#he tracked one of the letters that he sent him back to the lady v. and then it was easy to follow where tht ship was

[yael-art-den]

I've been thinking about Karim post-epilogue, mostly about how his family is going to try to worm their way back into his life.

They knew that he was alive since Act 3 and didn't really care, BUT now that they know he's friends with THE Red Prince? Now he's useful again. They will try to hangle their love in front of him again because "Well look at you you're a hero now! We always knew you had it in you. You wouldn't be there without the tough love, you need to remember who put you in that ship and set you on that path" yada yada. C'mon Karim, they will even give their approval of your relationship! You can get their permission to get married? Isn't that nice?

It just so happens that Karim now has real friends and a real found family and it doesn't work anymore. He doesn't need anything that they can give him, and it becomes more about him trying to ignore the issue and them finding progressively more intrusive ways to harass him. Karim's grown a lot and has a spine now, but his relationship is still complicated and doesn't want to fully close the door on his family yet. He still fears them in a way; and though his friends/partner are VERY WILLING to fix that problem for him, he feels like he needs to handle it on his own.

Eventually one of his brothers just shows up to talk to him and maaaybe try to pressure him into coming back. For Karim that whole situation is MORE stressfull than fighting the fucking Kraken and he. freezes up. He actually goes back a few steps in his development and needs Ifan to act as an attack dog on his behalf so HE can tell them to back the fuck off because he's unable to assert himself.

I'm not sure on the detail yet, but it all ends with Karim actually confronting his mom and having a HUGE argument with them in which he eventually goes quiet. Thinks about it. And suddenly goes "wait. what the fuck am i doing. I actually don't care about any of this" and just walks out. He thought that he needed to have a "cathartic moment" but what he learns is that he no longer cares about them or their relationship.

He's not even angry he's tired and tells them to not contact him anymore. Straight-up asks the party that if his family comes back asking for him again, they're free to deal with them as they want.

[eeveevie]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (4/18)

Chapter 4: Bad Luck Can Be a Big Break 

Madelyn and Deacon run their first Railroad operation together and find that they get along better than expected. Nick makes similar observations when finally introduced to the enigmatic man whose been following his partner for weeks. Overwhelmed by sudden feelings of guilt, Madelyn decides it’s as good as time as any to activate her last Christmas gift from Nate—a Mister Handy robot named Codsworth.

“Bad luck either makes a man or destroys him. Are you gonna let it destroy you? Depending how you take it, bad luck can be a big break.” - Police Inspector Nakajima as played by Gen Shimizu (Stray Dog, 1949)

x - x

[read on Ao3] ~ [chapter masterpost]

Madelyn devoted the following days to keeping herself from a full-fledged nervous breakdown. That late Friday evening spent in North End bled into early Saturday morning, and it was nearly sunrise by the time she made it back to the safety of her Cambridge apartment. Robby had escorted her back—or should she call him Drummer Boy? She wasn’t sure she’d adjust to codenames or subterfuge, despite the confidence the organization seemed to have in her capabilities. She was a lawyer, who just so happened to be partnered with a talented detective with a penchant for trouble. Maybe the Railroad needed to extend their invitation to Nick instead. And so she spent that Saturday anxiously pacing her tiny living room, Dogmeat at her heels with a worrying whine.

She had scribbled out all her woes on a notepad—listing out the pros and cons of sticking with the mysterious group. For starters, she considered Desdemona a useful ally, even if her tactics were questionable. In the brief meeting underneath the Old North Church, it was clear that the Railroad leader was efficient and would stop at nothing to get the answers she wanted. Madelyn had also met Glory—a tall, silver-haired woman who worked as an intern at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology by day and ran operations for the Railroad by night. She was considered their heavy, taking on the riskier jobs like transporting the ‘disappeared’ where they wanted to go. Well, at least until their base of operations was forced underground. For that, Madelyn etched her name under pros. After careful consideration on having one of their agents as a neighbor, she realized it likely couldn’t hurt to have somebody nearby—and so Drummer Boy was added too.

When Madelyn focused on the cons, her apprehension spiked. All the secrecy and deception was not how she typically operated, even with the Valentine Detective Agency. Nick knew full well she liked to play things clean and by the book as much as possible, seeing as she had the law to uphold. While she enjoyed the thrill of investigating leads and chasing down bad guys, she wasn’t keen on full blown espionage. That being said, she wasn’t blind to the fact that her time with the agency had turned dangerous—Earl Sterling’s case a glowing example. The hunt to corner Eddie Winter would only exacerbate matters. While she carried a pistol in her purse for protection ever since the night Nate died, she prayed she never had to use it. More disadvantages to joining the Railroad: Desdemona had mentioned they were attacked—the deaths swept under the rug by some kind of media conspiracy. So a threat to her life was certainly a possibility. Premature death—con.

Her mind drifted and she thought about their top agent—as Desdemona put it—Deacon. The man who had followed her, tracked her down and ensured she made her way to the Railroad in the first place. Desdemona was now entrusting him to teach Madelyn the ropes, pairing the two as partners, their task to collect more intel on the Railroad’s would-be enemies. When she thought about if this belonged in the pro or con column, she was frustratingly undecided, falling asleep in the corner of her wrap-around couch.

On Sunday, she awoke startled and confused, sure that the last forty-eight hours had all been a dream. The first thing Madelyn did was call Nick, who was on his way out the agency doors to track her down, worried when he hadn’t heard from her after her evening out. Ellie and Jenny had both talked him down from thinking anything horrible had happened to her, and he had stewed behind his desk all, chain-smoking up a storm without getting a moment of work done in the Eddie Winter case—or any other case, for that matter. Nick was relieved to hear she hadn’t been snatched up, but as she expected, had a plethora of questions the moment she mentioned her encounter with the Railroad. Surprisingly, however, the detective was in favor of her newfound alliance, believing the benefits far outweighed the risks. Even if she was reluctant, Madelyn agreed that she would stick to the planned Monday morning meeting with Deacon—whatever that entailed—then rendezvous with Nick to share all the details of her ordeal.

He wished her good luck. Little did she know how much she needed her friend’s good fortune. 

January 20th, 1958

Drummer Boy delivered the instructions for the meeting just after sunrise on Monday—a faded parchment not unlike the one she received on New Year’s Eve—neatly typed lettering directing her to Lexington, specifically on a street corner near the Corvega assembly plant. The industrial complex was a short cab ride from her apartment, and despite the cold-front that had swept in overnight, she elected to wait on the sidewalk, bundled up in her thick, dark blue coat and matching gloves. It didn’t take Madelyn very long to start shivering in place as she waited in the designated spot by the fire hydrant along Massachusetts Ave, wishing she had worn thicker stockings. After five minutes, she glanced down at her watch, irritation rising. At ten-past eight, she dug through her purse and pulled free her compact, compelled for some unbeknownst reason to assess her reflection.

“Didn’t have to get all dolled up just for me, Charmer.”

Madelyn snapped the mirror shut at the sound of Deacon’s voice, turning around to face where he had snuck up on her as if he had materialized straight up from the snow-covered sidewalk like some eldritch being. Or at least, she thought it was Deacon—he looked very different from the last time she saw him. He was dressed much more plainly and comfortably for the weather with a long scarf and gloves. There was something off about his hair, but she couldn’t tell—not with the trilby hat in the way. She wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for the reflective shades.

She was about to respond when she remembered Drummer Boy’s directions. As foolish as she felt, she repeated the memorized phrase. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

Deacon smiled, impressed. “Mine is in the shop,” he replied. “Catching on quick, I see.”

Instead of offering a proper response, she motioned to his glasses. “Do you ever take those off?”

Deacon deflected, as to be expected. “My face?”  

Madelyn sighed—she didn’t want to appear impatient, but she had been kept waiting and was on the verge of freezing on what was supposed to be Boston’s coldest day of the month. Realizing, Deacon gestured for the two to walk up the incline towards the assembly plant.

“I would’ve worn different shoes if I knew we were going to be heading into Corvega,” she mused, breath frosting in the air before her face.

“We aren’t going inside the plant,” he started with a shake of his head, diverting them behind a small retainer wall. He tapped his shoe down against a metal surface, bending down to sweep the build-up of snow away to reveal a hidden maintenance door. “We’re going through here.”

He pointed to her blue suede heels. “Hope those aren’t designer.”

“You underestimate the mess Nick has dragged me through,” she countered, watching as he lifted the heavy metal plate to reveal a small shaft and a ladder that led down into what she could only assume was a sewer tunnel system. “Can’t say it’s ever been literal shit, though.”

Deacon let out a loud, belly-aching laugh as he sat on the ground, allowing his legs to dangle over the ledge. “Ladies first, unless you’d rather give me the chance at an up-skirt looky-loo.”

Despite the lewdness, Madelyn found herself amused and struggled to hide her smile—there were still some questions she wanted answered before she crawled her way down a mysterious hole in the ground. The letter he sent that morning wasn’t exactly clear, not that she expected it to be. “Where exactly are we going? What are we doing here?”  

“Our old HQ, before we were gassed out was built to be strong, defensible. We thought it was secure. This escape tunnel leads to the base,” he pointed over his shoulder to the Slocum’s Joe in the plaza a few hundred yards away. “Like Dez said, the survivors didn’t have time to grab anything. So we’re getting whatever intel was left behind in the rush.”

Madelyn was held up on secret underground headquarters. “The Railroad had a base under a donut shop?”

“Not every Slocum’s Joe has a massive tunnel complex underneath it,” he grinned, relishing in the fact that he was cluing her in on the big secret. “Used to be a Defense Intelligence Agency research lab during the war—until V-Day, and then some of those spies turned Railroad agents and the rest is history. We called it The Switchboard. Did us good, until more than half of us were snuffed out.”

She frowned, finding the loss of life distressing, compounded by the fact no one outside the organization except their killers and conspirators knew the truth. “What do we hope to find?”

“Something that shows who the sons-of-bitches that did this in the first place,” Deacon responded before flashing a small, grim smile. “I think I left behind some clean underwear, now that you mention it.”

Satisfied on the mission parameters, Madelyn stepped towards the maintenance entrance and began her descent, tightly gripping the metal bars so that she wouldn’t slip. Above her, Deacon watched for a few moments before following, shutting the metal latch closed behind them. Below her there was only a small light to lead her way, and as expected, a large puddle of water that was unavoidable as she approached the bottom. As she stepped through the murky water she groaned, knowing her shoes were now completely ruined—another pair for the damaged by field work box.

“Wet socks, my favorite,” Deacon announced sarcastically as he stepped down next to her, digging through his coat pockets until he produced a small, silver flashlight. He flicked it on, shining it under his chin for dramatic effect before angling it ahead through the tunnel. “Shall we?”

As they crept along the watery path in silence, Madelyn found herself glancing over at her newfound partner, unable to stop her mind from making comparisons to Nick. It wasn’t fair, considering she had known one man for years, and the other for a handful of hours spread across a few days. Deacon was—well he was an enigma, and she was determined to crack the code.

“Desdemona called you her top agent. How does your position differ from Glory’s?” she asked, catching his attention as they walked.

“My job’s mainly intel. So the more places I go, the better I’m doing it,” he turned his head in her direction. “Might have noticed me hanging around if you weren’t so wrapped up in your detective work. What can I say? You’re just one big beautiful distraction,” he beamed. “Plenty of opportunities to learn secrets following you around.”

Madelyn let his overzealous complement slide, focused instead on what he had mentioned. “You weren’t just at the New Year’s gala?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Nope.”

Figured. She had deduced by that point he was at the Memory Den not only to follow her, but because the Railroad had to have an inside agent there too, and that person could only be Irma, given her position and knowledge of Deacon in the first place. She’d keep that nugget of information to herself for now. Madelyn leaned a little closer—a test, to see if invading his personal space would discomfort him. Of course, he wasn’t bothered in the slightest, as she should’ve known, based on their very first encounter.

“Have you had partners before me, Deacon?” she questioned next, resisting the urge to smile. Now she was just being nosy, even if it was a valid question that had run through her mind. “And why use the codename Deacon anyways? Have a fascination with religious symbolism, or something?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” he joked, feigning annoyance. “I feel like I’m being interrogated!”

Madelyn softly snickered at that. “I could cuff you and take you back to the agency, give you the real experience.”

His eyebrows shot up, lips twisted in amusement. “Kinky.”

Halfway through the maintenance tunnel they came upon a locked gate. Again, Deacon patted at his pockets before reaching directly towards her temple. Understandably, she flinched away, blinking at him in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Have a bobby pin I can borrow?” he explained, gloved fingers still reaching for her hairline and up-do. Madelyn dodged his invasive approach, pressing her body closer to the iron bars. Maybe she deserved that for testing his personal bubble.

“Good lord,” she sighed, exasperated, pulling free a small iron pin from her golden curls herself. “I can pick a lock too, if you’d only ask.”

Deacon was visibly pleased by her declaration, shining the light on the lock so that she might see her work. “And where might a lovely lawyer such as yourself have learned such a reprehensible skill?”

“My um—” she faltered, deciding now was not the time to tell Deacon about her deceased husband, or the little things he had taught her in their life together. She wondered if there ever would be a time—or if he already knew, and she even needed to broach the subject. The pin snagged and she steadied her hand. “Nick taught me.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her as if he could tell she was being dishonest. She knew if she was going to continue working with him, she would need to get better at the art of lying. She didn’t go to law school for years upon years without developing a silver-tongue—now it was time to put it to good use. Deacon drummed his fingers along the torch.

“I’m used to running Railroad ops solo. But being partnered up with you?” Madelyn glanced out of the corner of her eye to catch a glimpse of his smirk—apparently it was the only expression he knew. “Isn’t too bad. Now that we’re a team, we should have a code name. Like Double Indemnity, or White Heat…the Big Sleep?”

She paused to remove her gloves, stuffing them in her coat pocket. Fingers bare, she had an easier time with the metal pin, even with Deacon’s rambling. “I’m partial to Bogart and Bacall—though I wonder if that movie was only half as good because of their off-screen romance.”

“If this plays out anything like a cliché noir film,” Deacon mused. “I can’t promise you won’t fall devastatingly head-over-heels in love with me by the end.”

Madelyn smiled, but she immediately dismissed the words as harmless banter. So he was a flirt—she could manage that. “I can’t guarantee you won’t be the one doing the falling, Mr. Deacon.”

“Oh, Charmer.”

With a resounding snap, the lock broke free and Madelyn pushed the gate open for the two to advance. These tunnels had more lighting, and beyond another unlocked security door was a small maintenance room, filled with tools, supplies, and boxes. Deacon lingered near the bookshelves, scanning for anything he could salvage. Meanwhile, she peered out through the broken windowpanes and into the large room ahead, overwhelmed by what she saw. A long time ago now, Nate had explained that during his time in the military he had seen intelligence bases that looked straight out of a Hollywood spy thriller, but she always thought he was having her for a laugh—until now.

Even abandoned, the area was spacious, rows of desks set up and prepared for spies—rather, Railroad agents—to research intel on whatever information they saw fit. In an overhead, second-story room sat a large, data computer, powered down and out of commission. She was so caught up in taking in the sight of the so-called Switchboard that she hardly realized Deacon had snuck beside her. She figured he would shed more wisdom on the Railroad’s former base of operations, but instead his next words sent her reeling.

“So you’re married.”

Madelyn nearly choked. “What?”

He tilted his chin down at her left hand and reflexively, she covered the ring with her right, twisting it nervously between her fingers. His expression was too hard to read when he wasn’t grinning at her, eyes always covered up with those ridiculous darkened sunglasses. “That shiny rock you’ve got has implications.”

“Then you should already know the answer,” she said in return, unable to hold back her discomfort. “Right?”

Deacon shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe I wanted to hear it from you instead of reading it in a file. You know what they say about assuming.”

She hesitated several times, opening and closing her mouth when the words wouldn’t come out. This was an emotional wall so few had breached, and she wasn’t sure if Deacon was one that could be added to the list—not yet anyways. Still, she felt as though she owed him some semblance of the truth, a sign of good faith, if their partnership were to continue.  

“I—I’m widowed,” she spoke softly, avoiding looking at his face. “That’s all I’m willing to say, right now.”

“Fair enough,” he replied with a nod. She hoped that was the end for his line of questioning, but then he tapped his finger along his chin. “You’re a woman of faith, right? Have you ever been to the church in Quincy?”

“Now I feel like I’m being interrogated,” she muttered, flicking her gaze to him, hoping he caught her sarcasm. “Are you going to pull handcuffs out of your pockets?”

Deacon’s lips twisted into a sideways grin. “No, but I can talk dirty if you’d like. Veux-tu voir mon pantalon?”

Madelyn couldn’t help but laugh—the warmth in her chest a bizarre and foreign feeling—but her amusement was real. Delighted by her reaction, Deacon silently beckoned for her to follow through the double doors into the Switchboard proper. “Come on, Bacall, let’s find some intel.”

She wanted to tease him, say something clever about how she saw Nick Valentine as more of the Humphrey Bogart type instead, but the moment they crossed the threshold, the air was sucked out from her lungs. The attack on the former headquarters had occurred months ago and yet the underground building still reeked of gas and death. Madelyn felt the corners of her eyes prickle—the air quality wasn’t enough to harm her, but it was caustic enough to be unpleasant. She grabbed one glove from her pocket and held it over her nose and mouth. When she glanced over to Deacon, he was doing the same with the edge of his scarf. She followed him through the rows of abandoned desks and toppled over chairs, scanning the wooden surfaces for files or anything that looked important. Then again, she wasn’t entirely sure what would be important. Deacon passed through the area dismissively, brushing aside forgotten paperwork with the sole of his shoe.

“Where are you going?” she asked, coughing a little at the bitter taste in the air.

He silently gestured upstairs and continued on his path. In the console room that overlooked the main floor, the air was clearer, allowing her to inspect the surroundings a little more carefully. On the nearby table was a forgotten notepad, the handwriting barely legible.

“What exactly is a MILA, and what does it have to do with…MIT terraforming the Commonwealth?” she asked, hesitantly. As she flipped through the notes, she was sure she had stumbled upon the rantings of a madman.

Deacon let out a boisterous chuckle. “Bring those with you. Tinker Tom will be forever in your debt.”

“Tinker…” she shook her head, deciding not to ask for clarification. She tucked away the small notepad into her purse. “Another one of your operatives?”

“He’s not a field agent anymore,” he explained as they moved through the back-office corridors, Deacon leading them left towards a few scientific research labs. He seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. She gave him the benefit of the doubt, considering he used to work there. “Tom is—how do I put it—our engineer. He invents things, usually things that are incredibly illegal and likely to get us all blown up and killed, but thirty percent of the time, his inventions are helpful.”

“He’s intelligent but has fallen so far off his rocker it’s hard to tell sometimes,” he described further, in a somber tone. “If you were under all that stress from watching your friends die, it’d be hard not to succumb to madness.”

Madelyn didn’t say anything, her mind switching focus to the ­pros and cons list she had drawn up over the weekend. With each new grain of information, the negatives were starting to outweigh the positives. Deacon—she was still undecided. For a moment there, she could’ve sworn she had seen a hidden depth of emotion, but it had faded away just as fast as it appeared. He glanced over his shoulder to look at her, as if he had heard her thinking about him, or rather, felt her staring at the back of his head.

“Our good Doctor Carrington kept a vault up ahead. I can guarantee there’s something we need locked away in there,” he explained. Now there were two names—two Railroad agents in which she needed a face to a name. The back-corner room looked more like a medical lab, albeit with a large, metal door that was better suited for a bank than a doctor’s office. “What’s your lucky number?”

It was a rhetorical question at best, Deacon approaching the safe mechanism eagerly as he removed his gloves. Even though he appeared to know the combination, he made a show of it, leaning in to listen to the gradual ticks of the cogs as they clicked into place. Not a moment later, the lock was open, and he was flashing a self-satisfied grin. “Open says me.”

A gush of air filled the room as the vault door creaked open. Inside, an emergency light flickered eerily, forming elusive shadows out of the metal storage shelves that lined the large safe. Whatever Madelyn expected to find she was astounded by medical and technical gadgets, all abandoned from when the Railroad was forced to evacuate. She was half tempted to pick up a metal contraption of sorts when she was reminded of the possible contamination and focused her attention elsewhere.

“Here we are,” Deacon announced, pulling a large, dusty folder from the shelf. He inspected the contents, allowing Madelyn to gander a peek from over his arm. She was surprised to find many, if not all the pages written in code. “Hadn’t gotten around to deciphering this batch yet.”

“How do you know it’s important then?”

“Because ten people died ensuring it didn’t land in the wrong hands, that’s why.”

Madelyn cocked her head aside, seeing the mission for what it was. “This was the target all along, wasn’t it?” When he nodded, she nearly lost her patience. “You could’ve told me instead of stringing me along for kicks. I went through all of that, and I don’t know why.”

Deacon frowned, realizing he had miscalculated her reaction. “Would you believe me if I said that I don’t know either?”

“No.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded with a small pout. He shut the folder and tucked it into his coat for safe keeping. “Dez approved the op. For all I know, these are instructions on how to brew the perfect cup of coffee.”

She had to take his word for it, hoping everything they had just done was worth the effort. Deacon led the pair towards another maintenance shaft and up a metal catwalk that led to a service elevator. After he pressed the button, she peered at him curiously. “Aren’t we going back the way we came?”

“Speaking of. How do you take your coffee?” he avoided the question, motioning for her to enter the small elevator before him as the doors chimed open.

Madelyn sighed, wondering if it wasn’t too late to ask Desdemona to be paired up with someone else. Still, she humored him. “Two sugars and a little bit of cream.”

Even as they crept through the tunnels, she had doubted that the old Railroad Headquarters was beneath the Slocum’s Joe, but as they exited the elevator into a basement storage room, she was faced with boxes of the coffee shop’s paraphernalia, including a very brightly colored donut costume that was folded over the staircase banister.

“Tinker Tom used to wear that on the street corner while on lookout,” Deacon explained, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking. She followed him up the stairs, but instead of a door there was a false panel of thick wood that took some effort to push open. He stuck his head through the small gap, checking the perimeter. “After you. Cars’ out front if you’d like an escort back to your neck of the woods.”

Madelyn flashed him an indignant stare. She gestured to her ruined shoes. “Two entrances and we had to take the long way around?”

“You’ve shown me you can dance,” he answered. “I wanted to know that you could sneak around too.”

She walked ahead of him through the false bookshelf with half-of-mind to hail a cab as soon as she was outside when his hand hooked into her elbow and yanked her back and into the closest booth. She was about to protest when his eyebrows raised high above his shades. “Act natural.”

She flicked her eyes down to where his hand was covering her own across the table. It wasn’t as an alarming of a shock like the one she felt at the Memory Den, but still, her skin tingled at the unfamiliar contact. Given the circumstances, she didn’t pull away and she squashed the thought that wondered if she would’ve done so otherwise. But if he wanted a ruse, they would need to blend in. She took a moment to shrug off her coat, folding the garment into the space beside her before grabbing the menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser.

Deacon caught on, discarding his own coat and scarf to his right. His left hand breached across the linoleum surface, fingers curling around her right hand again. She wasn’t surprised this was the act he wanted to put on. “Do you see the man at the counter?”

Madelyn barely flicked her gaze up and over his shoulder, grinning like he had told her a joke instead. “The man in black? Yes. He’s wearing sunglasses,” she paused to twist a golden curl around her finger with her free hand—she might have been over doing it. “One of yours?”

“Definitely not,” he responded, disguising his vitriol behind a soft laugh. “But he is here for us.”

She took a glance at the man at the main counter again as discreetly as she could, made easier when a passing waitress collected their coffee orders from Deacon who was all too happy to show off how he had remembered hers. At first glance, the dark-skinned man didn’t look threatening—appeared to be just another businessman on a coffee break—but the way he was scanning the diner with purpose sent a chill down her spine. A hunch told her he wasn’t one of Winter’s men—but then who did he work for?

“Who else knew about us coming here today?” Madelyn asked, not meaning to sound so serious. If this man in black was after the forgotten intel that Railroad agents had died to protect, then he had to belong to the same organization that killed them in the first place. Remembering the facade, she smiled.

He squeezed her hand, either in realization or as part of their charade. “Are you implying we have a mole?”

“Mole, rat,” she shrugged, as if he was talking about something else. The waitress returned with their orders and he stared into his coffee for a long moment before taking a sip. “Afraid it’s been poisoned?”

He chuckled, genuinely this time. “Remember, you can’t trust everyone.”

“Even you?”

Deacon’s fingers flexed against hers again and he flashed a smirk behind the rim of his cup. “Especially me.”

Madelyn didn’t have very long to think about if he was bluffing when she realized the well-dressed man was now advancing towards them. The way Deacon’s foot shifted against her heel told her he also knew they were about to be cornered. She started to run through a myriad of scenarios—one of which included throwing hot coffee—but she wondered if there was something a little more dignified she could do.

Her Railroad partner looked to her, eyebrow arched with a devious expression. “Want to lean over the table and—”

“No—”

“Mads?”

It happened simultaneously, the familiar voice echoing out across the diner—their saving grace—but also Madelyn’s absolute horror. Jennifer Lands came striding over, green heels loud against the tile and matching skirt a flutter as she ducked around the booths to stand right next to their table, circumventing the stranger not a moment too soon. For a moment, Madelyn thought he was going to interrupt but he moved on, flashing one last lingering glance over his shoulder at the booth before moving towards the exit. Only then did Madelyn switch her attention to her friend, who appeared overjoyed, grinning like she had won the lottery. Her hands were clasped under her chin as her eyes shifted between the two.

Oh. Oh no.

Madelyn instinctually pulled her hand away, tucking both beneath the table where she nervously fidgeted with her wedding ring. Deacon straightened his posture, looking too self-satisfied with the change in situation.

“Don’t get shy on account of me,” she beamed, winking at Madelyn. “Won’t you introduce me to your…”

Madelyn was going to regret this. She nodded, gesturing to Deacon. “This is—”

“Humphrey Bogart,” he interrupted, extending his arm.

Jenny giggled, indulging him as she grasped his hand in a polite shake. “It’s not every day you meet a dead celebrity.”

“A friend?” Deacon asked. He used his free hand to point up at Jenny. “I like her.”

Madelyn resisted the urge to groan—to slump into the vinyl diner seat until she could slither underneath the table and out the door not unlike a snake. Or maybe, if she closed her eyes hard enough, she’d spontaneously combust, or she’d wake up and this would have all been a fever dream. Was it possible that she’d inhaled some of the trace amounts of gas while traversing the underground tunnels and was now hallucinating?

“I’m her—”

She snapped herself back to reality before he could say anything—be it the truth or some fantastical lie.

“Jenny, this is Deacon,” she paused, crafting a plausible story in her mind. “He’s an informant for the agency.”

It was obvious Jenny didn’t believe her, still looking at the two expectantly. “You aren’t…on a—”

“No!” Madelyn wouldn’t even let the word come from her friend’s mouth. Deacon smiled, his non-offense to her harsh reaction forcing Jenny to second-guess her observations. The red-head looked ready to question them further when another familiar face appeared from someplace in the diner.

“Jenny isn’t bothering you on the job, now is she?” Nick Valentine—intuition as sharp as ever—gave Madelyn a quick nod. She wasn’t wholly decided on if his presence would make things better or worse. His fiancé seemed to be mulling the information in her mind, still unsure.

Madelyn flashed a toothy smile, gesturing across the table. Her patience was wearing thing. “Nick, you remember our informant from the Memory Den, Deacon.”

Deacon offered a wave. “Nick, you old dog. Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Nick nodded, playing along.

He glanced to Madelyn, and she was surprised to find him neither suspicious nor annoyed but amused. A small smirk was pulling at his lips and she had to wonder if he had witnessed their donut-shop antics too. At least the detective knew why she was in Lexington that day and had the sense to put two and two together, unlike his lady love. Jenny wasn’t privy to the finer details of their work—better to leave her in the dark, for her own safety—even if it led to awkward situations such as this.

“We were just going over that information we discussed,” Madelyn said, discreetly.

On cue, Deacon lifted the thick file of paperwork they had just smuggled out from the Switchboard. “What Charmer said.”  

Nick’s eyes lit up, intrigued. “Is that so?” he rested his hand on Jenny’s back, smiling to his beloved. “Sweetheart, do you mind if I have a private, work-related chat with Madelyn? Shouldn’t take but five minutes.”

“Sure,” the red-head replied, her grin a little too devious as she waved Madelyn out of the diner booth. “I’ll keep Bogie here company.”

At Nick’s confusion, Madelyn shook her head, pulling on her coat as the two moved outside. She gave one last fleeting glance to Deacon, who only grinned. Leaving him alone with Jenny was about as bad as the two of them getting caught by the strange man—she only prayed nothing nefarious came of their conversation. In front of the Slocum’s Joe, she busied herself with pulling her gloves back on while Nick watched.

“So that’s Deacon,” he said—a statement, rather than a question. His eyebrows were raised, expression one of mild disbelief. “Not what I expected.”

“Kind of hard to describe a walking question mark, Nick,” Madelyn replied with a low laugh. “He could also qualify as an asterisk. Maybe one of those squiggly accent lines.”

Nick smiled, the mirth in his expression worrying her a little. “I take it the job went well?”

Madelyn hesitated, wondering how much he had seen inside the donut shop. “Very.”

“Suppose there’s competition for being your partner then,” he responded in a playful tone.

“Hardly,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “I work for the agency. The Railroad isn’t paying me. Unless you count vague lessons on the importance of trust and intuition as currency.” She patted Nick on the shoulder and flashed an over-zealous smile. “Deacon has got nothin’ compared to you.”

The detective laughed, shaking his head. “So that’s why he calls you Charmer.”

Madelyn balked at what Nick was insinuating. “It’s a codename. Mysterious, don’t you think?”

“Fitting,” he countered, looking like she had told him some hilarious joke. “The two of you are getting along then?”

She realized that perhaps Nick had brought her outside for ulterior motives. Shouldn’t they be discussing what her and Deacon found rather than their rapport? She sighed, deflecting with a shrug. “I can get along with anybody. He’s tolerable, I suppose. He’s incredibly strange, and talks in riddles, and I really need to explain that he doesn’t have to try so hard to get me to laugh—”

Why’d she say that last part for? She broke off, feeling unnerved by the way Nick was looking at her, expression soft with a knowing smile. Madelyn felt her face grow hot despite the chill of the Boston winter air. She avoided his eyes, glancing towards the glass windowpane of the diner where she could just make out Deacon and Jenny sitting, laughing over something. Her thoughts betrayed her—but he’s pretty good at making me laugh, and he isn’t that bad to look at—she shook her head sharply, chasing the idea away.

“If I could make an observation,” Nick started, hesitantly. His hand rested on her shoulder, catching her attention. “I haven’t seen you so chatty and bright in a long time. Not since—”

Madelyn’s mood shifted dramatically, and she frowned up at her friend. “Since what, Nick?”

He winced, knowing he misspoke. In true Valentine fashion, he rebounded as well as he could. “It’s a good look, Madelyn.”

This is why she didn’t get close to new people—it only caused a myriad of confusing emotions. In spite of the turbulence she felt, deep down she knew Nick had a point. One she didn’t feel like admitting to yet, but a point, nonetheless. Her newfound partnership with Deacon—one she had resisted at first—had been surprisingly natural. Too natural, apparently. Now, she felt even more conflicted, and the guilt she’d been carrying around for more than a year threatened to flood her senses.

She put on a brave face, like she always did. “Thank you.”

Nick grimaced, breathing out in defeat. She knew he meant well, but the timing still wasn’t right for her. Her happiness was important, yes, but so was the job. They had bigger proverbial fish to fry. Just when she thought to speak on what they’d found beneath the Slocum’s Joe, Jenny’s jovial laugher echoed out into the Boston streets. Deacon followed behind her, boisterous as he retold some wild tale about spying for the agency in Scollay Square. They approached, unaware of the lingering tension in the air.

“I like him,” Jenny mused, nuzzling herself up to Nick’s side as she grasped his hand.

Madelyn found Deacon beside her, but showed some restraint and did not reach out to touch her in any way. She wasn’t sure how to feel about it—pushing the fleeting thoughts away as he flashed her a smirk. “Everybody likes me. Isn’t that right, Charmer?”

“Careful,” she chided in a playful tone, if only to keep the atmosphere light. “You’ll start to sound like a jelly-filled donut.”

The group laughed, and with a quick glance to the detective, he took the cue from Madelyn. “Are you heading home? I can drive you there on the way to Jenny’s hospital shift.”

If she had to guess, if only for a moment, Deacon looked disappointed as he dug for his own keys from the never-ending void that was his coat pockets. No doubt he knew where she lived, but a little voice in her head was telling her that it was time to depart for today and regroup later. Much later—after she’d had some time to think and recharge—and go over that hastily scribbled list of pros and cons again.

“Yes, thank you,” she agreed, turning to face her Railroad companion as Nick escorted Jenny to his parked Cadillac nearby. Madelyn hoped to end their interaction on a positive note. “Would you call today successful?”    

Deacon smiled as he nodded, patting his coat where he had tucked the documents away. “We got what we came for. Its best we split up and meet back at the church.”

She silently agreed but didn’t move right away to catch up with the others. Even though she had just mentally reprimanded herself, she couldn’t let herself walk away without speaking the truth. “We make a good team.”  

“The best,” he replied, delighted by her comment. He nodded, tipping his hat slightly. “See you soon, Charmer.” 

Back in the comfort of her apartment, Madelyn spent most of the evening the same way she had spent the weekend—pacing in a nervous line from her kitchen to her couch, from her couch to the hallway and everywhere in between. She had added more notes, scribbled thoughts and emotions to her Railroad List, reading them over and over as she poured generously from her whiskey bottle with each refill. Even with all the new additions after her escapade at the Switchboard, there was one glaring omission.

Deacon.

Just thinking of the man made her feel uneasy, and not for the paranoid reasons she once held. No, that would be far easier. Instead, she was frustrated by how easily he had gotten past her defenses, knocking down the perfectly built walls she had put up around her heart and mind ever since Christmas 1956. She was capable of being a bubbly, charming person—but it wasn’t supposed to happen so quickly, especially with a practical stranger. Especially with somebody she wasn’t sure she could trust. Wasn’t that what he had been trying to teach her in the first place?  

Nick and Jenny’s observations only made matters worse. In the end, Madelyn only felt conflicted and a compounding amount of guilt—like she had somehow betrayed Nate by letting somebody, anybody get under her skin. Regardless of what Nick, or any of her friends said, she was sure that she didn’t deserve that kind of happiness—not when her late husband’s murderer was still free.

Dogmeat whined, intuitive to her emotions, and she sought comfort in petting the dog, beckoning him to follow her down the hallway so they could get some sleep after a long day. As she passed through the hall, she double backed to the open storage closet, peering inside, just as she had done on Christmas day. Instead of continuing on however, a strange compulsion to inspect the large, dusty box in the corner came over her. The last present she’d ever received from Nate, left unwrapped and hidden for her discover in the garage of the home they once shared. A General Atomics logo was plastered atop the box and below it in white cursive letters read, Mister Handy. Dogmeat shuffled between her legs to get a better look.

“What do you think, boy?” she asked. “Should we open the box?”

He barked, signifying his approval. After the weekend she’d had, perhaps it was time to activate the robot. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a Mister Handy around to help, as her husband had intended. If anything, the extra company—even one built on artificial intelligence—would do her some good. Still, the action would prove to be a large step in the so-called grieving process. Dogmeat barked again, and she focused, steadying herself as she began lifting the flaps.

Curiously, the manufacturers seal had already been broken. As soon as the box was opened, Madelyn knew why—atop the shiny surface of the robot was an envelope. In Nate’s distantly familiar handwriting were two words: Hi Honey! Her entire body seized up as she let out a quiet sob, suddenly overwhelmed. Through clouded eyes, she pulled the box out of the closet and into the hallway, carefully tipping it over so she could extract the heavy metal frame of the deactivated Mister Handy unit. She sat on the carpet next to the robot, Dogmeat sniffing at the metallic surface as she carefully opened the letter from Nate.

Maddie,

I’ve been thinking a lot about our future, thinking about the possibility of welcoming a child into our lives. Lord knows I’ve been having fun trying for one—practice makes perfect, right? I’ve also been thinking about all the preparations we’ve made for building our family: the crib, the tiny clothes, even joking about potential names. It sounds foolish but even one child, one little life created with you would be enough, no matter how long it takes.

I know you’re a fiercely independent and modern woman who likes to take care of herself, but with our plans to grow our family, I was thinking we could use an extra hand. Or three. Regardless of ol’ Codsworth here, I know you will be an amazing mother.

I love you so much. You are my best friend and my saving grace. The first and last thing I think about in the morning and at night. You have made me so incredibly happy. If I should die tomorrow, I’d die a happy man.

-Nate

PS: Did you know twins run in my family?

Reading his words left a new kind of pain in her heart, a fresh reminder of the plans they had before his life had been cut short. How prophetic of him, to leave such a statement about his assumed death. Madelyn wasn’t sure when the note was written, but it had to have been shortly before that fateful night in Boston Common. With his letter were the General Atomic factory instructions, along with more of Nate’s handwritten scribbles indicating which steps she could skip and simple hacks—a cheat sheet from beyond the pale.

After twisting the upper chassis, she found and pressed the activation button until the robot whirled back to life with a series of beeps and garbled words. Almost immediately it was floating midair, eye-sensors adjusting to its environment. Madelyn stood to be as level as she could with the unit, the way it hovered allowed the machinery to tower over her. Her reflection was distorted in the shiny surface of the Mister Handy as she stared at it, suddenly wondering if this had been a good idea after all.

“You must be Mrs. James,” the robot declared joyously, his three metal arms spinning as if to express that delight, barely missing her body. “I am Codsworth. Your new butler. Oh, how wonderful it is to finally meet you. Sir has spoken so much—”

She couldn’t help the strangled gasp of a cry that escaped her, snapping a hand over her mouth to prevent further disruptions. Hearing this robot—Codsworth—speak so casually as if nothing was amiss made reality come crashing down around her all over again. He floated a little closer.

“Have I upset you, mum?” Codsworth asked in a sullen tone.

Madelyn shook her head in earnest, wiping away her tears on the sleeve of her dress. “No, of course not. Codsworth honey,” she sniffled, baffled by her own term of endearment for the Mister Handy unit. Perhaps the overly posh British accent had gotten to her. But now came the awkward explanation of telling a robot that his master was long dead. “It isn’t you. You should know that…Mr. James is no longer with us.”

“Oh, where has he gone off to?”

She closed her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t have to be so blunt. “He’s dead, Codsworth. Died before he could gift you to me.”

Expressionless, mechanical eyes ‘blinked’ back at her, processing what she had just said. “Well, I’m here now, mum,” he spoke. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Sir was so kind when activating me and said so many lovely things about you,” his tone shifted to one of determination. “I look forward to fulfilling the duties I was meant to, if you’ll allow.”

As silly as Madelyn felt to be comforted by a floating Mister Handy unit, she couldn’t help but smile at his words. In a gesture of kindness, she placed her hand against his metal frame, wondering if he—or the wires in his mainframe that made up his personality—understood. It would take some adjustment, but she could get used to having a disembodied voice in her home—the thought made her smile even more.

“Of course, Codsworth,” she agreed. Madelyn released a breath and felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest. This had been a long time coming. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you too.”

[franstastic-ideas]

The Villain I Appear To Be

So, after seeing a fan art floating around my dash of Chara from @lostmypotatoes Wild West AU singing 'Why Don't You Do Right?' to Papyrus after the Jolene Incident, and after a brief conversation with potato, I felt... inspired.

So I wrote a thing based on that. It's based on Frisk's feelings after the whole hoopla with Jolene goes down but before Chara finds it in her to get back on stage and sing out her heartache.

My writing may be a little rusty since it's been a while since I last wrote something and it was done in just a few hours, but it has a lot of heart put into it.

I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

Word Count: 3,957

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFjn67oZ9-Q

(Dumb video inserts aren't working >_<)

A hush fell over the saloon as the owner stepped up onto the platform stage and moved towards the microphone. Grillby cleared his throat, a hint of nervousness in his tone as he made the announcement.

“Due to issues of… health, Miss Chara will not be performing tonight…”

A small round of boos came from the crowd, but one stern look from the fire monster silenced them as quickly as they had come. Others in the audience whispered amongst each other with concern, wondering what horrible malady the sweet show girl had caught.

Grillby knew exactly what kind of illness it was that poor Chara had contracted, the worst one of them all – heartbreak. He had seen everything. Jolene entering the saloon. Papyrus passing her completely to oogle at Jolene. Chara holding onto a parchment with a tightened grip, tears beading at the corners of her eyes… But Grillby wasn’t one to pry into others’ business. He simply told Chara she didn’t look well and sent her home to recover without ever letting the girl know he was aware of what had transpired.

“In her place, Miss Frisk will be performing solo for the night. Please give a warm round of applause for her.”

The seated crowd did as asked of them. Some of the more ornery and drunk men gave a few hoots, hollers and wolf whistles in the lady’s direction as the curtain rose to reveal her place on stage.

Frisk stepped front and center before the microphone, a tight smile on her lips.

It was fake.

Sans frowned in his seat, seeing through her disguise. Was she shy performing without Chara by her side? She had sung before without her, but her voice had fallen to a soft delicate whisper during those times, barely audible, but oh so enchanting to his senses even if he doesn’t understand the words to her song. Almost as if she were whispering her secrets for him to keep and guard.

…Or perhaps that belief was a product of his own lovesick fantasies.

Regardless, the sheriff knew he was in for a treat tonight. Chara was a wonderful person and a talented songstress; he could understand why his brother had taken an interest in her and he felt great sympathy for her catching ill, but whenever she was up on stage with her sister, Sans felt as though Frisk didn’t get much an opportunity to shine.

Then again, Miss Frisk had enough suitors to worry about as is, even when she clearly wore a veil as she mourned her dear departed husband, who Sans had only recently learned never existed. Apparently she wore it to throw off her more troublesome suitors. It warmed his SOUL to its core that Frisk would share something so confidential with him – he wasn’t even upset that she had essentially been untruthful towards him as well this entire time! He understood. Having that kind of unwanted attention coming from all angles from the town’s men would grate on any lady’s nerves in a relatively short amount of time.

A quiet clearing of her throat brought his attention out of his thoughts and to the woman who had captured his SOUL.

 “Sometimes when I

Wanna run away and hide

When there's no one on my side

And all my pride had disappeared”

 Her voice was as faint as it always was when she sang without Chara’s accompaniment. Frisk’s tone was somber. Even her eyes held a glint of sadness in them. She was sad – how could she perform as if nothing were wrong when her dear little sister was currently crying her heart out into her bed’s mattress?

Chara had returned to their temporary dwelling strangely quiet the previous night. It was obvious from the air of gloom surrounding her that something was terribly wrong. When she raised her head to meet Frisk’s eyes, that’s when the dam burst. She wailed, gripping onto her sister’s shoulders as she tearfully explained what had happened at the saloon – that scum Papyrus, sending a letter asking for her to meet him in the star fields that night, only to ditch her for that little tart, Jolene.

Chara cried herself to sleep last night, and that was the last thing Frisk heard before she fell asleep herself. She had climbed into her bed and they slept together in each others arms like they did when they were little girls.

That’s what Papyrus had done to her sister – he had reduced her to a sobbing little girl. And each time Frisk dwelled on this fact for too long in the past twenty-four hours, it made her blood begin to boil all over again.

 “I take it off my mind

And leave it all behind

Nothin' left to do but

Try to take the leap and follow through…”

 She had warned Chara about that playboy. More than once. But even so, she was far more angry with Papyrus than her.

Chara had already learned her lesson.

But Papyrus?

He still needed to be educated on what happens when you make fools out of the Dreemurr sisters…

 “And that's exactly what I'll do��!”

 She craned her neck towards where he was sitting in the crowd, her lips curving upwards wickedly with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

 “I know to you I don't seem very strong

But I assure you before you can find me I'm gone

So come on and catch me you've still got a chance...”

 Her voice began to crescendo, aweing the crowd and illiciting a few hushed whispers. Sans let out a soft gasp, one hand clutched over his SOUL, his eyelights morphing into hearts. Papyrus, however, felt a cold chill go down his spine that he couldn’t shake off for some reason…

Grillby turned towards Frisk from his place behind the counter with a slightly raised eyebrow, but she only gave him a smile feigning innocence. The instrumental picked up, and Frisk turned her gaze back on the crowd, specifically Papyrus, her SOUL pumping with DETERMINATION.

 “But not for long

I'll be rollin' place to place

Won't stop till I win the race

Although I may have crossed the line”

 Sans watched, spellbound, as Frisk danced across the stage, oblivious to the dramatic change of mood between her and his brother present. He was far too distracted by the cadence of her voice to notice. Papyrus couldn’t place why, but he felt like a small defenseless rabbit in front of a powerful lioness while subjected to her fierce gaze.

The lyrics to the song she was singing weren’t helping either.

 “No time to waste on you

I don't plan on slowing

Down, no I'll keep on going

Even if you think I'm in the wrong”

 Papyrus’s deception and Chara’s heartbreak had brought Frisk back on track. She remembered why the both of them came to this town in the first place.

She had allowed herself to become distracted by the the sheriff, and because of that, her mind had been swept away from their objective. Perhaps if she had remained focused on their goal, she could have prevented her sister and that cad from ever getting as close as they had been. Then maybe Chara would be up here on stage singing with her instead of wrapped up in her bedsheets sniffling.

 “Just know that

Although I may not think everything through

I don't take back what I say or regret what I do

I know that some stay in line and they stick to the plan

But if you leave it to me I'll do whatever I can”

 She was the head of the operation, the brains, the planmaker. And Chara was the one who followed those plans to the letter and helped them come to fruitation. She was her darling little sister, her best friend, and her eternal partner in crime.

By toying with Chara’s emotions, he had not only made Chara his enemy, but Frisk as well. Then again, she and him were never friends, but now Papyrus has made himself a powerful enemy with a personal vendetta compared to a few nights ago where Frisk previously considered leaving him unscathed at Chara’s request when they finally did raid the town of its gold.

 “'cause

I know that's what I'm here for

I don't wanna wait around anymore

Even if you can't see

The good inside me

 I don't have the time to tell you

Why I do the things that I do

Just please hold on and soon you'll see

That I'm not the villain I appear to be”

 She and Chara had done their share of heists before, but Frisk had been in this business longer than Chara. Her sissy wasn’t nowhere near as innocent as most of the town’s population thought she was, but she was still a saint compared to herself.

That’s why Frisk always insisted on doing the dirty work during their jobs most of the time – even if Chara had no qualms on doing it herself, Frisk didn’t want to stain her sister’s hands with more blood than necessary, metaphorically speaking or otherwise.

Because deep down, no matter what, she wanted the best for her sweet little Chara. Even when they pickpocketed and stole, what they took, Frisk always kept in mind how their spoils could benefit Chara first, herself second.

Chara had been her entire world since she first entered it.

 “Movin' along, no I won't settle down

Until I'm locked behind bars or I'm kicked outta town

So you can keep on a runnin' around and around

But you will never quite catch up to me!”

 Frisk put her everything into her song and dance routine. Her singing had never been quite as powerful as it was this night, her kicks had more force put into them some members of the crowd realized - Frisk was imagining knocking the teeth of the monster that broke her Chara’s heart right out of his skull.

Focusing on this song was quite literally the only thing on the face of this Earth that was keeping Frisk from leaping off the stage and onto the table where he sat to beat Papyrus within an inch of his life in front of every patron in the saloon at the moment. If she poured her aggression out into her routine, she could hold off on carrying out her violent desires.

 “And I know you think I'm crazy

But I hope that maybe

Now you'll see why…”

 And yet, every time Frisk caught eyes with him in the crowd, her anger rose exponentially. In an effort to calm herself, she switched from maintaining eye contact with Papyrus to looking at the other members of the audience. She didn’t allow her gaze to remain on Sans for too long whenever it fell on him, however.

He had his elbows propped on the table, his hands pressed against his cheeks flushed blue, his heart-shaped eyelights never once tearing away from her focused on her every move – every step she made, every breath she took, he didn’t want to miss a single second.

If Frisk had witnessed this a few days ago, she might have blushed.

But not now.

Those moments between them, when she felt a warmth creep onto her face and her heart and SOUL flutter because of him… She buried them in the very back of her mind, where they were soon to be discarded.

No more silly distractions.

No more tender feelings to take either of them away from their shared ambition.

“We came to this gold infested town with a job to do and I intend to finish it…” Frisk thought, clenching her fists and belting out the last line of her song.

 “I had to tryyyyyyyy…!”

 A lull of silence followed the song’s end, then suddenly, the entire saloon erupted into a raucous round of applause. Grillby was beginning to become concerned that his furniture would be damaged in the excitement, but the crowd managed to compose itself before it ever came to that.

The sole person in the establishment that hadn’t moved a muscle was Papyrus, who had been locked into his current position early into Frisk’s performance. Nobody picked up on his discomfort though, everyone assuming that he too had been taken aback and bewitched by the lovely Miss Frisk’s unexpectedly powerful voice.

He finally moved to take a swig of his drink, the beverage sloshing about when he tried to bring the mug to his mouth with his quivering hand. When he finally got a mouthful, he swallowed hard.

“WASN’T SHE AMAZING, PAPYRUS?!” Sans shouted, his eyes shifting to stars as he rigorously shook Papyrus’s shoulder in his enthusiasm. “I NEVER KNEW MISS FRISK COULD SING LIKE THAT!”

“y-yeah. i didn’t k-know either…” Papyrus stuttered, his knees weak and feeling as though he would collapse if he were to stand up.

“PAPYRUS, YOU BETTER NOT BE THINKING ABOUT STEALING AWAY MISS FRISK FOR YOURSELF, MISTER!” Sans warned with a frown and a sharp jab to the sternum, mistaking his brother’s apprehension for attraction. “IF YOU DO, I’LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU! SHE HAS ENOUGH UNSEEMLY SUITORS TO DEAL WITH FOR THE MOMENT, AND YOU ALREADY HAVE MISS CHARA! BE THANKFUL FOR WHAT YOU HAVE AND DON’T! BE! GREEDY!”

“y-yeah. c-chara, you’re right again, bro.” He then slowly pushed himself into a standing position and took a few wobbly steps towards the saloon’s counter.

“that was the most terrifying three minutes and thirteen seconds of my entire life…” Papyrus thought as he downed his entire glass, hoping the alcohol would soothe his frazzled nerves after that performance.

Though he wasn’t aware as to why yet, Papyrus knew that Frisk was upset with him for some reason – more than usual. She continued to glare at him with a heated gaze throughout her song and dance number, almost accusingly.

And the lyrics – Papyrus had thought since he first met her that Frisk seemed suspicious, but Sans would hear none of it. It surprised him that someone like Chara, sweet and innocent as a lamb, was related to someone so unsavory. Some of the men around town had been taken in by her, but Papyrus had unknowingly just witnessed her revealing her true colors to him.

Disguised as an incredibly catchy musical number, Frisk’s song had been a subtle declaration of war against the entire town.

And her shared gazes with him throughout were a stern warning – cross either of us again and you’ll pay for it dearly.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

 “M-MISS FRISK! PLEASE WAIT!”

Once Grillby dismissed her for the night, Sans attempted to flag her down to compliment her performance and maybe a chat, he hoped. However, Frisk didn’t turn around when he called out to her, didn’t even slow down as she headed out the door.

“IS SOMETHING WRONG?” Sans asked worriedly when he caught up to her, a concerned Papyrus trailing after him not too far behind, but far enough.

She continued to ignore him, her pace quickening just slightly.

Knowing she didn’t want to be bothered at the moment, Sans should have gave up then and turned in for the night to seek answers when Frisk was in a better mood, but his curiousity, confusion and feelings of hurt won out over his common sense.

“FRISK. PLEASE TALK TO ME.” He nearly pleaded when her steps grew even more hurried. “SOMETHING’S OBVIOUSLY WRONG. DON’T KEEP YOUR EMOTIONS BOTTLED UP WHEN TALKING ABOUT IT MIGHT MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER. PAPYRUS DOES THAT AND I HATE IT… SO PLEASE…”

“There’s nothing to say.” She retorted, not slowing down in the slightest.

“DON’T LIE TO ME.” He shot back, rushing in front of Frisk to block her path. “TELL ME THE TRUTH! I’M NOT MOVING UNTIL YOU TELL ME WHAT’S BOTHERING YOU!”

Frisk kept her head down, not meeting his gaze which matched her own while she had been on stage staring down Papyrus. She bit her lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, but Sans then took her face in his hands and gently coaxed her lower lip free, stroking over the abused skin with his thumb.

“FRISK…” He pulled her face closer to his until the tip of her nose nearly touched his nasal ridge, his eyes imploring.

She looked down at their feet and mumbled something, but Sans was quick to tilt her chin upward to regain eye contact.

“FRISK…?” He repeated, his tone filled with concern as his thumbs traced patterns over her cheeks.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

His movements immediately ceased.

“…What?” Sans asked, his voice dropping to a broken whisper.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.” She said again, her tone more firm and her gaze sharp as she pried herself away from him and his touch, taking a step back.

“You… you don’t really mean that…” His voice cracked at the end as he gave a wobbly smile. “If this is a joke, this is a really mean one to pull, Frisk… I might just take you seriously.”

“No. You should take me seriously.” She asserted, glaring at him with the very same intensity and hatred that she had towards his lying cheating brother. “It’s not a joke and I most certainly did mean it.”

“But… why?” Tears began to bead in the corners of his eyesockets. “W-Was it something I said or did…? If it was, I’ll never do it again! I promise-”

“No. It’s nothing you’ve done… nothing you’ve done at all.”

“Then that’s it, isn’t it?! It’s something I haven’t done that I was supposed to, right?!” Sans was nearly sobbing now as he tried to reason with a Frisk consumed by thoughts of revenge. “If that’s it, then just tell me! Tell me what to do! I-I’ll do anything for you, just… please don’t do this…”

“There’s nothing you can do. Nothing at all.”

Her tone was cold, so cold…

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

Sans hiccuped once, then twice before falling to his knees, his hands clutching at his chest where inside his ribcage his SOUL was aching and crying out in agony. He let out a heartbroken wail before the sound of his quiet sobs were the only noise heard on the empty streets of the town.

Frisk didn’t spare him a second glance and continued her walk home without another word to spare for him.

Papyrus looked down at his brother, and his own SOUL told him that he should stay and comfort him in his time of need…

But Frisk wasn’t the only one with a penchant for taking revenge.

“hey.”

He said once he had significantly caught up to her and was far away enough from Sans that he couldn’t hear. Frisk didn’t stop but that didn’t matter to him – he could walk and talk at the same time.

“i know you seem to have a bone to pick with me…” That was the understatement of the century there, “but why’d you say all that stuff to my bro? sans didn’t do anything to tick you off, and he definitely didn’t deserve whatever that was back there.”

“…”

“so? don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

Frisk suddenly spun on her heel and was standing before him in an instant. Papyrus froze in his tracks, for directly in front of him was the barrel of a revolver, and its owner’s finger was hovering dangerously over the trigger.

“One false move and I’ll shoot you down. I mean it.”

“d-do i need to raise my hands up, or…?” He brought himself to ask, his arms already half raised before she answered him.

“No. Keep them down. Seeing your hands raised up like that makes you look kind of creepy. Like you’re about to do something… untoward.”

He briefly considered raising his arms again just for that comment, but her thumping the business end of her revolver against his sternum quickly told him that testing Frisk’s rapidly waning patience was a bad idea.

“Listen, I’m in a hurry, and I’m sure you are too.” The silver of her revolver glinted in the moonlight. “So you had better leave me alone from here on out.”

“that doesn’t explain why you treated my brother the way you did!” Papyrus pushed his wariness of the weapon in front of him aside, the image of Sans slumped on his knees as he cried on the cold hard ground burned in his eyesockets. “why…? i know you never liked me, but… i thought you at least liked him. no, i know you did… so… what’s changed?”

A bitter smile slipped onto her lips as she all but spat out, “Now you will know of the joy of comforting a sibling who’s SOUL aches with heartbreak, of the restless nights that will be spent holding them in your arms as they bawl like a small child…”

“what are you talking about?! that doesn’t explain anythi-”

The end of the revolver slamming against his chin and forcing his mouth shut silenced him.

“C h a r a…” Frisk hissed. “You… you hurt her. And it’s taking every fiber of my willpower, every ounce of my DETERMINATION… not to end your life right here and now.”

“what did i ever do to chara?” He questioned incredulously.

“You really don’t know?! Is your skull that vacant of rational thought?!” She growled, her pointer finger lightly stroking the cool metal surface of the trigger.

“all i know about chara right now is that she’s supposed to be sick and from the sound of things, it’s supposed to somehow be my fault.”

“And it is your fault.” She said punctuated by a swift nod.

“y-you’re crazy! how could her falling ill be any fault of mine?!”

“How? Does the name ‘Jolene’ ring any bells?”

“jolene? What does she have to do with-”

“But I forget how ignorant you actually are, so maybe this will jog your memory.”

Frisk thrust a crumpled parchment at his chest. Papyrus cautiously unfurled the piece of paper and his SOUL stilled.

 My Chara,

 You performed wonderfully as always. Let’s escape to the star fields tonight. Wait for me there.

                    - Carrot Stick

 He slowly raised his head to meet Frisk’s scornful expression. He opened his mouth but no words would come out.

“s-she… she never showed up last night.” He feebly tried to argue, but Frisk silenced him with another upward thrust of her revolver.

“Because she saw you with that cheap little tramp, Jolene!” She interrupted, then went on with a poor impersonation of the two, “‘Do you have any plans for tonight? None, I hope.’ ‘well you’re in luck then, i’m free for the rest of the night.'”

“…” Papyrus was rendered speechless once again.

“She told me everything, so don’t you even dare try to pin any blame on her!”

Frisk took a deep breath, the hand holding the revolver slowly lowering. “It’s getting late… Now, I believe we both have a distraught sibling to tend to for the night, wouldn’t you agree Mister Papyrus Gaster?”

Her voice had shifted to a faux sugary sweet tone, but he could still hear the underlying venom there. Papyrus heard her footsteps grow more faint, but he made no move to pursue her any further. It was only the thought that Sans was probably still bawling in the empty road behind him that brought Papyrus to his feet. As he gathered his brother’s weak and trembling form in his arms, all he was left wondering was,

“what have i done…?”

[slushrottweiler]

Show, don’t Tell

Prompt fill for @14daysofdalovers Day 5: Love Letters. This time featuring Varric Tethras and his editor, Silver.

Read on AO3

5 Harvestmere 9:41 Dragon

Are you sure I can't stab that arrogant, prissy twit?

I will be doing the inquisition a favour

…………..

Now Silver, the Iron Lady offers the Inquisition an important service. Just because she isn't the easiest to get along with, doesn't give you the right to start throwing knives around.

……………

She stole all my quills Varric. All of them.

……………

I'll have a word with her.

Don't kill anyone

…………..

[ a requisition request lodged with Ser Morris]

Order another set of Quail Dove quills from Le Maison de'Inque in Val Royeaux Deliver them to the scribes working for Lady Montilliyet. Send me the bill.

— V. Tethras

…………..

18 Harvestmere 9:41 Dragon

[An excerpt found amongst many other rough draft in a leather folder labeled "ideas". The parchment is crinkled, as through it has be scrunched up and then smoothed out again.]

He wasn't sure when his thoughts has shifted, but he couldn't deny them anymore.

Once, when he closed his eyes, his mind had been filled with images of generous curves; soft hips and round eyes gone glassy with pleasure.

Now he found his fantasies directed in a very different way. Long, smooth legs wrapped around his waist; the graceful arch of her back when he hit just that right spot inside her. And that wicked tongue, maker that tongue… whether she used it on his body or to cut him down with words, that tongue was honed so sharp it may well be dipped in silv -----

[the ink trails off, leaving blotches of dripped ink on the page. Scrawled below in much messier handwriting]

Well shit.

28 Harvestmere 9:41 Dragon

[Correspondance found amongst Coterie reports on a scribe’s desk in Skyhold. Most of the reports are marked to be sent to Josephine or Cullen, except for one.]

Identified two spies for the Merchants Guild approaching Skyhold with incoming caravan of dignitaries. The have attempted to pry information about Davri’s visit from many of the soldiers, no information has leaked yet. Vials of Deathroot Extract and a pre-signed hit on Tethras’ life are amongst their possessions.

Caravan is due in within the week.

We shall move to deal with the threat as you specified.

……………

31 Harvestmere 9:41 Dragon

You did it, didn’t you?

…………….

Why Master Tethras, I have never done anything at all, in my entire life. I cannot fathom what you mean.

Yours innocently,

— Silver

…………….

Damnit Silver, this is the Merchants Guild. You can’t have them thrown in the dungeons on trumped-up charges and expect to get away with it.

……………..

If I had anyone thrown into prison (which I am not claiming to have done), I would hope you’d realise I wouldn’t leave any loose ends.

Have a bit of faith V.

…………..

And what happens when they are released? You can’t keep them locked up indefinitely.

……………

They don’t need to be incarcerated indefinitely… Just long enough that they forget anything they were going to tell the Merchants Guild.

………….

This is insane. I didn’t ask for this Silver.

………….

No, you just went galavanting around the Hinterlands with your married girlfriend and did not expect that information to get back to the wrong people.

You didn’t ask me to track down the assassins they sent to kill you, nor did you ask me to bribe all the witnesses into keeping their mouths shut.

I did you a favour Varric; you and Bianca.

And you know it.

……………….

2 Firstfall 9:41 Dragon

Silver just let me apologise properly please. You were right and I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat about it.

Just, come to the tavern tonight, let me buy you a drink and grovel

Apologetically yours,

— V

……………….

3 Firstfall 9:41 Dragon

How long are you going to avoid me? Just tell me what hoops I need to jump through. Do you need some kind of grand gesture? Do you want me to declare my sincerely apologies to the entire hall at breakfast? Because I’ll do it.

…………….

5 Firstfall 9:41 Dragon

Damnit Silver, talk to me. I’m sorry.

……………..

6 Firstfall 9:41 Dragon

[a scrap of paper shoved underneath a bedroom door]

I know you can hear me knocking. And I’m not going to budge until you let me apologise.

……………..

Please Silver, I’m sorry. You were looking out for me and I was a jerk. I should never have gotten mad at you for dealing with the assassins, and I shouldn’t have yelled at you about if afterward.

Just, let me make it up to you.

This would have sounded a lot more sincere if I could say this to you face to face, rather than camping outside your bedroom and sliding noted under your door like a love-struck teenager.

…………….

I miss you.

……………

Silver…

……………

7 Firstfall 9:41 Dragon

[A note left on the beside table]

Just went to get breakfast. You can keep making it up to me when I get back.

Good thing your tongue isn’t just for talking bullshit.

— Your Silver.

[least-among-hamiltons]

His heart is a suspended lute; As soon as you touch it, it resonates. [ GIVE ME FREEFORM SHIT ]

i.

the first time you see a boy and think want somewhere in the vicinity of your throat you are only four and he’s the son of a friend of a friend of your father’s, and you kiss him behind the curve of the stairs. it’s what you’ve seen parents do, a sign you want to align yourself with someone forever, and after a bright moment when it feels like the world is set arights, you tell him it’s part of the game of romans that you’ve been playing, a show of partnership, of brotherhood. you’re very clever when afraid, and he accepts it when you say it was to show venus was acting through you. you stare into the mirror with hatred at the excuse after he leaves, and wish acutely you’d been brave enough to say nothing. he never comes back to the house, but it must be for some other reason because your father would lash out if he knew. (you are four and you know this).

ii.

the second time you feel the fire in your throat and in your lungs you are nine and you have accepted that this is a part of you, and you have started to hide because of how people treat you for it. your father pays attention to your younger brother over you now, and the new lady hamilton pays you little mind. a few of the teachers worry, but you think it’s just that they know, so you avoid them. one of your teachers speaks and gesticulates with fire and surety, and somewhere in your mind it registers that you want to be like him someday. you think back on the time you kissed the boy behind the stairs and flush with shame and self-assuredness. there is nothing where other emotions will arrive later, but there is a fire of surety that this is what you want to be.

iii.

you are eleven and children are cruel. it’s easier if you call your peers children, it makes the hot tears you cry over their words seem less permanent. there is no respite, only pockets of quiet, and you find yourself seeking out an absence of human contact. your only respite is in fencing, and you can hide behind the netting of the masks, in rigid practice of form and self-discipline create something for your mind to lash out against. your instructor notices your skinned palms and, in your frustrated anger, you tell him the truth, that a classmate pushed you. he asks gently if you want to know what to do if they try that again, and you fall in love on the spot. you know the emotion now, and it shivers strangely through you.

iv.

you are thirteen and you’ve just been told miranda barlowe is to be your betrothed. you try and breathe around the chalky panic in your lungs, but you cannot. you’ve never met her, but your father assures you that she will be a good match, in spite of your… shortcomings. for a blinding second, you think that your father knows, but there is none of the familiar loathing in his eyes as when he talks about the… the people like you… the people like you he’s put up on the scaffold. you breathe around the panic, and think of how there must be a way out of this.

v.

miranda is a genius. staging a fight to get him sent to an all-boys’ school takes the brilliant anger and sharp wit you’ve never dared have, but living outside of london and in the countryside suits you like nothing else. you’re fifteen and the boys here are gorgeous, and you think there might be unwritten rules that you don’t know yet but you will. you’ve always been a quick study.

vi.

boys here are cruel, and sometimes even the boys like you are cruel too. you have just turned sixteen and you are learning that you and all the other boys like you here are so angry. you know exactly how inhospitable the world outside of the school is, and even inside the school, it pays to be brilliant, charming, and as sharp-tongued as a snake. you try and keep your softness, it’s the best part of you, miranda said, but between that and the cruelties of those boys who are unlike you, it’s getting hard to stay.

vii.

you are eighteen and london would be better than this. anything would be better than this. anything would be better than this. miranda says she’ll throw a fit to get her father to move the marriage to christmas to get him out of the school, and he cries over the letter until the ink runs before burning it. the other boys think the letters are from a lover, and he doesn’t tell them otherwise. when one of his horrendous schoolmates steals a letter and finds that it’s a fiance, all of a sudden he is even more alone. he spends his last few months buried in books and study.

vii.

you’ve just turned nineteen and miranda has known since the beginning. she has supported him, and he has come to love her as his dearest friend. nothing he says during the wedding rings false, but he shares secret smiles with her, ignores the sad twist of her mouth. they both know he cannot and will not love her how she would hope, but he’s devising a scheme to make it possible not to trap her in the gilded cage that is his security.

viii.

he’s twenty-two parliament is easy, god it’s nothing compared to the games of boarding school, except that each adversary is more wrong than the other. he raises his voice too much, he knows, and the first time he’s branded a radical it feels like a death knell, but he and miranda are brilliant and tenacious and determined to be happy, so he continues on through it, and turns the gauntlet of fire into a reputation. the salons fan the flames of it, and he finds likeminded others. when he sees boys from boarding school, they never speak unless it’s pleasantries, but sometimes they’ll come sit in the back of the salons. thomas tries to quell the sick-sweet taste of regret and horrendous memory when he sees them. he is still kind, in spite of everything, and a bit of a fool, but he’d rather be a fool than dead. and it really was that choice, in the end.

ix.

he’s twenty-seven, and he makes a friend of peter ashe. he’s not surprised, at this point, that staying the course has proven to be a workable strategy, but he’s gotten good at making it confusing to track his successes back to him. some of the foolish men who were cruel boys at school stand across the room from him now, and he’s making a name for himself for making unworkable strategies workable. and he’s caught the eye of a star. peter debates with him openly in the salons about things that are obvious enough not to draw attention, but his attendance doesn’t waver. he tells thomas to stand behind a project (peter’s project) and to trust the weight of his name to carry him. thomas doesn’t believe him, but he tries it. and instead of the ridicule he expects, he is faced with respect and a degree of applause. it shocks him to his core. has he at some point become a politician? (it makes sense, since that is what he’s devoted himself to) his father sends him a letter of congratulation, and thomas burns it. the letter that follows, offering thomas the house (his brother had gotten a governorship across the sea, and his father had purchased a richer one) he is more hesitant to burn. he shows it to miranda, miranda who’s had next to no space to conduct her life in the small house they’ve been sharing, and in the end, he responds.

x.

he is thirty-four, and he manages to put his foot in his mouth the second he meets the man he’s destined to fall in love with. he’s abrasive where he should be quiet, he doubts where he shouldn’t question, and he misses every step on the pleasantries ladder, but lt mcgraw answers him honestly. castises him easily and doesn’t deny his compliment, but he answers honestly. thomas hasn’t looked in a very long time, at least not in any substantial way, but when lt. mcgraw dismantles his nassau plan and thomas has to struggle to dismiss his dismissals (none of which are anything other than pointing out the resistance of third parties, no resistances of mcgraw’s own, at least yet) thomas thinks he might be a little bit taken. if he permits himself. miranda is taken with him too, and he thinks james mcgraw might be someone special.

xi.

he learns that it’s not that easy, and that even after all this time he falls hard and falls easy and falls fast. he has miranda and peter, though, to keep him from doing anything stupid. also james is special. more special than he can know. more special than he can ever dream. quicksilver and virtuosity hover in the air around him like light, and, even after all this time, thomas’s heart is a suspended lute; as soon as you touch it, it resonates

[all-cursed]

BOBO DEL REY : BIOGRAPHY

[    i.    STATS   ]

NAME.  bobo del rey , also known as robert svane . 

AGE. somewhere around 171; number provided via mathematics i did between a combination of the actors’ ages and doc’s mentions of his age/how long he was stuck in the well . the math may or may not be correct and i honestly don’t care enough to try and do it again .

DOB.  september 23, exact year unknown .

GENDER. cis male  :  prefers he/him or they/them pronouns .

PREF. pansexual

SPECIES.  human turned revenant .

RESIDENCE.  the  ghost  river  triangle  .

OCCUPATION. outside his stint as the owner of Shorty’s, his financial endeavours tend to be a little more under the table .

ETHNICITY.  swedish, danish, norwegian... most of his blood comes from that general area .

[    ii.     INTROSPECTION    ]

POSITIVE TRAITS.   resolute ,  patient (how else would someone spend over fifteen years trying to find some lady’s dead children bones) ,  passionate ,   dedicated ,  perceptive ,   eloquent .

NEUTRAL TRAITS.  quick-witted ,  clever ,  irreverent , amoral .

NEGATIVE TRAITS.  hedonistic , short tempered , unforgiving , apathetic toward most things , self-interested (not quite the word i was looking for but when he sets his mind to a goal/decides that someone is in his inner circle, he’ll do anything to achieve/protect said things even to the detriment of others and this word is the closest i could find) .

DISLIKES. being rushed  &  law enforcement & comic books & ignorance/ignorant people & being under someone else’s authority  & having to repeat himself & hell flashbacks &  poker games &  cheap alcohol; he’ll drink it but he has a heavy preference toward the pricier stuff & interruptions of any sort & having to switch things up mid-plan & having to rely on others for anything & most sweets & neon colours &  thinking about his past & being cornered .

LIKES. expensive liquors &  lounging in the sun &  birds & organic materials for clothing; so furs, leathers, metals, etc. & accessorising (the amount of rings and bracelets alone that he has squirreled away is insane) &  neutral and earth tone colours & having all eyes on him/being able to give off a commanding presence &  at the same time he also values his privacy &  physical activities and how he feels after doing them & getting in the last word &  dawn or dusk walks & burning incense & avant garde jazz & 'experimental’ fashion (look at this man’s outfits in this show and tell me i’m wrong) & cigarettes and bourbon & flirting & the ocean .

HOBBIES. chess & puzzle boxes/rings &  origami & wood whittling & walks on the outskirts of town & he journals but it’s less for fun and more to keep track of everything he has going on & learning things .

WEAKNESSES. he has a hard time garnering any sort of sympathy for anyone/anything outside of his inner circles/soft spots & willa earp is one of his weaknesses because of how important she is to him and i will die on this hill & his short temper & his amorality means that his loyalties can and often do shift which leaves him with few he can steadily count on .

STRENGTHS. has a way about him that makes networking and forming connections extremely easy for him &  can be very persuasive when need be & once he sets his mind on a plan/task it takes a lot to get him to give up on it & has the ability to play the long game; isn’t impatient for results right away .

HABITS. he’s very expressive with his hands; like, very expressive &  will stroke his beard when he’s deep in thought (or pretending to be) & that thing he does where he kind of clacks his teeth together like he’s biting the air?? look he does it multiple times and i still don’t know how to describe it & has a habit of staring at people  &  leans back or lounges in chairs whenever possible & when nervous/thoughtful he’ll chew at the edges of his fingernails and/or spin the rings on his fingers .

EDUCATION. before he became a revenant, he was fairly well educated; about as well educated as anyone could be back then. he finished school and while he didn’t go to college, he did a lot of book reading before everything with wyatt began to get out of control. the fascination with/desire to learn about the world followed him even when he became a revenant - though often, his research now is done with an intention to learn information that might serve him well in the future.

[  iii.     APPEARANCE     ]

FACECLAIM.  the beautiful michael eklund .

HEIGHT.  6 ‘ 0 ” .

EYES. a keen, watchful cobalt blue at most times - though when in use of his powers, or simply when he chooses to let them appear, his eyes will glow a fiery golden orange ringed with black . dark circles beneath them , long eyelashes, and generally a look that seems like it can pierce your soul .

EYEBROWS.   fairly average , again , there isn’t much to say about eyebrows . though small parts of his are white to match the partially white patch in his beard .

HAIR.  generally kept short in various mohawk styles ;  can be slightly wavy at times depending on the humidity in the air .  he keeps it short in such a manner that makes it easy to keep it styled , either smoothed back or shaped into a simple mohawk . there have been phases in his life where his hair grew out messy and long - dark brown streaked with white . if i recall, for a while after his return from Hell it was entirely white - whether from his own doing or from some effect of Hell I’m not sure yet.

SCARS.  a few long scars run down his back parallel to the curvature of his spine; they glow when in the presence of peacemaker or when he’s allowing his more demonic features to show . he has a variety of other scars; one faint one that slashes through one eye that is barely noticeable now; several across his abdomen and chest , some from bullets and some from sharper edges than those . he also sports scars from a knife that went through his hand and in certain verses , he has scars from the really nasty impaling he dealt with when fighting with jeremy and doc . 

DRESSING STYLE.  experimental . he tends to lean toward materials like leather or furs or metals (in the case of his jewelry anyway) . it’s not all he wears but it’s definitely the case with his favourite clothing items (the fur coat, leather pants, etc.) . tends to lean toward neutral or earthy tones and isn’t much for flashy , bright colours . wears lots of accessories as well , primarily rings and bracelets but also pendants on occasion .

LIPS.  i really don’t know how to describe lips, i’m sorry , lol . 

SKIN.  lightly tanned from time spent out in the sun ; he has an average but leanly muscled build , not overly hairy but not quite smooth either . pays careful attention to his facial hair and makes sure to take decent care of it . most of his body is covered in scars , some more noticeable than others , some verse dependent , but every version of him has quite a few regardless . 

CHEEKS. average cheekbones , doesn’t blush easily or often . 

[    iv.     ABILITIES    ]

LANGUAGES SPOKEN. english  [ fluent ] ,  latin  [ a bit here and there ] , swedish [ a few phrases ] .

THREAT LEVEL.  moderate to high .

WEAPONS.  he can and does use anything around him as a weapon when needed . he isn’t afraid to get down and dirty - or play unfair .  that said , he is fond of simply using his own two hands to inflict the damage he needs to inflict . that or his magic powers . 

MAGIC. he has control over anything metal ; that means he can send anything metal coming at him - bullets , knifes, etc. - back at the other person or wherever he so wishes , amongst other things. generally speaking, if you’re on bobo’s bad side , you do not want to enter his presence with anything metallic on your person .

[   v.   DETAILS   ]

➣➣ little is known about bobo’s younger years as robert svane - his family, etc. - and he sure as fuck isn’t going to tell anyone unless you’re very close . what is known is that he was a fairly quiet student and person in general, and got through school with little to no problems. chances were he had a fairly average childhood .  

➣➣ later on down the line, robert svane - as bobo was previously known - met wyatt earp and the two of them became fairly close friends. while he didn’t spend as much time actively in the field as wyatt or doc holliday did, he and wyatt stayed in close touch and spent time together in town often.  when wyatt left the area on one mission or another, the two would correspond via letters from wherever robert happened to be at the time. 

➣➣ then things began to go downhill. the nonstop snowballing of bad luck culminated in a battle between wyatt earp and the demon sheriff clootie - who took robert to use as a human shield. dedicated to the same cause and beliefs that wyatt held, robert told him to take the shot regardless, even though it would mean the bullet would go through him first. wyatt did. robert ended up in the local church nearby alone after that - perhaps on a search for help for his injuries - and bleeding out. 

➣➣ before dying, the demon clootie had cast a curse on the earp family - and on those killed by the earps, which meant that when he died, robert would be damned to hell along with the rest of the victims of peacemaker. one of the demon’s brides, constance, who told him such news, said that doc holliday - who was currently trapped in a well - had the third seal of bulshar’s entombment and that if robert went to the well, he could trick doc into giving him the ring. in the end, doc refused to give up the ring that gave him his own immortality and instead of rescuing him, robert, bitter of wyatt’s loyalty to doc first and foremost, left him in the well. as such, he eventually died (in wynonna’s arms.... yeah there’s a whole other flashback thing i’m not going into here), and was sent to hell.

➣➣ as foretold, he came back as a revenant. the years in hell had worn him down and down until very little of his former virtues remained above surface, all dormant and buried. somewhere along the line, ward earp became the heir. when waverly earp was born - to another father, but with the same mother - bobo came across them and, thinking waverly was the angel who had been with him when he died, kept his word to protect her, following her mother’s wishes and taking her to ward. he ordered ward to take care of waverly, and that if he ever harmed her, he would answer to bobo. 

➣➣ bobo kept watch on the earp family for some time afterward, eventually becoming waverly’s ‘imaginary friend’. around this time he decided to strike a deal with ward: bobo would make sure that the earp family remained safe but only if ward crossed the Ghost River Triangle border with him, effectively freeing bobo from the confinements of purgatory. ward agreed, but was accidentally shot during a raid on the homestead by the other revenants. the next heir was set to be willa, who was dragged away by revenants - revenants that bobo stopped in order to protect willa, who he hid away in a treehouse where the others wouldn’t find her. he watched over her as she grew, along with - unfortunately - constance clootie, whom he still needed to work with.

➣➣ unfortunately, clootie eventually erased all of willa’s memories and hid her away from bobo, in essence forcing him to work for her in order to ever see willa again, and, consequently, to be able to escape the Ghost River Triangle. it’s around this timeframe that the events of 1x01 begin to happen.

             [ MORE TO COME THROUGHOUT                                               CHARACTERIZATION DEVELOPMENT ]

[papermoonloveslucy]

LUCY - WHAT I AM IS BRAVE

June 16, 1983

By Lynne Hirschberg, Rolling Stone Magazine. Reprinted in the Dayton (OH) Journal-Herald

Lucille Ball is not Lucille Ball. She is Lucy. 

In Los Angeles, everyone knows where Lucy lives. The mansion is a big, white affair in Beverly Hills. Fans pose for photos in front of it, and they dig up Lucy's front lawn. 

Inside the mansion, the visitor is led through a series of spacious rooms to what appears to be a large den. The predominant color is orange. Dark-green carpeting with upholstered , orange chairs. Lots of orange and lots of plants. One wall is completely glass and overlooks a large yard, also filled with plants. Lucy, you are told, loves to garden. 

Lucy enters from the yard. She has just taken a singing lesson. She is wearing big pastel sunglasses, a black V-neck sweater and matching slacks. Her hair is a strange shade of reddish pink. She adjusts her sunglasses. Takes them off and cleans them. Her eyes are very blue. She puts her glasses back on and extends her hand. "I'm glad to meet you," Lucy says. "My name Is Lucille Ball." 

As we speak, she begins to smoke, and smoke. "I smoke a lot," she says, "but I never inhale." 

The smoking seems to elicit questions. Lucille Ball likes to ask questions. She likes an honest response. She asks questions like, "Do you ever dye your hair? Do you believe in astrology? Do you want a grilled cheese sandwich?" These questions give way to statements. Statements like, "You should dye your hair. Have a grilled cheese sandwich." And, then: "I believe in astrology." 

Lucille Ball explains. She is 71 years old, born Aug. 6 and a Leo. Leos are, she says, vain, proud and forthright. She is startlingly forthright. "Leos know what they're about," Ball says. Leos are also, she adds, accident-prone. "We break a lot of bones." She has broken this very leg. She even suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. "They told me I'd never walk again," Ball says, "But I want you to just feel this leg." 

She points to her leg. The leg is truly beautiful, a showgirl's leg. I feel it gingerly. "THAT'S NOT THE WAY YOU FEEL A LEG," Ball screams. "My God - don't you even know how to feel a person's leg?" She grabs my hand and then, hand in tow, grabs her leg around the calf. The leg, In fact, appears to be quite sturdy. "Years ago, that leg was completely weak. But that was years ago. Today Is another story." 

Today is another story, and "years ago" was New York. Lucille Ball was not Lucille Ball then. "I was known as Diane Belmont," Ball says, after fixing herself the much-discussed grilled cheese sandwich. "You have to understand, I am from a suburb of Jamestown, New York. 

"When I was four, my father, who was an electrician, died. I was always what you would call stage-struck. I would recite speeches at the drop of a... anything. I'd sing, I'd dance, I'd perform all the time. But I was always interested in being of the business. Of the business. Any part of, it: makeup, costumes... anything and everything. My mother finally sent me to the John Murray Anderson-Robert Milton Dramatic School in New York City. Bette Davis was their star pupil. After one semester, they sent my mother a letter saying she was wasting her money. They said I'd never learn to talk, never learn to walk across a stage. That left a helluva mark on me. I had very little, if any, self-confidence after that. I didn't change until I was a model for a while." 

Diane Belmont was born several years later. "To this day," Ball says, "people say, 'Why did you change your name to Lucille Ball?' Can you imagine anyone changing her name to Lucille Ball? My real name is Lucille Ball. Diane Belmont was a much classier name. I came up with it in the car. I always loved the name Diane, and I was driving past the Belmont race track, and the names seemed to fit together: Diane Belmont. It was such a glamorous name. A real model's name." 

Belmont was successful. She became a Chesterfield cigarettes poster girl, a hat model and a dress model. But BelmontBall hated New York. "I didn't have any friends. No girlfriends and no boyfriends. I didn't have big dreams about where I was going or with whom. I didn't go out. I was never boy crazy or man crazy or car crazy or anything crazy, but New York was a lonely place. I never even felt pretty. I was clearly a lesser beauty. I had a very dull existence." 

When she was 17 Belmont/Ball's career was interrupted by a debilitating disease rheumatoid arthritis. "One day it just struck me," Ball recalls. "I was working too hard and not taking care of myself. I was laid up for three years. I had to work pretty hard to walk again, but I was lucky. Since I had no money, my boss sent me to her doctor, and he sent me to see this specialist. I became a guinea pig, and this doctor would experiment on me. The guinea pig experiments worked. In three years, I was v modeling again." Not for long.

"I seldom use the word luck" says Lucille Ball. "But in 1933, when I became a Goldwyn girl - that was pure luck. I was just walking down the street. It was unbearably hot and someone - I don't remember exactly who - came up to me and said, 'How'd you like to go to California?' This was New York, so you had to be careful when anyone asked you anything, but this was a woman asking me, so I figured I was safe. She told me that the girl they had already found for Goldwyn couldn't make the trip. They wanted poster gals for the film Roman Scandals, and since I was the Chesterfield Girl, I fit the bill. They said the job was for six weeks. I said, 'I'd go anyplace to get out of this heat.' I went out to Hollywood and" - Ball smiles - "I never came back." 

"My hair," Lucille Ball Is saying "has always been the bane of my existence." Ball fluffs up her curls. Her hair goes straight up about six inches. "I have never known what to do with my hair," she says. "It was just never chic." A natural brunette, Ball has tried several different hair colors. Blonde. Platinum. Red. Pink. Orange. Diane Belmont was a blonde, and when she arrived in Hollywood and retrieved her own name, Lucille Bail was a Jean Harlow platinum. "You had to be a platinum blonde then," says Ball, almost apologetically, still fussing with her hair. "They wanted you to be a platinum blonde, so I was a platinum blonde."

There were other accommodations. "We had to line up for Mr. Goldwyn when we first went out there," Ball recalls. "You had to have on the inevitable bathing suit. Mr. Goldwyn and 40 other men would walk by and stare at you. We were all self-conscious, but those who were Ziegfeld girls and Shubert girls were very well stacked. They were less nervous. They had it, you see. I didn't have it." 

Ball points to her breasts. 

"So I made fun of myself. I put toilet paper and gloves and socks and anything I could find in the bust of my bathing suit. Some of the toilet paper was still trailing out of the top when Mr. Goldwyn came by." Bail pauses. "If nothing else, they certainly noticed me. 

"I think the one virtue that helped me was I didn't mind doing anything. Nothing was beneath me. I'd scream; I'd yell; I'd run through the set; I'd wear strange clothes. To me it was just getting your foot in the door." 

She went from Goldwyn to Columbia to RKO, where because of her less than magnificent films, she became knows as "Queen of the B's." But Bail did make some widely praised films. Stage Door (1937), The Big Street (1942) and the Cole Porter musical DuBarry Was a Lady (1942) all met with a critical positive response. 

The latter film marked the beginning of her red-headed days of Technicolor Tessie, a name given her by Life magazine. 

"Red was a happy color. It was good with my eyes, and it photographed well. It turned out to be a successful color. There's nothing more to it than that," she says. 

Ball says she fell in love with Desi Arnaz at first sight. 

"That was real love. We met on the set. We were making a movie called Too Many Girls. I played the ingenue lead." "I asked her if she knew how to rumba," Arnaz has said. "And when she said no, I offered to teach her." 

Arnaz, in 1940, was the chief rumba proponent in America. A native Cuban, he and his mother had fled their country following the 1933 Batista revolution. The 16-year-old Arnaz drove a cab, worked as a bookkeeper and cleaned out bird cages until, in 1937, he became a member of the Siboney Septet, a swanky hotel band. While performing with this group, he was spotted by Xavier Cugat, who hired the young singer. A year later, Arnaz started his own ensemble. He became a sensation in New York and Arnaz landed the lead role in Too Many Girls. He came to Hollywood, fell in love and within six months, he and Lucille Ball were married. 

"Our marriage," Bail says, "was rough. We had a rough go. For the first nine years, it seemed like we were only together a few weeks." First work kept them apart, then he was drafted, and after the war he toured with ins band for five years. "It was very successful for him but disastrous for our marriage. You can't have a marriage over the phone. We were on our ninth year, and we'd spent something like eight and a half of them apart. We decided that we wanted to be together." 

During this period, Ball, fed up with movies, starred in a radio program titled “My Favorite Husband” (l947-1951) (1). She played Liz, the zany wife of a staid banker. CBS wanted to transfer the concept to television and Bail said OK, providing Desi play her husband. The studio objected, but Bail and Arnaz were steadfast. They put together an act, created their own company, Desilu Productions, and hit the road. The public response was terrific. CBS took notice and finally relented. Their show was “I Love Lucy”. The rest is history. 

“I am not funny," says Lucille Ball, sounding very funny. "My writers were funny. My direction was funny. The situations were funny. But I am not funny. What I am is brave. I have never been scared. And there was a lot to be scared about. We were innovators. 

"At the beginning of Love Lucy, they gave us a choice of five, six, seven scripts and asked us what we wanted our characters to be like. No one had ever done that before. 

"I... didn't want us to be a 'typical Hollywood couple,' whatever that is. I wanted our characters to have problems. Economic problems. Ail kinds of problems. I wanted to be an average housewife. A very nosy, but very average housewife." Ball pauses. "And I wanted my husband to love me.” By the beginning of the second season, the show was the biggest hit In TV history. But not everyone was happy. Vivian Vance, for Instance. Despite her rather matronly appearance, Vance was actually one year younger than Ball (who was 41 when she became Lucy). And to guarantee Ethel Mertz' dowdy image, it was stipulated in Vance's contract that the actress always remain 20 pounds overweight. This agreement caused some friction. (2) 

But Lucy was positively gleeful about the show. It was her family. Her second child, Desi Jr., was born to much fanfare the very same night Lucy Ricardo gave birth to her baby, Little Ricky, on national TV. An estimated 44 million viewers watched. 

"Things were wonderful then," Ball says, almost dreamily. "Things were just wonderful." 

But there was still trouble in her marriage. She thought the show would turn things around. But Desi Arnaz, apparently, was not Ricky Ricardo. "He was like Jekyll and Hyde," Ball says now. "He drank and he gambled and he went around with other women. I was always hoping things would change. But Desi's nature is destructive. When he builds something, the bigger he builds it, the more he wants to break it down." 

In 1957, "I Love Lucy” ceased weekly production. The show's format changed Ricky Ricardo bought Club Babalu. Guest stars began popping in for nightcaps. And “I Love Lucy” reappeared as hour-long specials that aired roughly once a month. 

In 1960, Lucille Ball filed for divorce. The divorce was uncontested. She was awarded half of Desilu Productions, the Beverly Hills house, two station wagons and a cemetery plot at Forest Lawn. 

Gary Morton is Lucille Ball's second husband. She met him in New York while she was starring on Broadway in the Desllu-financed musical Wildcat. Morton was a stand-up comic. Now his office at the Twentieth Century-Fox studios is papered with framed Lucy photos. 

"We are very compatible," Morton says. "We even sing in the same octave." Morton runs Lucille Ball Productions, an outgrowth of Desilu Productions. Desi Arnaz, who ran Desilu after the divorce, had built the company into a multimillion-dollar business. Not only did it produce love Lucy, the company also produced 60 other prime-time series, including “The Untouchables” and “Our Miss Brooks.” 

Lucille Ball looks sad when she talks about Lucy. She isn't Lucy, you see. "Lucy, for me," she says, "is like a memory. I am nostalgic about Lucy. I could still be playing that part. Before I quit working in 1974, my ratings were high, and they wanted me to sign on for another five years of “Here's Lucy.” I said, That's ridiculous.' The Lucy character is too old to run around like an idiot. (3) I'd probably still be playing Lucy if I'd signed that contract, but it was silly to keep playing the same thing." 

Ball pauses. 

"But now I miss her. I miss my arena. I miss getting up and going to work every day. I have my charities, and I'm getting my house in order, but it's not the same."

#   #   #

FOOTNOTES FROM THE FUTURE

This article is a reprint of an article that appeared in Rolling Stone Magazine on June 23, 1983.  Magazines were usually post-dated, so this issue of Rolling Stone was already on the newsstand on June 16, 1983.

(1) “My Favorite Husband” aired a pilot episode on July 5, 1948, not 1947 as is stated here.  However, the source material naturally pre-dates the radio series. 

(2) The controversial contract that kept Vivian Vance frumpy was discussed on “Dinah!” on December 1, 1975.  Vivian has brought a long a copy of the ‘contract’, which she describes as a gag, never to be taken seriously.  Whether Vance is now covering for Ball’s initial misgiving’s about her casting, or the contract was indeed a joke, we will never know. 

(3) Perhaps Lucille Ball forgot about this fact when tempted back onto television in 1986 for “Life With Lucy.”  Most of the critics remarked that it was not funny to see a woman of Ball’s advanced age doing pratfalls and stunts. 

This same article was published two days later in The Ottawa (CAN) Citizen. The photographs, artwork, and headline were different, but the text remained essentially the same. 

[ars-simia-animus]

You’ll Rise Up, Free and Easy

Chapter Eight: “Carried to Avalon”

Summary: Tony’s love for boxing only grew as he did. Ana and Jarvis both feared that Tony’s recklessness would lead him to danger.

Tony cares for Jarvis in his final hours, touching upon the relationship, loving and full of grace, they’ve had all the years leading up to this season together.

Read after the break...

June 1st, 1870

To Pepper,

Seeing how your last letter began with ��Happy birthday!” I decided to wait to read it until my actual birthday day, so I read it on the train to New York. I am back at the old Posh Stronghold now, where I have time and space to write, and I have much more to tell you than if I had written right away, even in a few short days!

I punched a man— a real colossus, too! My hand is still brightly bruised from it and tingles. He was a walking monolith, Pep! You would have been scared, I think. Well, I was, too, but I’ve trained in boxing, after all.

What follows is what happened:

Mrs. Ana took me to Manhattan yesterday to celebrate my birthday and my successful first year away at the academy. She says she’s very proud of me. She arranged for us to go to the National Academy of Design. I spoke to Martin E. Thompson! If you are unfamiliar with who that is, he designed the very building the Academy of Design is in— The Arsenal. I told him about my designs and he showed real interest in my engine-powered platform for ascending and descending stories in a building.

We left the National Academy of Design and Mrs. Ana was leading us toward Central Park; that’s when I spied a crowd of men down an alleyway. They were boxing , Pep— real, bare-knuckle boxing, the way Jarvis does, but faster and just more manly and dash-fire! I had never seen anything like it before. While Mrs. Ana was occupied at an ice cream cart, I slipped into a group of pedestrians and sneaked off to the alleyway.

You’re probably saying to yourself that this was a gravely stupid idea, but, strangely, nothing has ever made better sense to me before that moment.

I pushed my way to the front just as the victor won the match— he knocked out the other fellow cold ! — then he called for challengers while they dragged the loser off to the side. Well, someone noticed me standing there, watching with everyone else. It wasn’t as though I was the only child there, but they started laughing at me and pulling at my clothes, asking what a “rich snot” like me was doing on that side of the shopwalls.

Then someone else asked if I had paid for the show. It was obvious that none of them had paid any money. This was just some lowlife street fight, but they all were shouting about how I could afford it and that I ought to pay up before they “ran me off.” Someone tried to grab my shoes, too, talking about getting a good price for them.

That’s when I planted my feet, the way Jarvis has taught me, and I clocked him on the chin. Must have really hit the button because he went down! I’ve never been so exhilarated. To be honest, though, Pep, I thought I broke my hand; it hurt so— more than I expected! I suppose the punching bag would absorb force better than a chin bone, after all.

Everybody was quiet. Then, the man who won the match, this titanic brute, said I didn’t have to pay if I was a challenger. The crowd pushed me in and circled around us. I squared up, which he wasn’t expecting. He laughed but I landed a good one right to his sternum. Well, he didn’t laugh anymore afterwards. In fact he was quite hot about it. He said he wasn’t above giving “a babe a good anointing.”

But I didn’t make it easy for him; I was quick and dodged all around, minding my footwork like Jarvis taught me. I got behind him once and got a shot to the back of his knees. Nearly went to the ground, I swear! He raked me across the nose and upside my head a few good times, but I wish we could have finished the match, no matter how it ended.

I say that because Mrs. Ana found me then, and she dragged me back to the carriage. But, Pepper, believe me: when I was in that ring of men jeering and rooting for the ape facing me, and I was fighting back against that Titan of an opponent, it was like seeing the Lady of the Lake, or being carried to Avalon! Like my entire life transformed into this one moment of survival. I’ve never felt like I could hold my own before; I am not trying to say I would have won, but to even just have the ability to fight back— instead of standing there and taking it— it was indescribable, Pepper!

I think I’m meant to be a fighter. I’m meant to be a boxer.

Anyway, maybe when you’re finally able to come to New York, you’ll see my name on a board for a prizefight and you’ll come cheer me on?

By the way, how’s your family?

Your friend,

T. S.

January, 1903

Tony listened intently to Dr. Pym as he instructed Rhodey and him on how to administer morphine to Jarvis. “There’re vials enough to last; and, I’ve just given him a dose. He'll likely sleep a way, exhausted as he is. It’ll be the pain what wakes him.” The doctor said and Tony bristled a little.

Tony muttered: “Your bedside manner is astounding as ever, Doc.”

Dr. Pym was nonplussed. “You can requite it, then, Stark, by paying good mind to his condition. Moving him didn’t do him any great favors, Christ knows, but I understand it was his wish.”

Rhodey interceded. “We’ll care for him, Doctor, and keep him comfortable.”

“I’ve little doubt.” Pym turned an eye on Tony. “I know he was a father to you. At this stage, there’s likely more you can do for him than I. Even so, I’m sorry I cannot stay.”

Rhodey answered. “Thank you, Dr. Pym.”

Pym nodded firmly. “Send for me nonetheless if you have a mind to.” He took a step but lingered. “Jarvis is a good man. His wife was a good woman.”

“You hardly need to tell me that.” Tony said. The bite had left his voice, though he remained decidedly aloof with the doctor.

Dr. Pym nodded. “One last thing and I know you’ll be loathe to hear it, but,” he said then cleared his throat. “The morphine— well, the more generously given… could help him sleep… longer, if he wished for it.”

Tony walked away, but said nothing. Rhodey told Pym goodnight and shook his hand. From the parlor, Tony only faintly heard their words. He stopped when he noticed Harley blending into the shadows in the corner, his eyes puffy and raw.

“Harley? Kid,” Tony stepped toward him. “What are you doing here?”

Harley sniffed roughly. More tears spilled down the tracks cut across his cheeks. “Please, let me stay.” He asked quietly.

Sighing, Tony closed the distance. He looked at Harley and grimaced painfully. Jarvis had devoted special time to Harley. Much like Tony, Harley was sensitive and hotheaded. Jarvis had allowed Harley to talk freely with him about any troubles. The boy had plenty .

“Listen, Harley,” Tony said gently, “I know Mr. Jarvis means much to you, but I thought you were going to retrieve Mrs. Stark and take her home. Happy’s already left with the cart.”

“I know, sir.” Harley hung his head. “It’s just…” He panted sorrowfully. “The next time I see Mr. Jarvis will be, be, well, the funeral, you know.” Harley couldn’t raise his gaze, but his voice became hopeful. “And maybe there’s something I could do for him, or for you, sir.”

Tony laid a hand on Harley’s shoulder. He let the boy sniffle a moment. Harley’s tone was unusually meek, Tony noted. He had no pretense about whether Jarvis would or could “get better.” His mind was compromised with definite tracks, hard lines, and clear “sight” —all of these Tony knew too well and knew the sobering agony of such a mind.

Yet, he was surprised by the mature grace with which Harley bore it. At this point, in his own youth, Tony would have made a joke or sarcastic comment. Or, even, sauntered around distractedly. Anything to wriggle out from under the weight of his thoughts. Here, Harley wanted to be helpful; Tony was filled with warmth for him.

“I can send a groom to Pepper,” Rhodey said from the doorway. Tony and Harley looked at him. “She’s at the Parker residence, right?”

Harley guiltily ducked his head. “Please, sir, I’m sorry—“

“It’s no trouble.” Rhodey replied with a small smile. He glanced at Tony, who nodded approval and thanked him. “Of course. Why don’t you go find Mrs. Barton and let her know that I sent you?”

Harley hesitated but followed directions. He tipped his head respectfully to Rhodey as he passed, gave a lingering glance back, then left the cottage. Meanwhile, Tony moved down the hallway and stood at the master bedroom door. His hands began to twitch. It wasn’t, however, the gentle motion of playing piano that he had seen Jarvis do since his childhood. It was more of a stridulating or malfunctioning.

Never before had he hesitated at this door. In fact, for the first time ever, he recognized his brazenness as a child. Since the night he had hidden in the thunderstorm and watched Jarvis and Ana sparring in the cellar, he had always strolled right into the cottage, into any of its rooms. If he wanted one of them, he would just open the door.

They never chided him or sent him away.

Tony felt Rhodey at his shoulder. “I don’t know how to do this, Rhodes.” He heaved a full-bodied sigh. “When Ana died,” he said, “I was away at school. And Howard— even if he’d wanted me at his bedside— was killed overseas. I don’t…” Letting another sigh take his words, Tony turned away from the door. “I don’t know what to do.”

Rhodey was quiet. “To be honest, Tones, I’ve never been in this situation off of a battlefield.” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck and searched for something encouraging to say. Coming up empty, he looked at Tony and apologized in a smile. “Be with him. He’ll tell you what he needs from you.”

At that, Tony actually chuckled. He turned and laid a hand on the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I thought you had met Jarvis before.” He jabbed sardonically, then opened the door.

May, 1870

Ana had long since thrown down both ice cream cones as she diligently searched the Park for Tony; yet, the viscous, syrupy cream that had melted onto the cuffs of her gloves was very noticeable as her hard palm smashed into the street fighter's nose. The smell of strawberries exploded into him, along with the white light of pain behind his eyes. The man stood a foot higher than she, and, as he flung back onto the tips of his feet, he towered almost another foot taller. The crowd of onlookers began to back away slightly, grins frozen in place. Ana didn’t shift until she was certain that the big man was not going to retaliate.

Tony sat, cast away, on the dirt. Even with his sight rimmed in pulsing rainbows, Tony somehow interpreted that Mrs. Ana had stepped between him and the figure that had been stomping him flat. He heard: “What kind of coward beats up a child?”

“Ask your brat who threw the first punch!” The man said. His huge hand indicated the crumpled body behind her.

Tony inhaled and a deluge of blood and mucus rushed his throat. It surprised him, but shouldn’t have; the fist that broke his nose had the weight of a collapsing building behind it. Tony blinked his addled brain back into order. He looked and saw Mrs. Ana staring into the man’s face; there was a purplish stream snaking down from his nose.

“And you girded yourself with courage and faced down the babe, did you? You Philistine!”

To Tony’s horror, he realized that the man he’d been fighting was reared up and bellowing at Mrs. Ana. “No woman calls me a coward. I don’t mind warming your backside and his well!” The brute stepped in, slinging a long jab forward.

But, Ana knew how to box a taller, stronger opponent. She ducked inside, close to his chest and struck him with an uppercut to the throat. Because she was so riled up, so fearful for her Little Mister, Ana lost a little control and wrathfully drove a knee to the man’s crotch. He collapsed like a windless sail. Whirling away—to calls of “look out, boys, nanny’s cross now!” and “easy, mend your bellows!”— Ana marched away and reached for Tony.

Tony stared at her over a hand that was protecting his wrecked face. “Teach me to do that!” He exclaimed.

“It seems,” she said and snatched him up by his suspenders, “I have a few other lessons to teach you first!”

December, 1871

Since he had sent the footman to fetch Dr. Pym, Jarvis had the choice to continue his duties in the main house or return to Tony, at the cottage. He decided that the young man needed more time to cool, so he attended to the communication he had earlier begun, to the Stark family lawyers, and checked the progress on the cellar delivery that was underway. As high-spirited as Howard and his Christmas guests tended to be, Jarvis had little doubt that the extra imports of brandy and spiced rum he’d ordered a month ago would be warranted.

When these two tasks were complete, he pulled his muffler tight and donned his gloves, coat, and hat. Dr. Pym should not be long, he thought. As he walked, the snow banks commanded all the auditory stimuli of the world. Every noise that he usually heard on his way to his home was muffled and replaced by the crunch beneath his feet. How very like my life now , he said to himself. The gentle sensations I knew in my everyday have waned, replaced by the intensity of emptiness.

The garden was a similar illustration; the swathes of blossoms, the lush ivy, the sky dotted with birds— they’d been washed out and left bare. Everything announces her absence , he thought, and then he unconsciously searched for signs of the garden again.

He was rounding the menagerie and the stone fence was in sight, a dark contrast to the white. The blue and cream paint of the cottage walls added a little color to the scene, but the garden was practically lunar. And within the garden, he knew, her gravestone was exposed, hard, bleak.

Jarvis strayed from his usual path so he could glimpse around the back of the cottage, to where her gravestone stood alone. Come spring it would be snugly secreted away among the spires of hollyhocks. He would see to that. She’d endured enough in this stark world.

Jarvis spied the gravestone and his steps slowed. Tony was beside it, on his knees, he guessed (for he looked very small), and slumped against it. Jarvis had meant to show him her resting place after he had time to calm. He would also give Tony the bundle that Ana had left for him. Jarvis walked to the stone fence, not calling out for him, as it seemed indelicate.

However as he neared, dread began to turn his stomach. Tony had not acknowledged his presence in any way, though he must have heard the loud footprints made by the iced snow. Jarvis saw that Tony’s shoulders were still and hoped that he was merely too distant to see them stirring with breath. He lengthened his strides. When he saw Tony’s hands, discarded on his lap, twitching, he ran.

The pallor of Tony’s face and and his blue lips sent a thunderclap of fear through Jarvis. Immediately, he was on his knees, hands on Tony’s face in an instinctual attempt to warm them. “Young Sir! Do you hear me?” Jarvis lightly slapped the young man’s cheeks. “Tony!” He called his name again and third time—

Not even a shudder passed through his face. Yet, deep inside him rolled an ugly retching sound. Bile rose into Tony’s mouth from his throat. Quickly, Jarvis tipped him forward so he would not choke on the sickness flooding his jaws. It spilled across the ground, causing steam to rise from its rose-gold stain on the snow in front of Ana’s stone.

Using a handkerchief, Jarvis swabbed Tony’s tongue and inside his cheeks, mindful not to obstruct his almost undetectable breathing. Then, Jarvis tore off his own coat and threw it over the youth, covering his head as well. Wrapping his arms around Tony’s shoulders and under his backside, Jarvis tried to lift him. He couldn’t feel Tony shivering and knew that he should.

“What in under Christ?” A gruff cry erupted behind him as Jarvis attempted to raise Tony. Dr. Pym rushed up, forsook his heavy, leather examination bag, and took hold of Tony’s legs. “Sure, but you might’ve waited inside, Mr. Jarvis!”

“I rather thought he was inside.” Jarvis muttered, too frightened for his signature wit. His heart was strained, tight like a clothesline.

“Is this the Stark wain?” Dr. Pym asked, not being able to see Tony’s face. The empty sherry bottle dropped from Tony’s lap as the men shuffled him toward the cottage. “Aye, right. I can see the resemblance now.” Pym deadpanned.

Jarvis cursed in his head, but couldn’t speak. Dr. Pym was able to retrieve his bag with one hand before they labored inside. Tony was not so heavy as awkward. Jarvis propped him on a knee and grappled with the door until it opened.

Pym directed him; “We’re going to lie him fernenst the hearth, there. Right. Trade me places.” Jarvis obeyed; Dr. Pym stationed himself by Tony’s chest and removed a stethoscope from his examination bag. He gestured towards the boy’s knees. “Remove any wet clothing while I have a listen to his pulse.”

After succinct examination, Jarvis clasped one of Tony’s boots and untied the laces enough he could wiggle it from his foot, then, he did the other. Memories flooded back to him as he held each of Tony’s stocking feet. Often he had removed his boots after some romp— especially during the trials for that godforsaken glider the young sir had constructed with his Ana.

Tony would run down an embankment, glider around his shoulders, and leap high, trying to make the other side of the stream. Ana stood watch; of course, she only encouraged him.  Afterward, he’d sop , sop , sop into the cottage, drenched, and Jarvis would peel the waterlogged leather shoes and cotton stockings from his feet while the cheeky thing babbled about modifications to the glider. Ana would be laughing.

Jarvis steeled himself and continued to attend to Tony. Thankfully, the socks were dry, though very cold. Jarvis reached up to Tony’s waist and unbuttoned the suspenders from his corduroy trousers. When they were tugged off, he felt the shins of Tony’s long-johns. The snow had soaked through where he’d been resting on his shins, but the cloth on his thighs was dry.

Jarvis ripped the fabric at the knee. Pym noticed his struggle and instructed: “Shears in my bag.” Jarvis, using the scissors, was soon able stripped away the wet fabric down to Tony’s ankles. The clothes on his upper body felt dry except his outer coat.

Dr. Pym was visibly disturbed by the weak stirring he could hear in his stethoscope. Throwing it from his ears, he commanded: “Help me shuck the lad’s coat. It’s covered in snow! The rest seems dry enough we won’t footer over it.”

Once they had Tony settled— lying in front of the fire, on a quilt from the chair nearby— Jarvis marveled at how slight he looked, how much like a broken reed tread into the ground. The illusion of bulk created by his winter clothes was shed along with them. Jarvis was nearly sick with compassion and dread at the sight. Dr. Pym snapped him back to attention. “Right! Now, fetch some blankets and be quick! Wool ones, preferably.”

Jarvis returned with an armful. He began to spread one over Tony, but Dr. Pym stopped him, looking up from the thermometer he held in Tony’s mouth. “How about your clothing? Dry?”

Surprised, Jarvis looked down at himself. He shrugged off his suit jacket, damp from snow, and patted his torso and trousers. “I believe mostly so.”

Dr. Pym checked the thermometer then hissed: “Jesus, saints, and all!” He rolled Tony so that he faced the fireplace. “I’m going to have you lie fernenst him and bundle up.”

Jarvis followed directions. With a hand keeping Tony rolled on his side, he lie down on the quilt next to him. Then he tucked an arm around the boy’s chest and held him close, so that he was flush with Tony's back. His other arm curled under to support Tony’s head. Dr. Pym covered them with two light blankets, tucking the wool under their legs, making a caterpillar’s shape, to keep out any drafts.

Jarvis willed his tense nerves to calm. He heard Dr. Pym mention heating a kettle for later use. “Allow me, Doctor!” He said, but didn’t move. How could he move, with Tony cradled beside him? Dr. Pym gave him a brief, irritated look that echoed his own thoughts.

This was his assigned role: hold the boy, share his warmth. Yet, he’d much rather bustle about, complete small tasks, and be a caretaker in the way he’d always known before. To be that physical comfort: constant, patient, playful now, gentle now— that was Ana’s role.

Was it his from now on?

“I spied thon bandaged hand.” Dr. Pym interrupted his thoughts. “Was that why you called me to begin?”

Jarvis murmured, subconsciously quieted, as though Tony was a child, sleeping. “That’s right, Doctor. I had feared it was broken on the middle and smaller knuckles.”

“Granted, it’s well you called,” Pym said. He snaked his stethoscope beneath the blankets and listened again to Tony’s heartbeat. “Why do you suspect it’s broken?”

“The swelling is considerable. The young sir was anguished and struck the wall.”

This elicited a long sigh from Dr. Pym. “Takes after his father, does he?”

“No.” Jarvis clipped, jaw hard. Even the crackle of the fire seemed to disappear in the wake of the harsh syllable. He relaxed when he saw Pym’s quirked eyebrows. “Forgive me, Doctor.” He said. “I would not say so, though, no.”

Pym chuckled slightly. “There’s a hierarchy to your loyalty, is there?”

Jarvis blinked. He felt the beginnings of a shiver in Tony’s frame. He held his breath, praying momentarily. His hand began to rub Tony’s chilled arm, an attempt to coax more shivering. This was the second time in the same day that he had held him. Whatever delusions of separation had existed before, whether incepted by social decorum or the excuse that Ana was the crux of their cobbled family, they vanished. Jarvis knew his heart was sealed with Tony’s, expectation or duty be damned. He’d just demonstrated as much with the doctor.

“It seems silly to deny it.” He replied finally.

Dr. Pym prepared the thermometer once again. “Sure, but this lad sits at the tip top of the order, I see.” He parted Tony’s lips and settled the thermometer under his tongue.

Jarvis knew the question was rhetorical. Yet, for his own sake, because his mind was decided, he answered in his head. That’s right.

Perhaps not everything had left him. Ana had made them a family, but she could not be expected, whether with them or not, to keep them bound together. Jarvis still had a responsibility to Tony. Finally, he settled— even more, he tightened his hold. The significance of Tony’s weight against his chest made Jarvis wonder how he could have felt so empty before.

A whine escaped Tony’s throat after Dr. Pym had removed the thermometer. Unconsciously, Jarvis rested his head against the back of the boy’s. “Come back, Young Sir,” he whispered. Come back. Come home. I’m here .

January, 1903

Tony wasn’t ready.

He knew it.

In the dim lamplight, he stepped into the room despite this. He looked immediately toward Jarvis, in the bed. Jarvis was so worn away by age and illness— though he’d only been sick less than a week— that he was nearly only a spirit there. The smell of Vicks Pneumonia Salve bore a stronger presence. Jarvis barely caused a ripple in the sheets or a dip in the pillow.

Yet, his eyes kindled when they raised and found Tony, hovering shyly by the doorframe. His voice was choked, but Tony could still recognize him in it. “Forgive,” he gasped, “me if… I don’t… stand.”

“I’d forgive you faster if you didn’t speak.” Tony retorted, attempting to invoke his usual playfulness. He walked to the bedside. Letting his hand dance nervously on the edge, he said: “Why don’t you rest?”

The vials of morphine stood by on a nightstand, along with a syringe and capped needle. Tony tore his sight away from the cruel object. How ironic that he was to rely on it to deliver relief. Tony patted his sides then asked, “How are they treating you here, anyway? Comfortable? Are you thirsty or, or, or anything?”

Jarvis’s eyes were softened with what looked like sleep. Nevertheless, he smiled. His hand rolled toward Tony and Tony took it, grateful to have that anchor.

With an almost electric pain, Tony realized that Jarvis was trying to stay awake for him— at least until he could see that Tony had calmed. So, he swallowed and schooled his features to compose. It was not the only trick he knew, but it was the oldest, so he employed it now; Tony deflected: “You know, J, when I was a child,” he said, matching Jarvis’s raspy whisper. “I would look at you and think that... you could not possibly be any older .”

They both exhaled a ghostly laugh, like a relieved sigh. Jarvis coughed painfully while Tony gripped his hand, feeling as useless as he had feared he would be. But Jarvis recovered and quickly returned: “Having witnessed… your youth, Sir… I had a rather… similar… doubt.”

Tony laughed silently. With great effort, he fought the grief trying to steal his grin, corrupt it into something sorrowful, agonized. He hated how much energy it required for Jarvis to talk. Talking together was their great joy-- had been all Tony's adult life, ever since he’d graduated from the Polytechnic University, taken ownership of the Stark estate, and reunited with Jarvis.

Sinking onto the chair beside the bed, and keeping hold of the man’s hand, he said, “Sleep, J. I’m here if you need anything.”

May, 1870

Ana’s throat had ceased to be a throat. Instead, she was sure she now breathed through an inanimate structure. Perhaps an imaginary clay fist had tightened around her neck and been sintered there. Regardless, she could barely breathe and speaking was out of the question entirely.

Still hauling Tony by his suspenders, she steered them down 5th Avenue to the place she’d instructed the coachman to rendezvous with them. She hoped he was there; they were at least two hours earlier than planned. Once Ana had seen the carriage, with the driver snacking on fried oysters he bought nearby, she relaxed. She stole a glance at Tony, realizing he’d been quiet since she’d snatched him from the dirt.

Tony’s eyes were shadowed and wide as he tracked their swiftly moving feet. He knew he was in trouble; guilt and anticipation was written in every feature. The sight renewed Ana’s vexation. She had so much to say to him! The words crowded her mouth, but there they stayed. She feared that if she began she wouldn’t stop for a week. She couldn’t even guess what would make it out of her mouth first.

They reached the carriage and Ana released his suspenders. Tony stood looking at her expectantly. She was irked by the dour expression that was cementing on his face. So, she ignored him and pointed a shaky finger at the carriage. “In.” She nearly gurgled. Then she turned to address the driver.

Tony, however, wouldn’t be cast aside so easily. “It’s not my fault—“

Ana leveled him with a look. “I am not ready to talk to you. Get in the carriage.”

“I was pushed! I was pushed by the crowd!” Tony argued.

“All the way from the ice cream cart, were you?” Ana challenged. Her voice was sharpening as though his defiance were a whetstone. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

By this time, the driver had shuffled around the front of the carriage. He awkwardly held the wax paper bag in which his fried oysters had been served. His foot was apparently his main interest; he watched as it bored into the dirt.

“I just wanted to see them box!” Tony yelled. “Besides,” he added, desperately, “you were the one who was supposed to be watching me.” He knew long before he finished that sentence that it was a mistake, but his voice was moving faster than his brain.

Ana had to bite her lip very hard to remain quiet.

Tony tried not to act ashamed of his previous retort. He rubbed blood away from his mouth. It was drying and itched. Then, he ventured a glance at her. “I didn’t do anything wrong—“

Ana inhaled and stepped toward him. “Unless you care to have this conversation in public, Little Mister, I would have you get yourself into that carriage.” She turned and addressed the driver. “Find where the nearest doctor’s office is, Mr. Coulson.”

“It’s not going to be a conversation.” Tony sulked. The driver bustled away. “You’re just going to yell at me and I won’t get to say anything for myself.”

“On the contrary, Little Mister. I would be very interested to hear what you have to say for yourself and what you possibly could have been thinking!” She tried once more to usher him into the carriage before she lost complete control of her temper. “And, I am trying to collect myself so that I don’t yell at you. So, please— get in the carriage! “

She’d held out very well, but lost grip on the volume of her last phrase. Tony was quick to point it out. “You’re yelling!”

“Well, I damn well am now!” She snapped.

“You’re so awful sometimes!”

Scowling, Tony climbed into the carriage and slammed the door. Ana took a moment to remove the sullied lace gloves she wore. Resisting the urge to throw them on the ground, she tucked them into her belt, then pressed both of her palms against her eyes. Her hands were pleasantly cool against her flushed face. Unfortunately, this was not enough comfort to alleviate the turmoil inside her head.

“I‘ve located a Dr. Wu nearby, Mrs. Jarvis.” The driver’s voice sounded by her side.

Ana allowed her hands to slide down her face and fall to her sides. “Very good, Mr. Coulson. Take us there directly, please.”

Mr. Coulson, a kind man, if socially obtuse, asked: “Is the young sir OK?”

Ana sighed. She glanced into the window of the carriage; Tony had slid to the other side of the seat, as far away from her as he could get. His shoulders rose like a plated chestguard, shielding his face. She knew he was crying.

What am I going to do with him? She thought helplessly. He was not in a mindset to listen to reason; if she tried to explain the wrongfulness of his actions, he would argue. Obviously she was not above arguing right back, she thought wryly.

She could push— assert, debate, and impress her stance upon him. But, wouldn’t that feel just like standing in front of his father? Especially if she continued to allow herself to lose control. Tony was right— she’d be yelling at him and he wouldn’t hear the words for the volume.

Should she explain how afraid she had been? How terror had never seized her so mercilessly before that moment when she looked and he was gone? Ana sighed. No. Wouldn’t that feel too much like his mother’s tactic? Maria used her emotions to shame Tony. That’s not what Ana wanted to do; she only wished for him to think about his actions before he got himself hurt.

“He will be.” She answered Mr. Coulson.

“Are you OK, Mrs. Jarvis?” Mr. Coulson carefully asked.

She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Coulson…” If Tony could have seen her at that moment, he would have said she looked again like Jean d’Arc, or, Saint George, or even Arthur himself, impertinent and sure , despite all weariness. “Millions of women have done this for thousands of years! I can surely muddle through.”

Setting her jaw, lifting her chest, she alighted the running board and climbed into the carriage. Tony didn’t react when her weight disrupted the balance of the carriage and she hadn’t expected him to. He didn’t have an attic to retreat to, so he closed off his body as much as possible, looking lonely and dejected. Ana felt her empathy for him finally blooming.

She took a quiet breath and began. “I’m sorry that I shouted at you, Little Mister.” His shoulder shifted but he otherwise ignored her. “It must be very irritating to be treated as a child just after feeling so grown up— or, what you consider grown.”

A sniffle, resentful, but unrestrained. The carriage pitched forward. The motion, the very idea of progress, was welcomed by them both.

“You are a child, though, Tony.” Ana said and finally turned toward him. “A child precious to me, one whom I intend to love and protect. And even if you did not mean to join that match — with a man twice my size , I might add— you still chose to sneak away—“

“You wouldn’t have let me watch!” Tony interrupted. “You would— It doesn’t matter!”

“I promised you that you could explain yourself.” She said, quieting her voice. “I’m listening, if you want to go ahead.”

He huffed, and the end of the breath held a twinge of sound. “I just wanted to watch them box. That’s all.”

Ana considered her words carefully again; if she said that she would have taken him to see the match if he’d only asked, it might be too accusatory at this point. She continued. “There are safer places to watch boxing matches than the alleys of Manhattan, Little Mister. You realize what those men were doing was against law?” She waited for an acknowledgement.

Tony’s shoulders had loosen their defenses. He slumped backward and she could just glimpse his sullen face. Then he gave her a small nod.

“We may discuss attending one of the prizefights at the Huntington Sports Club once I feel certain that you will make safe decisions on an outing again.”

Tony slung a look at her.

“I’ve given you a chance to talk, Little Mister.” She reminded him. “I’ll have you fix your face, but talk, if you want to.”

“It won’t—I understand. I won’t do it again, so,” he said with a huff, “can’t we go soon?”

“As soon as you’ve shown me I can trust you on smaller excursions.” She said and he frowned.

“You can trust me.”

“Then show me.” She challenged. Shaking her head, she let herself display her fear at last. “In a city of this number... I found you this time, Tony, but what about next time? I cannot allow that to happen again.” She swallowed, feeling a stone of distress rolling in her throat, but resisting it. “I will never be able to abide you being hurt... or alone or afraid.”

Tony averted his gaze from her tears. He mumbled, “I’m alright, Mrs. Ana.”

Ana resisted the urge to force him to understand. Finally, she said evenly: “You cannot act as though there will not be consequences for your choices.” She reached over and tapped his chin, asking for his eyes. “For you or for anyone else.”

They seemed to share a sigh.

“So, what are my consequences?” He asked wearily.

Ana looked away, out her own window. “Besides having your block knocked off?” She scoffed then looked back, this time with a soft smile. “We’ve already established them.”

“Are we still visiting the zoo?”

She shook her head.

Tony sprung up at this. “Mrs. Ana!”

Ana shrugged. “It’ll be time to start home, Little Mister.” Her tone was almost apologetic, though any trace of that vanished with the next pronouncement. “Besides, you’ll need to talk Mr. Jarvis before too late in the evening and tell him that you disobeyed his rule against fighting again.”

A streak of lightning ran down from Tony’s brow to his jaw. Ana saw his wide eyes search her then drift away. At first, Ana took his unresponsiveness for flippancy. “You agreed to only punch the bag if he taught you to box.” She explained.

Shivering.

Ana stared at him in confusion. He’d become petrified, cold, within a moment. Was he afraid? Of Edwin? Why on earth...

With realization, she reached over and touched his shoulder. “You don’t need to worry, Tony. You’re only showing good faith by admitting your actions. Mr. Jarvis won’t even raise his voice. He’s much more restrained than I am.” She attempted to convince him with a smile.

Tony returned it reflexively, like twitch, like an autonomic response. However, it disappeared almost as if it were an illusion all along. He was listening to something else— something in his own head. Ana began to regret saying anything. The carriage pulled up to the street side, then, and she set aside the thought. “Come, let’s attend to that face of yours.”

December, 1871

Tony began to shiver.

When Jarvis felt the weak tremors, beginning in the youth’s arms, he nearly cried out joyfully to the doctor. However, he waited, hoping it was not only his imagination. The shivers became violent and spread all throughout Tony’s body within a couple minutes. “Dr. Pym! I believe his body is starting to regulate again, sir.”

Dr. Pym was at the fireplace before them. He had put on a kettle of water. “Aye, that is a comfort.” He said soberly; Jarvis tried to hold on to his hope, despite the doctor’s restrained reaction.

After retrieving the thermometer, Pym checked Tony’s temperature again. This time he had to hold the jaws, protecting the glass instrument from Tony’s convulsing teeth. Everything was quiet as Pym counted out a minute in his head. “Nearly 95 Fahrenheit now, or, 35 Celsius, if you like. Either way, too low.”

Dr. Pym stood and removed the kettle from the hearth hook. “Keep him bundled. I’m going to lay a hot water bottle by his feet now the risk of shock is lowered.” He moved out of Jarvis’s sight, and entered the kitchen.

Within a moment, Tony’s quivering was joined by a high whine. “J? J?”

Jarvis realized Tony was calling for him and instantly drew him closer. “Yes, Young Sir. I’m here.”

“Where?” His voice came as though through a rotary.

Jarvis was taken aback. Could Tony not feel him? “I’m just here; I have my arm around you.” He took hold of Tony’s hand and pressed it. “See? Here I am.”

Tony began to struggle in an uncoordinated attempt to turn toward Jarvis, who removed his arm to allow Tony more freedom of movement. Finally, Tony was successful. Like a baby bird, he tucked his arms into his chest. His legs, too, he drew up until he was in the shape of a lime. Jarvis began to withdraw, a little unsurely, but Tony scooted into him, seeking his warmth and protection.

“J, I’m cold.” His chopped speech broke piteously as he settled on the crook of Jarvis’s arm.

Dr. Pym approached them. “Is the wain conscious?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Tony mumbled, “It’s too cold. Will you start the fire?”

“The fire is going, young one.” Jarvis soothed. He looked up at Dr. Pym, looking for some confirmation that the boy’s disorientation was natural and would improve.

The doctor slid the hot water bottle, which was wrapped in a dry towel, by Tony’s curled feet. He made a noise as though considering his next steps, all the while casting a sharp eye on Tony. Finally, he spoke to Tony. “Hai, boy. I figure you’re of an age to follow directions?”

Tony’s eyes rolled from side to side, trying to locate the owner of the voice. He gave up and closed them again. Jarvis felt the ebb of self-consciousness returning now that Tony was awake. He slid subtly away. “Answer the doctor, Young Sir, if you’re able.”

Flatly, Tony answered, “No, I’m not.” The toneless delivery was upset by his persistent quaking— as though his voice traveled along a snapped bowstring.

Dr. Pym smiled ruefully and continued, despite the remark. “Aye, right. Well, I’ll be making you a cup of and I want you to drink it all . Got to raise your internal temperature.” He stood and strode toward the kitchen.

Tony nestled his head against Jarvis’s shoulder. “A cup of what? Who is that, J?”

“Dr. Pym, Young Sir, and you’d do well to show him more respect. He saved your life,” Jarvis said. He was disconcerted by the emotion that squished his voice into a croak at the end of this sentiment. Tony didn’t seem to notice. After clearing his throat, Jarvis attempted to remove his arm.

However, when Tony realized, he clove to Jarvis’s chest. “Don’t leave, J!” He sounded so young. “Please. I’ll be respectful, so…” Tony put his own trembling arm around Jarvis’s waist.

“ That’s not —“ Jarvis embraced him again with a sigh. That’s not why I was withdrawing . “I only want to be sure I am doing what I can…” He spoke to no one; Tony was too confused to know what he was saying.

Why was he so embarrassed suddenly? The muck of social decorum, of separation, of the rules of how he should relate to the son of his master— not rightfully his son, no matter what he did or how he loved him— clung to his mind. It made him feel ill somehow. Anxious. All the while, he hurt Tony by trying to satisfy these expectations.

A groan escaped from the shivering youth. “My stomach hurts, J. And my head.”

Jarvis nearly murmured comfort, but—

“I drank too much,” Tony slurred and Jarvis stiffened.

It began with a twitch of his upper lip. He remembered the empty sherry bottle. It was still out in the tundra-like waste that had rendered this boy nearly lifeless. With a snap, anger invigorated Jarvis unlike he’d ever felt before. Betrayal, anxiety, fear, grief— all driving the rage into his chest. “Yes, I can hardly disagree, Young Sir.” Jarvis said tightly.

Tony seemed to respond to the sudden tautness in Jarvis— both his body and voice. Jarvis saw timid, perplexed eyes peer up at him. “Are you angry with me?”

Not trusting his answer, Jarvis remained silent. Consciously he endeavored to loosen his muscles, relax his face. However, the blueness of Tony’s lips— that broken-dawn blue— flashed before his mind’s eyes. The still chest with not even a sigh of life… the skin that began to puff like leavened dough, rising in the bowl— rising, but not with life… The horror was gaining, catching up to Jarvis now.

He was furious with Tony because of it.

Tony slipped his arm away from Jarvis. He folded it beneath him again and slunk away with childish humility. He was quiet, too, awakened a little more from his fogginess. In the back of his mind, Jarvis was pained to see it, but his frightened ire was much louder than this murmured empathy.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Tony’s whisper came finally, through chattering teeth. He wasn’t looking at him anymore.

There was only one other time Jarvis remembered Tony referring to him with this honorific. Something locked into place within him. Later, Jarvis wouldn’t be able to deny that he was funneling two months worth of cold wrath and mourning into his reaction to Tony’s careless self-endangerment. “Yes. I imagine so.”

The tone flicked Tony again; he flinched but then he scowled defensively.

The pressure in his chest peaked; Jarvis sharply inhaled. “Listen to me,” he said. “I do not want to hear of you taking another sip of alcohol until you’ve learned some control .”

Tony’s breathing labored. The edges of his eyes began to twitch. He withdrew farther, until his head was no longer resting on Jarvis’s arm.

Unpinned, and unconsciously taking the cue from Tony, Jarvis half rose. “Not a sip . Is that understood?” He asked, looking down at Tony, who matched his confrontational glare. The pause sat between them like a bolder. “I need a verbal answer, young man.” He blinked and shook his head. “Young Sir,” he amended.

“Yes,” Tony hissed, “Jarvis.” Then, he turned away, gathering the blankets in his fists.

“Very good, then.” Jarvis said. He stood.

At the other extreme of the parlor, Dr. Pym stood, intrigued by their exchange. When Jarvis noticed him watching, he bowed his head, a little abashedly. It must have been an incredible spectacle, the family butler rebuking the master of the house in such a familiar manner.

Also, he realized he had vacated his assignment without the doctor’s instructions. However, Tony obviously didn’t want him there; and, Tony was awake now and more and more lucid by the second. He hoped the doctor would understand.

Dr. Pym shared a knowing look and did not comment. Instead, he approached the cocoon of blankets in front of the fire and commanded Tony to drain the mug of warm drink he’d made. Tony sat up, his frame still shuddering, but refused the drink. “I don’t want that.”

Jarvis sighed; why was he so difficult?

Fortunately, Dr. Pym was a formidable physician. He withered the youth with a frown. “Belay that! Sure but weren’t you just snatched from the jaws of death, two sheets to the wind, and frozen in your own boke? You’ve acted the hallion enough for one day, now drink your cocoa like a good boy.”

Even Jarvis was a little put off by the doctor’s scolding. Tony may have acted foolishly, but he was not a child incapable of rationality. From where he was, Jarvis could not observe Tony’s face, but was almost certain that if the boy’s frigid skin would allow it, it would be scarlet with indignation. Dr. Pym, unaffected, nettled Tony again, although in a quieter voice now: “I can’t be doing with this carnaptious attitude. Have you not caused Mr. Jarvis enough trouble as is?”

There was a sharp recoil in Tony’s shoulders at this. He bowed his head and it inclined briefly toward the kitchen, toward Jarvis. At last, Tony took the mug.

“Is there anything I should do, Doctor?” Jarvis asked, trying to keep his voice even. Now that he’d abandoned Tony to keep himself warm in the blankets, Jarvis felt useless. His empty hands felt stupid. They played their invisible piano, frantically.

Pym had his stethoscope to his ears. He shook his head but then changed his mind. “You might prepare another cup.”

Thankfully, Jarvis turned to flee the room. Before he crossed into the kitchen, he heard Tony mutter, “Praise be! This cocoa’s awful. Can you make it with cream, J?” Tony had not looked toward him, but he had not glanced long over his shoulder at the boy, either.

“As you like, Young Sir.”

May, 1870

Tendrils of melody fell away from his fingers as Jarvis played the piano. The cottage was quiet except for his music. He had so few moments of solitude in his life that filling them was always an awkward exercise. He usually ended up at the piano, and more and more as he aged.

The evening was wearing on and he expected Ana back soon from her outing with the young sir. On the table, their dinner waited in covered dishes. He’d set three places, not knowing if he should expect Tony to join them or not. Maria was away, staying in the city with an acquaintance, and Howard was unlikely to dine with his son alone.

Tony often snuck away to the cottage in the evenings, though it vexed Maria. Still, tonight he was bound to be tired. They had quite an agenda planned, he knew. Either way, Jarvis prepared his place; it was just as easy to return unused dishes to the cupboard. Tony liked to see the table set to include him, even if he didn’t eat.

Jarvis shook his head, realizing his thoughts. How improper to eat before the son of the master of the house. Improper, but wonderful, and natural, and right. One could almost assume that they were just the Jarvis family, sitting at the table, in their own countryside cottage, hidden in the garden. And, if Howard hadn’t needed an heir...

No. No, he couldn’t allow that thought to finish.

Again, he focused on the piece he played, an aria transcribed for piano, Handel’s “Ombra mai fu.” Eyes closed, he allowed his hands to guide themselves; this was one of the pieces he knew without the sheet music before him. Meant to be played in shadowed quietude. Besides, there was peace in the shade of his closed eyelids.

A small hand touched his shoulder. “Mr. Jarvis.” The voice spun like a plate on a stick.

Jarvis had to twist on the piano bench to see Tony, who stood directly behind him, very likely trying to hide, despite everything. The bandage over the boy’s nose was conspicuous as a wine stain on white cloth. Jarvis was wrenched from the peace of his daydreaming. “My word! Young Sir, I rarely see you in such condition after your escapades outside civilization — how did you manage this at the Academy of Design?”

Tony ground his teeth silently.

“Are you alright?” Jarvis asked. He stood from the bench, meaning to offer his help, but Tony drew back.

“Edwin.” Ana spoke gently from the kitchen entryway. “He’s trying to talk to you about something.”

The incline of her head told him to sit back down, decrease his presence. He did so and saw the expression on Tony’s face: reddened, rough. “I’m listening, Young Sir,” he murmured, encouraging him.

Tony’s tongue snapped loudly and he broke into an agonized rant. “I disobeyed you. About fighting. Again. I saw some men boxing in the alley and wanted to watch, but I thought Mrs. Ana would say no, so I snuck away from her, only, the men began to harass me and I punched one on the chin and another one challenged me so I started fighting him, too.”

Tony paused to gasp. Jarvis, heart softened, glanced at Ana. However, she seemed to be abstaining from this conversation for the moment.

“And the brute broke my nose and tossed me to the ground and was stomping on me when Mrs. Ana finally found me. And I made her have to fight to protect me,” — here, tears spilled over— “even though she could have been very hurt. And I don’t need you to tell me that what I did was wrong! I know. I know, I understand, and I really do not need you to explain why I should be ashamed of myself. I already am! So, so, please just— I’m ready for my consequences, but don’t, don’t yell at me! I— I—“

Jarvis looked helplessly at Ana. He felt unequipped and yet assigned some pivotal role. It did not escape him that Tony was afraid. The boy was slowly unraveling, expecting a fight, expecting to be shamed, expecting punishment. To be frank, though, Jarvis could scarcely imagine anger. Above all else, instead, was the urge to gather up Tony and calm him.

Ana was staring at Tony, also concerned at the boy’s increasing distress. She slowly leaned closer, ready to intercede, but she held out for now. It seemed that she agreed with him that this was his test— that Tony was waiting on him for something specific. If she offered it, it wouldn’t have the same effect.

This had to do with Howard. And, because Jarvis was male— or, because he was something of an authorial figure to the boy, it was up to him to provide this— either confirmation — or redemption . But, how, exactly?

Then, Jarvis noticed something. Keeping his voice low as a lullaby, he said: “Never lock your knees, Young Sir, remember?”

Tony startled and regarded his knees. They were clenched tight as fists. He remembered briefly the time he’d done this while training with Jarvis in front of the punching bag. He’d awoken to a white light, back on the cellar floor, head on Jarvis’s knees.

Following the familiar exercise of breathing and stilling himself before training, Tony relaxed. Jarvis watched. Then, he said, “It seems that if you do not require me to explain anything, my attempt to do so would only be a frustration. I don’t believe any of us need that.”

When Tony looked back at Jarvis, finding the collected and patient face he knew so well, he whispered, “I just don’t want you to be angry with me.” More tears fell.

Jarvis swallowed. His heart cried out for the boy. This went beyond fear of punishment. Tony feared being rejected by Jarvis. Never before had this seemed too much a concern; certainly, Jarvis knew Tony craved Ana’s validation, but never considered Tony would be so heartbroken over him.

Ana cleared her throat quietly and retreated into the kitchen. This moment was reserved for him and the young sir. Jarvis sighed internally; he wished she would have stayed. Tony also seemed to notice her exit, though he wasn’t turned that way. He began to shift nervously again.

“While I don’t believe you can help what people feel, beyond minding your own actions,” Jarvis said carefully, “I do hope you know that I care greatly for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The meek reply melted Jarvis even further. He thought for a moment, then, he added: “It seems your interest in boxing has grown very strong.” This earned a nod. Jarvis returned it. “Perhaps it would be appropriate to study it more as a sport than just exercise from now on.”

Tony’s head snapped up; slowly, his mouth fell open. “You mean you’ll teach me to spar? Like a real boxer?”

Jarvis grew stern. That overeager look on Tony’s face reminded him of the risks involved in this. Yet, wasn’t the impertinent youth already getting himself into trouble— and in illegal, back alley fights of all places? “Only as a sport.” Jarvis declared. “And only with me to begin with; when you’re of age, we will see about a membership at the sports club.”

Tony leapt at him. Arms were thrown tightly around his neck for just a brief moment. Then Tony retreated, scared, perhaps, to hold on too long. He began jabbering excitedly while Jarvis looked on in exasperated amusement.

Jarvis glanced to the kitchen and found his Ana there. Arms crossed and brow quirked, she nevertheless smiled at him. “Supper will be cold soon.” She remarked. “If your conversation is over, why don’t we all sit down together?”

January, 1903

Around eleven-forty that evening, after Jarvis had slept for a considerable time, his breathing became tortured. Tony had been running a cool cloth over his temples and neck for the past hour. It seemed that the fever would never break again. Jarvis began quaking.

“J?” Tony asked. He lowered the cloth back into the bowl and set both aside.

Breathy syllables bucked from Jarvis’s mouth. “Not... one… to complain…”

Tony was already preparing the syringe, securing the needle to the barrel. “I’ve got you, J. Hold on.” He inserted the needle into a vial of morphine and filled the barrel, as Dr. Pym had instructed. Holding his breath, Tony pushed back Jarvis’s right sleeve and looked at the veins at his inside elbow.

There were two minutes between the injection and the quieting of Jarvis’s shakes. Meanwhile, Tony was silent, alert. He offered Jarvis some water once relief had flooded Jarvis’s features. Tony lifted and held his head; his other hand raised the cup to Jarvis’s lips. Guilt had long settled on Tony, though he couldn’t articulate what he had done, or even what was in his power, to cause this suffering. Somehow, it just seemed like his fault.

As though Jarvis was attuned to his anxiety, he said, “Thank you… flowers.”

Surprised, Tony looked around the room at the potted delphiniums, the tall spires of foxglove and larkspur. “Oh.” Inside, in this dim light, they did not resemble Ana’s garden any more than a funeral parlor. “Yes, well. Pepper helped. She began growing these plants back a month or so. If it wasn't for her…” He sniffed.

Jarvis smiled.

Tony swallowed then he smirked and met Jarvis’s gaze. “Do you remember when I introduced Pepper to you for the first time, as my fiancée? She still talks about that.”

Jarvis gave a throaty sound of acknowledgment. He was slowing down. Tony, to compensate, began to speed up, to increase in presence. Trying to keep the feeling of them, together, going, like the coal furnace of a steam locomotive.

“Do you remember when, uh,” Tony said and chuckled, “Rhodey called you to Boston, behind my back, to see me in the prizefights? Or, that time you told me I had to take over Stark Industries or else — that’s basically what you said, let’s face it.”

Croaking, Jarvis couldn’t resist commenting. “Recall it… differently… but…”

“I don’t want you to leave, J.”

“Not..” Jarvis gathered his strength. He could feel it, all raked up in his stinging chest. He pushed it through the mechanism of his throat. The resulting sound was as close to his voice as he would ever manage again. “...leaving you, Tony… No more... than any father … eventually... leaves his... son.”

Jarvis collapsed back. The effort had wrecked him. Tony, ever more guilty, bit his lip in apology. He ran a hand over the back of Jarvis’s. A sardonic grin quirked on his face.

Shaking his head, Tony laughed at himself. He said in a mock accusation: “It’s not fair... Rhodey’s waiting right outside. He’ll laugh if he sees my face like this.”

Jarvis smirked reassuringly. He spoke, just a rasping whisper again, “Tell him… I … cried, too.”

Time wore on and Tony applied a fresh layer of Vick’s Pneumonia Salve to Jarvis’s collar. He tried to hide his amusement that Jarvis couldn’t make too much a fuss about it. Then, his amusement failed, and he was filled with sympathy. However, Jarvis remained as graceful as ever, even in his convalescence.

“Tell me…” he sighed after a while. “About the young sir.”

Tony blinked. Finally he had to ask, “I’m sorry?”

“Young Peter.”

“Oh, he’s good... He’s working to produce a particular glaze, something he calls a ‘peach bloom.’” Tony recapped the salve. A stray smile crossed his face. “He was actually attempting it back when I first met him. You remember those door handles on the second level? Those were a failed attempt at the peach bloom glaze; though they were beautiful enough in and of themselves.”

At Jarvis’s nod, Tony continued. “He’s a silly thing, but there’s no apparent end to his talent or intelligence.” Tony pulled a wry expression. “Afraid he’s not too happy with me at the moment.” He paused and Jarvis lifted his eyebrows in encouragement. “How did you get me to listen to reason when I was young?”

Jarvis’s body wanted to laugh; he grinned genuinely, but erupted into coughing. Tony muttered, laying a hand on his shoulder, “Sorry, J.” But, Jarvis waved him off and settled after a moment. His eyelids closed, revealing the distressed violet pooling there. Tony thought he may be falling asleep again.

However, Jarvis spoke again, in single sigh, before drifting into slumber. “Proud of you.”

December, 1871

Tony flipped the wool blanket from his feet. He sighed before standing upright, unsteady, but only fleetingly. Jarvis had not returned from the kitchen for a long, long time. Dr. Pym was gone; he had stayed until Tony’s temperature was at a stable 97.5 Fahrenheit. Then, with some brief, gruff, instructions, he left Tony in Jarvis’s care.

Yet, Jarvis was avoiding him; Tony knew. He hadn’t strung two sentences together for Tony since the doctor left. So, Tony assumed, was the depth of Jarvis's disappointment in him. After treating Tony so kindly, so tenderly... Tony had ruined it. Bitterly, he pushed himself to walk across the parlor. His shins, exposed, shone in the firelight.

He reached the doorway to the kitchen and peeked inside. Jarvis stood at the kitchen table, gripping its edge, eyes shut. He seemed like a monk in the throes of prayer. But Tony’s breath caught when he saw — tears ran and ran and ran silently down Jarvis’s face.

Breaking from the sight, Tony stood with his back against the wall. What had he done? He shouldn’t be here; he should leave. Dr. Pym’s accusation sounded in his ears. You’ve caused Mr. Jarvis enough trouble.

Tony hugged himself then pushed away from the wall. Lopping around the parlor, he searched for his coat, hat, and gloves. He didn’t remember the last time he had them; he remembered having at least his coat while at Ana’s... There was a sound from the kitchen and Tony cursed inwardly. He hastened his search.

Realizing that Jarvis probably put his things away, Tony groaned. Usually, Jarvis hung his things in the guest bedroom. He had to force himself to turn the door handle. He braced himself for what he might see. I'll just grab my things quickly, he thought.

The air met him, smelling of honey and lavender and mothballs. Everything looked as it had when he was here last summer. Like a sacred ritual, Tony took in every detail. The washstand, the field guides on the nightstand iron bed frame, the floral-patterned quilt... He paused, however, and stared at the bed. A bundle, wrapped in brown paper, sat on the foot of the bed, waiting for him. A tag attached to the coarse string read: “for My Little Mister.”

When Jarvis searched for Tony, not ten minutes later, the bundle of brown paper remained there, in the boy's bedroom. But, Tony’s winter clothes, which had been hung in the wardrobe, were gone.

A little note on the nightstand said: “Sorry for the trouble. —T.S.”

[sassyhottubstrawberry-blog]

Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

"Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

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Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

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Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

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What is a good company to get affordable E&O insurance?

Can I get off of my parents auto insurance?

So when I got my license when I was 19 about two years ago I was automatically put on my moms nationwide insurance which was fine because I drove one of her cars but now she only has one vehicle and although I do still live at home I'm a full time student at a community college so she usually drives me around so she can keep the car so in order to save money would I be able to drop myself from her car insurance policy since I don't really drive anyway?

What is the cheapest car insurance premium quote?

That you know of , for an 18 year old male driving a group 1 car. Thanks.""

Cheapest car for insurance?

My parents have agreed to get me a car, but the insurance has to be cheap. We have allstate and i have no idea what the cheapest car would be to get, insurance wise. thanks for any help!""

Insurance cost?

how much would insurance cost if i took drivers ed classes and get a license if you are 16 and own a paid off car

Where is a company that offeres life insurance to felons?

My husband commited a felony nine years ago when he was nineteen years old and has not been in trouble since. He is now a foreman, owns his own home and is just a regualr citizen, but he has been denied life insurance through 3 companies. Any suggestions?""

Insurance in college?

My mom tells me that you have to go to college directly after high school in order to stay on your parents' insurance plan or you get taken off and have to work full-time to get insurance. However, my question is if you get a job after high school and get insurance for yourself and then decide to go back to school a year later can you get back on their plan.""

Licence wrong date when applying for insurance?

when you get a quote along the way it asks you to enter when you recieved your licence. what if i put 2-3 years old when in actual fact it is only 2 months old. Will the insurance company find out that i am not telling the truth or can i get away with it? Do they check my licence to see when i got it. thanks.

Car insurance 16 year old living in NC?

I am turing 16 in March and I am looking at buying a car. How much does car insurance cost a month? I don't know which car I'll have. I live in the Charlotte area

Do parking citations affect my insurance rates?

I recently received a speeding ticket. This was my first ticket in the four years I've been driving, so I was able to keep it off of my record and insurance by taking an online ...show more""

How much does car insurance run on a 2007 Toyota Camry?

I just want to know a estimate from anyone else that has this car just to get an idea doesn't have to be exact ! It's a 2007 Toyota Camry (white) SE (special edition)

Is Progressive a good auto Insurance provider?

I have used Geico for years. I have been extremely satisfied with their service. However, my premium is still more than I want to pay. I got a quote for Progressive and it is considerably less. Anyone out there have Progressive and satisfied with them? How have they handled claims in the past? Any other good, reasonably priced auto insurance companies?""

Why is a 1600cc engine Less expensive in insurance than a 1300cc or 1500cc?

Why is a 1600cc engine Less expensive in insurance than a 1300cc or 1500cc? As my beetle was quoted 1100 insurance for 17 year old driver as first car, but when i asked for a quote for a smaller engine it said, 1700 for a 1300cc engine!? Thanks""

What is the best/cheapest car insurance?

I am 19, I've had one ticket for driving too fast for conditions . I'm getting a new car this week, a 2002 4dr honda civic. How much should i expect to pay for insurance? And what is the best company to go through?""

""Does your car insurance go down when you turn 25? If so, how much...?""

Does your car insurance go down when you turn 25? If so, how much...?""

How come I can't medical or insurance ???!?

Hello I'm a 20 year old and I live on my own. I use to have medical Owen I was under 18 && lived with. Y moon but now I'm 20&& live on my own. I tried applying for medical and I got denied because I make like 100 more than the limit. Where can I can I apply for a low healthy plan . I do live on my own and have bills to may. It I wanna be healthy. Someone please help no d mb answes (you don't look cool) I live in California San Diego.

Health insurance transplant patients affordable?

affordable prescription meds. for transplanted patients plus affordable health insurance for same.

Do i need insurance to learn to drive?

I am a 25 year old living in Akron, OH and i was wandering if i need insurance to drive with a learner's permit?""

About how much would it cost to for a year of car insurance for a 17 year old in new york?

I am planning on getting a used 2001 Mercedes-Benz C-Class C320. Before I buy the car I will have a senior license and will have taken drivers ed and a defensive driving coarse.

Which car insurance companies offer temporary insurance?

I'm a 20 yr old male that has had his license since age 18 but has never been insured. My mother would prefer to simply add me on hers, but her insurance company does not offer temporary insurance, which is what I need since I will be going back to school in late September. Which car insurance companies offer temporary insurance (3 months)?""

What is the difference between whole and term life insurance? what is a unit?

What is the difference between whole and term life insurance? what is a unit?

Is it legal to be declined health insurance for this reason?

I applied with a major insurance company in California, am a single vegetarian in my mid/late 30s no children, extremely healthy never been diagnosed with anything, exercise regularly. I guess they dug up that I had taken a fertility drug in the past - I was never even diagnosed as infertile - it's a really cheap common drug that stimulates your ovaries to produce more eggs but I had no partner to get pregnant with so to was just something I got from a fertility doctor if I wanted to get pregnant with donor sperm. That's not even covered by insurance if I ever want to do that again and the drug's like $20 you can practically get it over the counter it's so common I know tons of women who use it. I didn't even apply for maternity care to be included in my insurance, just a basic policy. Is it legal for them to decline me because of this? So if a woman has a baby they are no longer eligible for insurance? Most women who get pregnant take this drug (including both my sisters) yet they still have insurance. Was it legal for the pharmacy to give them this info? I don't know how else they found out.""

What company has the cheapest teen car insurance?

I'm moving out, and I need insurance! But I can't afford my moms plan anymore since of course, moving out in college is expensive. I've ever had an accident, and I make straight As. Who could you recommend?""

Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

USA - healthcare for the uninsured?

Is it true that if you get sick in the US and don't have insurance the staff @ the hospitals are not obliged to treat you? What if you got run-over for example? Or rescued from a housefire and were covered in burns?

""As a 21 year old unemployed college student, do I need to buy health insurance?""

I'm an unemployed senior in college and I don't have health insurance. I live with my mother, who is currently unemployed and uninsured. We're pretty much just getting by, ...show more""

Where can i get some good liability car insurance? ?

I wanto insure my vehicle i recently got so any ideas. Although iv had an at fault accident before help...

Do you have to have insurance for...?

I was wondering, when renting an apartment are you suppose to have insurance?""

What is the best Home Insurance?

What is the best Home Insurance company? How much should I expect to pay each month for Home Insurance for a $300,000 brand new home? Are there things that I should include in my Home Insurance policy that is not mentioned to me? The home is in Fresno California.""

Advice needed on Car Insurance?

I'm a 18 sixth form student who is learning to drive. I am currently looking at getting car insurance to make it easier to pass and then for afterwards but what would work out cheaper? - Get insurance on my mums car fully comp, as she doesnt want it wrecked! - Or buy a cheap little car for under 1000, and then insure it third party, to get my no claims bonus. Just ideas would be appreciated as well as advice. Cheers!""

""18, needs car insurance for ANYTHING please help ?""

OK ah cant take anymore of this... i'm 18 have had a license for 3 months now and live in the UK jarrow, tyne and Wear... All i want is a **** little car. But the insurance is ***** ridiculus no matter what i do a car costing 300 insurance will still be 5000 - 6000 doesn't matter if the engine is the size of a vacuume cleaner motor it jus wont go down. PLEASE somebody find me a car that isn't over 2000 that the insurance wont be beyond a joke. Been at this for over a week now and cant find anything. gocompare money supermarket direct line aviva. even put my mother as the main driver of the car with me as additional driver and still 5000 - 6000. Even insurance fraud is expensive PLEASE help me""

Will lifting my Jeep affect my insurance rates?

I have a Jeep Cherokee, which is my daily driver, but I'm lookin into making it alot bigger, putting a 6 lift kit on and putting 35 tires. I dont know whether or not I need to notify my insurance company about this. I dont expect them to insure the lift or anything, but can I be dropped by them if I do not tell them? I'm not actually going to be taking the truck offroad (stupid I know, but its just for looks).""

Car insurance in New York?

where can i find something affordable

Is my car insurance company lying to me?

I am insured by Farmers, they told me that I can not have a choice of the estimator who will decide the value of the damage to my car. They told me that only their estimator can decide the value of the damage. Are they lying?""

How long does a traffic violation affect car insurance quotes?

Two years ago, Feb in 2011, I was caught driving with a suspended license. Since then, car insurance has been through the roofs. How long until my quotes are no longer affected by my violation?""

Ways to lower my insurance rate?

Hey, Im in highschool at the moment and im not reaching my car dilemma Im a male at the age of 16 (not looked well upon by insurance companies I hear) and I am insured by Statefarm. I was wondering if someone could help me out by telling me how i could lower my monthly insurance rate. The car im getting has side airbags and good crash test ratings, and im going to be adding mods to it (either rsx type-s or volkswagon golf gti) and i would most likely be installing rollover bars. Would this help my insurance rate go down? What other steps could I take? Thank you!""

Is it required to buy insurance if you rent a car ?

Well, I'm going to tell my mom to rent a car next Thursday and I'm not sure if she HAVE to buy insurance for it. She already have car insurance from Triple A, can she use the car insurance she have for the rental car? Is that okay? When I reserved the car for Avis last weekend, it said that you can purchase a protection for the car for an extra 18 dollars, im not sure if that's insurance or not. It said its recommended, but not required. Also, no where on the site said that you have to buy insurance for the rental car. Is there already insurance for those rental cars? I'm so confused. pleease help!!""

How can i get cheap car insurance?

is there anyway i could reduce my insurance costs

LOW car insurance for a 19 year old Male?

I have been looking to buy my first car (1.1-1.4L) but all insurance companies I have checked are really high like 3,000-6,000 per year. Are there any cheap insurers out there and what are they? Please help, I am really wanting a car but the prices of insurance are holding me back :( What are ideal 1st cars (low insurance) ?""

Question for no claims bonus protected on car insurance?

hi Sorry might be a silly question but here goes,, i crashed this morning (have to go through insurance ) i have 4 years no claims (protected) my insurance is due in march . when i renew my insurance and get quotes will i say i have 5 years no claims in march as i have protected no claims bonus ???""

Motocycle insurance??

i want to buy a motocycle (sports bike) buti would like to know an estimate of how much it will cost for insurance. Are sports bike more expensive than a car? I'm paying around 200 for my monthly with a car right now.

What is the average cost for a student possessions insurance policy?

What is the average cost for a student possessions insurance policy?

Can an insurance company buy off and tow my car?

some construction company hit my car. the estimate repair is 2400.00 my car in kellybluebook is 1600.00, they said they could either write me a check of 1000.00 or their insurance if going to tow my car and give me what they think is worth. can an insure really do that? can't they just repair my car and give me a rental until i get it repaired? what should i do the accident happened 6/26/13""

About how much does an Sr22 bond cost?

The reason I need one is, I was pulled over and caught without insurance. Now in order to get my license reinstated I must first get this bond.""

Do i Need Car Insurance?

If i drive my moms car and the car has insurance and my parents both do and i don't have my own and i get in a accident or get pulled over. what will happen to me and my parents? and also i am 16 and just got my license. my parents have AAA insurance and we live in Michigan. My parents do not want to add me on the policy, so can i still drive the car or can i get in big trouble?""

Would it be cheaper insurance on a small van compared to a small car?

I am now older enough to drive, I have been looking at cars. And, I was just wondering if it would be cheaper when it comes to insurance if I buy a small van (http://www.wisebuyers.co.uk/vans/300/Ford/ford_escort_van_1.jpg), instead of buying a small car (http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3oRG_dt7j3k/TkgXL5ZmbRI/AAAAAAAACDg/zQL9eZiCJ-w/s1600/fiesta-13.jpg)? Thanks, Chris :)""

Disability Insurance question?

Can an individual buy short term disability insurance themselves without going thru a business? Can I purchase Aflac on my own, or some other disability insurance?""

How much will I pay for car insurance? Estimate.?

I am looking to buy a car this Spring (new, from a dealership). When I do, I will be 24, female, and have had my license for just under a year. Since I passed my road test, I have not been driving or on any insurance at all. I will be the main driver on this vehicle, though there might be a secondary driver. I will probably by a small car, like a Yaris, or a Hyundai Elentra. Something cheap, good on gas, safe, and not fast or sporty. It will be automatic. I am a university graduate (not sure if that matters but I heard it does). I will live in a town with about 100,000 people. About how much am I looking at car insurance/month? I have tried the online sites but find them confusing. Some people tell me $100, but the online estimates can be $300-400.""

How can forcing people to have car insurance compare to forcing health insurance?

Actually this equates to Slavery by the government??? You do not have to buy car insurance if you do not own a car. Secondly, if your car is paid for then you only have to have liability insurance to protect others not for the repairs of your own car. Yet, forcing everyone to have health insurance would fall on every individual regardless of age, sex, race, income, ect. If you do not have enough after paying your monthly bills you will be fined and even serve prison time with a $25,000 fee. This essentially goes against Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness isn't it? Liberals want to say everyone should have, and the government should provide? Yet, this is not government providing it is government enslaving you to have?? Slippery slope they are weaving and the benefits will be far less than we have today with the government oppression on each individual.""

Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

Burnt Cabins Pennsylvania Cheap car insurance quotes zip 17215

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