over with worry in his eyes. “I’m fine, I have Gatorade. But you—you should drink something. Here, have some.”

He had dignity. He hated Gatorade. But the sloshing of the thermos had reminded him that he was desperately thirsty, and so he threw his head back and drank deep without even tasting it. Later, the aftertaste would no doubt remind him that this had been a stupid idea, but now all he felt was relief. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Teomitl watching him and belatedly flushed, remembering his manners. “Thank you.”

Teomitl turned his face away, but not before Acatl saw his dark skin tint a shade redder. “It’s nothing. Let’s keep moving.” Not that he had much of a choice; they’d stopped to let Acatl drink but Yaotl wanted to keep going, tugging insistently on the end of his leash when his master stopped moving.

They continued on, keeping to the shade as much as possible. Whatever Yaotl was smelling, it was leading them on a long walk. At least Teomitl hung back to walk next to him, saying nothing at the way Acatl had taken to leaning on his bike. They were both silent; Acatl didn’t dare speak, knowing full well that not every creature unleashed by the shattered boundaries was confined to nighttime hours. Besides, he wasn’t sure how to start a conversation even if it had been safe. He cast a sideways glance at Teomitl and found him grave-faced and focused, gaze flicking towards every unexpected movement.

They were mainly ghosts. The Old City was filled with them—mostly Mexica, but a good sprinkling of others ranging from Spanish conquistadors to unfortunate tourists and, Acatl knew, at least one archaeologist who’d fallen off the Temple steps and hit his head. Acatl nodded to each of them, even the conquistadors, until he became aware of the steadily increasing tension emanating from Teomitl. He turned back to him then, feeling an answering irritation rise in his own heart. “What?”

“You keep stopping to be polite. We’re wasting time.”

His eyes narrowed. “My vocation demands no less. You should try it, too; you never know when you might need something a ghost can provide, and they do not appreciate rudeness.” Nor do I. “Besides,” he added, “It’s the decent thing to do.”

Teomitl fell quiet again after that, but the next time they passed a ghost—a little girl—he bowed, and she clapped her hands and cheered in silent delight at him. Acatl felt something warm in his chest, and found himself gazing at his new ally thoughtfully. Prickly and privileged and impatient, yes—but considerate too, when it’s pointed out to him as an option he should take. Maybe this won’t be so bad. (And he’s nice to look at, whispered a little voice that he staunchly ignored.)

The sun was setting. The shadows grew longer. They quickened their steps, and Yaotl broke out into a trot—

—And then, quite suddenly, into a run. Teomitl had to unclip the leash; it was that or have his arm yanked out of the socket. As he broke into a sprint, Acatl hopped onto his bike and pedaled after. Teomitl kept pace, which shouldn’t have surprised him but did. The part of his brain that was always devoted to spellwork wondered just how many magical protections had been layered over the boy.

There wasn’t much time to think about that, however. Yaotl led them through the city without stopping. Left—right—left again—the sun had vanished, and they were navigating by the reflective patches of the dog’s collar—and then the stench of blood and the bottomless grief of Mictlan hit him, and he gasped too-loud in the gathering gloom. Teomitl stopped dead with an instinctive retch and then continued on. Impressive, Acatl thought. Normally they throw up or start crying when they first sense that. He’d done both.

By the time Yaotl stopped in front of a house, stiff-legged and growling at the empty doorway, Acatl was wishing he’d waited for permission to bring a full crew. It would have to be just him and Teomitl, then. He slid off his bike with a grimace and grabbed Teomitl’s arm before he could rush in. He could just make out a ragged shape lying against the wall. The beast of shadows could be back any minute.

If it wasn’t already waiting for them.

He drew a knife and crept in by Teomitl’s side, holding his phone in his other hand for light. The beast’s latest meal had been male, white, age indeterminate, with a scruffy attempt at a beard. The blood was still fresh and pulsing with magical power. He breathed out, voice barely audible even to his own ears, “You leave behind your fine poems. You leave behind your beautiful flowers and the earth that was only lent to you. You ascend into the Light. Safe journey, my friend."

Teomitl tensed up, turning towards the door. “I heard something—“

Yaotl barked. It probably saved both their lives.

A thing darker than shadows, sharper than knives, barreled through the entryway. It knocked Teomitl aside in its rush; Acatl, turning, dropped his phone but managed to keep hold of his knife. And then it was flattening him  under its weight and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t think. His world narrowed down to a crushing weight on his torso, a foul stench in his nose, snapping teeth and ripping claws entirely too close to his face. He heaved desperately—if he could just get some leverage to actually stab the thing—

“Acatl!” A dog’s snarl.

It roared, dripping saliva, and turned its head away. As it shifted its weight, he finally shoved it off of him and scrambled, ungainly, to his feet and away from its claws. The throb in his chest suggested he’d cracked a rib, but that was a pain he’d deal with later. If he survived. His night vision was slow to arrive, his eyes watering painfully, but finally he could pick out three darker shapes in the night. The beast had turned to attack Yaotl, who was doing his best to hamstring it while Teomitl, knife in hand, was trying to land a blow. Acatl knew they were in trouble; Teomitl was clearly skilled, but the awkward way he moved in search of an opening suggested he’d been injured in the initial rush, and Yaotl’s jaws were already burned from its blood.

Think. If I can get it outside—the sky’s never truly dark, it’ll be weaker— It wasn’t focused on him. As quickly and quietly as he could, he moved to the doorway and drew his other knife. He would only get one shot at this.

He closed his eyes and cast his senses out. In the empty, static darkness of Mictlan, the beast’s outline was a knot of frantic hatred and hunger.

He threw the knife. As the beast howled in pain, he dropped to the ground. Its leap soared right over him, and then they were in the street together; he could finally see it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Not that he had much time to take in more than a strong impression of burning eyes, claws like a bear, and too many teeth in a too-long jaw before it was lunging for him again. He threw himself to one side, quick enough to avoid a swipe to his chest but not enough to dodge the blow entirely. Agony seared up his shoulder as claws ripped into his arm instead, so cold that they burned. He felt his hand open of its own volition, felt the knife fall from useless fingers and skitter across the ground, felt himself scream in pain, and thought No.

When the beast launched itself at him again, his legs crumpled under it. Instinctively he raised his injured arm to protect his face; fangs raked his flesh, but before the beast could close its jaws Yaotl was leaping on it, snapping savagely at its head.

Teomitl’s footsteps. “Acatl!”

The world felt like it was made of tar, everything slower than it should be. The beast was still pinning him down while Yaotl’s teeth flashed in the night, Teomitl was moving towards him but it was too late, there was only the white-hot agony of his arm, the lances of pain through his ribs, through his head where he’d hit the ground. He couldn’t think. His knife had fallen inches from his bloody hand.

His hand.

The knife.

His fingers closed around it and he knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Mictlan’s emptiness coiled within the blade, pushing away the pain—not far, but enough for him to move. Enough for him to strike. He brought the knife up, at an angle that made every tendon in his arm howl, and buried it in the beast’s ribs. It convulsed; he had a moment to see his impending death before Teomitl’s own blade slammed into the back of its neck.

He thought he blacked out; by the time he opened his eyes, Teomitl was dragging the bulk of the beast off of him. He croaked something he thought were words and made an aborted attempt at sitting up. He had to see it sent on properly. That was his duty.

Teomitl dropped to his knees, pressing him back down. His free hand held his phone, and the flashlight app was bright enough that Acatl hissed, tried to turn his head away, and immediately regretted it. He thought he might be sick. “Don’t move, Acatl! You’re—you’re losing a lot of blood.”

Oh. That explained why he felt so weak, then. The beast’s claws must have struck deep. “I have to—” He swallowed painfully. “Have to send it on. Or else it...doesn’t know it’s dead. They’re...just as hungry when they’re ghosts.”

Teomitl’s expression suggested he thought Acatl had gone crazy. “I’ll do it, then! You just stay there and—hang on, I have a first-aid-kit—“

“No,” he whispered. “Take my knife. Draw a quincunx...on its skull.” The light was just good enough to see Teomitl’s hand shake as he followed his instructions, stabbing deeply enough to strike bone. His chest hurt, but he could force out this rite if he were dead. “In darkness they dwell. They feast, they consume their prey. In darkness they dwell. They eat, they consume their prey. All save one...and that one returns. Mine is the...the knife that stole this life. Mine is the hand—“ He coughed, once, and nearly passed out from the pain. He’d definitely broken a rib. “—that sends this one home.”

The bulk of the beast’s corpse sagged; as wisps of black smoke bled off it, Teomitl dropped the knife in disgust and yanked a first-aid kit from his pocket. “Now can I stop you from bleeding to death?!”

He turned his head to see Teomitl’s shin crooked and covered in blood and managed, somehow, to whisper, “You’re hurt.” You shouldn’t be hurt. You’re such a good fighter, much better than Payaxin, and I was supposed to look after you...Ceyaxochitl will be so angry…

“Don’t worry about me!” Teomitl snapped. The gauze pad he pressed to Acatl’s shoulder was soaked almost immediately, and he muttered a curse and tossed it aside for another one. “Come on—gods, no, Yaotl, do not put that in your mouth—Acatl, stay with me!”

He let himself be lifted so Teomitl could wrap bandages, noted with dispassionate interest how the hand he set at the back of his head was dark and wet. The antiseptic poured on him with shaking hands stung, but everything seemed very far away. “You did well.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded like it was coming through water. “Thank you.”

Teomitl’s voice was a snarl. “Thank me when we’re safe! After we get Yaotl to a vet and you to a hospital and I get a chance to kick your ass for throwing a fucking knife at me, really? A knife? Was that necessary?”

He should be annoyed, he thought. “I’ll remember that for...next time.”

“Next time, I’ll be better prepared.” He pressed more gauze down on Acatl’s forearm and cast a glance at his face. In the darkness, his eyes glittered wetly. “You are not allowed to die until then, okay? I will drag you back from Heaven myself.”

“Mictlan,” he whispered. “I am—a priest, for the modern era. A priest of...Lord Death. I’ll go to Mictlan.” Not forever on earth, but for a little while...

“No.” Teomitl’s voice was ragged with an emotion Acatl couldn’t place. Grief, he thought. Or rage.

He felt a smile curve his lips. “It’s not so bad. The Last Priest will guide me as he guides us all.”

“Well, I won’t let him.” It was a growl that softened as he leaned closer, reaching down to—oh, he was moving Acatl’s hair away from his face. That was nice. “You hear me? We’re close enough to the walls to get a signal. I’m going to call the paramedics and you’ll be fine. But you have to stay awake, okay?”

He was going to. Really. But his eyes slid shut, and the next thing he knew was Teomitl grabbing his arm as Yaotl’s cold nose met the side of his head. “Hm?”

“Wake up!” There was an edge of real fear in his voice. “Talk to me. Ask me anything you want to know. Or tell me something—tell me I’m being rude again.”

If he took shallow breaths, it didn’t hurt as much. Talk to me. He thought he could manage that. “You...saved my life.” Another breath. “You can be as rude as you want. But...you won’t impress Mihm like that.”

Teomitl snorted. “Nothing I do would impress Mihmatini.”

“Shame.” Hmm. Interesting. Words seemed to be coming out of his mouth that had bypassed his brain entirely. “But...you look kind of like the mayor, anyway. She wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t like him.”

There was another snort, and when he wedged open one eye he saw him shaking his head. “Nobody likes Tizoc. Not even me, and we share a father. She’s not alone.”

“Your brother?” Thinking hurt about as much as breathing—which was to say, much worse when he tried to put any effort into it. So he didn’t. “Huh. You’re much better looking than he is. Very pretty.”

So that was what it sounded like when someone choked on their own spit. “I—Acatl!” It was followed up by a muttered, “Now I know you hit your head too hard.”

As Teomitl hit the number for the paramedics, his free hand settled over Acatl’s and stayed there.

&

The First Patecatl Hospital had grown, like many other public buildings in Mexico City, out of a temple to the gods. In the hospital’s case, the very small attempt at a pyramid was still in the central courtyard, and Acatl had a fine view of it from his window. It would have been peaceful to the point of boredom if he hadn’t been so tired. The doctors had treated his wounds (severe lacerations, two broken ribs, minor acid burns and dehydration, and a nasty concussion) but when he’d suggested that maybe he could have Neutemoc drive him home he had been very firmly moved to a private room for continued observation. His brother and sister had come and gone, Mihmatini with concern and Neutemoc with...well, now that he thought about it, also concern, even though it had been masked with far too much I-told-you-this-would-happen grumbling for an army sergeant. I must have looked terrible. Even Ichtaca had spent a whole fifteen minutes frowning at him while filling him in on work.

Total casualties of his work day: his uniform (unsalvageable), his phone (cracked by the beast, to Mihm’s undisguised glee; Acatl supposed now he really had no excuse but to get a new one), and one regulation obsidian knife. At least he’d been reassured that Yaotl would be fine, and Mihm had promised to check on Little Skull. And they’d brought him clothes.

He hadn’t mentioned Teomitl to her, he realized. In his defense, the painkillers he’d been given were strong. At least they made breathing easier. But as the pain started to ease back in, it brought clarity with it. He closed his eyes, remembering how Teomitl had bandaged his wounds and begged him to keep talking. I have to speak to him. I have to see his face.

He had no idea where Teomitl had been taken and certainly wasn’t going to be able to wander around looking for him. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button to call the nurse.

In no time at all, he was being bundled into a wheelchair and steered a few rooms down the hall, where a trio of very large men in suits hovered. They eyed him with thinly veiled hostility, and he recalled those videos of the mayor. He thought he remembered Teomitl saying something about Tizoc.

Unlike him, the nurse was entirely unruffled. “Chief Acatl of the Mictlan Division here to see the patient. You three can stop blocking the hallway now.”

They edged away to lean against the opposite wall, enabling him to finally see into the room and spy Teomitl. His first thought was relief—while Teomitl’s leg was heavily bandaged and splinted, the air full of the grassy scent of Patecatl’s magic to speed healing, his other injuries looked much shallower. He was listening to something on his phone; the way his face transformed from concentration to delight when he slipped his earbud out and turned to see Acatl in the doorway was entirely too heartwarming. “Acatl!”

He couldn’t keep a smile from his face. Teomitl’s joy was infectious. “How are you feeling?”

“I should be asking you that!” He waved a hand dismissively. “Cracked tibia, I’ll live. I’m going to have words with someone here, I swear—I wanted to come see you but nobody would let me.” That was pure, huffy impatience, and Acatl shouldn’t have found it charming.

Nor should I wanted to come see you have set his heart fluttering against his ribcage. “I was having stitches done; I was very heavily medicated.” Honestly, he still was; everything was fine as long as he didn’t make any sudden movements, but his limbs were not precisely cooperative. “And my family was here.” Looking around the room, he saw no signs of any similar visitations for Teomitl. The fluttering in his chest clenched into a fist.

“...I figured they would be.” Teomitl’s eyes gleamed as he looked him up and down “Nice shirt.”

Acatl groaned internally. Of course his siblings, when asked to bring him something to wear, would subject him to the old college T-shirt he usually only wore on laundry day. Loose and comfortable it might be, but nobody wanted to be reminded of their taste in bands from ten years ago. “Mihmatini picked it.”

“Mihmatini has good taste.” And since this was objectively true except in matters likely to mildly embarrass her older brothers, Acatl had to nod.

The nurse’s pager buzzed, and she sighed at it. “Sorry, I have to run—will you be alright in here for ten minutes?”

“He’ll be fine.” Teomitl aimed a dazzling smile at her. Acatl, clipped by its edge, could only gulp and feel his face grow hot. “I’ll take care of him.”

It felt easier to talk when she left. True, the door was still half open behind her, but he could pretend for a moment that there weren’t a trio of burly bodyguards eyeing him. He took the chance to simply gaze at Teomitl, noting the shadows under his eyes and the bandaged scrape along his arm.  “You’ve already done so much.”

“So have you.” The warm regard in Teomitl’s face was too much; Acatl had to drop his gaze. “...I wouldn’t have been able to kill that thing by myself, or—what did you say? Let it know it’s dead? You did that. I owe you one.” He shifted on the bed. When a hand came to rest on his good arm, Acatl jolted.

He knew he had to be red. Responses fired through his mind—you don’t owe me anything, I got you into this, I’m so sorry—but his eyes fell on Teomitl’s phone before he could voice any of them. He’d been watching the news, he realized. Tizoc was giving a speech. Side by side, there really was no denying their family resemblance. So that’s why Ceyaxochitl assigned him to me. She always said we needed more political support. “...Convince your brother to let me keep my job, and we’re even. When were you going to tell me about him?”

Teomitl flinched, eyes narrowing poisonously at his phone before he flipped it screen-side down. “I don’t want to ride on his coattails all my life. I want to prove myself on my own merits and do things the right way. And…” He cast a sidelong glance at Acatl, catching his lip between his teeth. “I think we make a good team, and I know from Mihm how you feel about him.”

Tizoc thought the tenuous balance between worlds should be maintained with guns, that there was no need for the one-time clergy of the Mexica to continue ministering to their peoples’ spiritual well-being. He was not popular among anyone who had anything to do with magic. Or, for that matter, common sense. That even his own brother didn’t like him spoke well of Teomitl’s judgement. “That doesn’t change my opinion of you. Just...warn me next time.” There would be a next time. He was sure of it. He was also suddenly very aware that Teomitl hadn’t removed his hand.

A smile attempted to cross Teomitl’s face, but fell flat at the starting point. “If I warned you about all my horrible relatives, you’d fall asleep again before I got halfway through. I’ve been getting calls all morning; they weren’t happy about any of this.���

Oh, thank the Duality. Work. I can always talk about work. He nodded. “We still don’t know how the beast slipped in, but Ichtaca told me they’re trying to track down the relatives of the people who were killed to reassure them that it was slain. I’ll have a lot of paperwork to fill out next week; you’ll likely have to sign some as well.” His head throbbed rebelliously at the mere thought.

“…Ah.” Teomitl didn’t look happy about that, but then he looked up and his expression turned distinctly hopeful. “You’re taking the week off?”

“Patecatl can only do so much.” Also, Ichtaca had told him in no uncertain terms to take a vacation.

Teomitl fell silent at that, gaze shifting thoughtfully away. His hand slid down Acatl’s forearm and over his wrist, and all of Acatl’s higher brain functions immediately shifted to processing the sensation. There were calluses on those fingers, and scars as well. And they were so warm.

He still wasn’t quite looking at Acatl when he spoke. “You know,” he began, “I never did get your number.”

“You…” It was slow to compute. Sounds floated on the air without resolving into words, until finally in a shocking rush they arranged themselves into something Acatl could process. Things like this did not happen to him. “You want my number?!”

“You called me pretty.” Now Teomitl was looking at him. Worse, that radiant smile was out in full force, scouring away any defense Acatl could muster. The hand on his wrist was gentle and unmistakable. “I’d like to think that wasn’t the concussion talking.”

Fuck. It was the first clear thought he’d had in what felt like an eternity. He had said that. And Teomitl had heard it and...seemed interested in hearing more. “Mgh.” He should use words. Teomitl deserved words. “...No. It wasn’t.” You’re beautiful.

Teomitl’s hand slid over his, lacing their fingers together. Acatl had seen heated gazes before, but having one directed at him was an experience that defied description. “So...”

He had to look away. It was that or combust. “So.”

“I’d like to get to know you better. Much better.” Teomitl squeezed his hand once, lightly, and pulled away. Acatl mourned the separation immediately. “Can I?”

He swallowed hard. Duality, yes. Yes, please. It was probably a bad idea. No, it was probably a terrible idea given all that Teomitl was, all the differences between them. He was absolutely going to regret this when the painkillers wore off and he was operating at full mental capacity again. But he’d seen moths fluttering around candle flames, and now he thought he knew how they felt before they burned. “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in and...you can text me in a day or two when I’ve got a new one.” His head wouldn’t be happy with staring at a screen, but it was better than whatever hearing Teomitl’s voice in his ear would do to his heart.

Teomitl had to hold the phone up so he could type. It took three tries, not least because Teomitl took advantage of their proximity to murmur, “I can’t wait. I’m looking forward to doing lots of things with you when you’re feeling better.”

The nurse returned just in time to hear the strangled noise he made.

&

> ACATL.

> how are you feeling?? how’s the new phone?

>> Much better, thank you. I’m home now. I have no complaints about the phone.

> good! I’m glad to hear that

> i was worried about you

> wanna get dinner sometime? my treat

>> I’d rather cook. It’s more economical, and the doctors assure me light exercise will benefit my arm.

> are you inviting me over to your place?

(…)

>> I suppose.

> that sounds great!! i’d love to come over and meet your cat!! is friday ok?? at 8?

>> That’s fine.

> :thumbsup: it’s a date! see u then!

(…)

(…)

>> I look forward to it.

&

ahuizotl2: mihm help

dear_prudence: what did you do

ahuizotl2: I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING I just. uh. your brother

dear_prudence: t e o

ahuizotl2: I asked him to dinner

dear_prudence: and?????????

dear_prudence: oh no did he turn you down?

ahuizotl2: NO

ahuizotl2: he invited me over to his place instead

dear_prudence: he

dear_prudence: he what

ahuizotl2: and I said it’s a date and he saID HE WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO IT

dear_prudence: MY brother??? ACATL???????

dear_prudence: AHAHAHAHAHAHA

dear_prudence: MIRACLES DO HAPPEN too bad he has terrible taste

ahuizotl2: yes yes I’m sure this is hilarious for you but more importantly I don’t know what to wear. my date wardrobe is all armani!!! do you know ANYTHING abt what your brother likes?????

dear_prudence: son, you’re on your own

ahuizotl2: wow rude

&

[The Gods Squad Groupchat]

Cursed Snake Facts: so what’s this I hear about someone having a hot date????

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: wHAT

Cursed Snake Facts: I mean mihm’s big brother, of course :) what did you think I meant?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: fuck you neza

Cursed Snake Facts: is that an invitation?

Hummingbirds Will Fuck You Up: I would literally rather stick my dick in a cactus

Queen Of All She Surveys: yes, a miracle finally occurred

Queen Of All She Surveys: the gods have blessed us

Queen Of All She Surveys: acatl has a date

Queen Of All She Surveys: and NO, I am NOT telling you who with. That is his business. We’re all very happy for him and his private life, neza

Cursed Snake Facts: godsdammit

Queen Of All She Surveys: :)

&

ahuizotl2: I take it back

ahuizotl2: I love you. name it and its yours

dear_prudence: take me shopping bitch

ahuizotl2: done! :D

ahuizotl2: ...also how the fuck did HE find out??

dear_prudence: it’s nez

ahuizotl2: point taken

Further AU notes:

- little skull is mostly white with black ears and a patch on her back that lends her her name. acatl talks to her like a person. sometimes her eyes reflect light that isn't there. - everyone is bi because I say so. - acatl's parents really wanted him to go into law or medicine but no, he had to major in religious studies, minor in history, and go off to be a glorified coroner. - neutemoc and huei's divorce was a nightmare but they are both happier now. - modern acatl can summon the wind of knives. the wind of knives thinks OG acatl was better. - yaotl: shadow beasts? no problem. an 8-lb cat? VERY SCARY MUCH SHARP.