#hope this wasn't incomprehensible or just flat out wrong

[frootbyethefoot]

crying screaming throwing up in a fit of borderline hysteria begging kim kitsuragi to quit his job. they treat you like ass. it's not fulfilling work. it's actively hurting you and the community. quit your job. find peace. do literally anything else with your life i am begging you.

i only kind of understand how the rcm rank system works so forgive me if this doesn't sound quite right but. kim worked in juvie for 15 years despite (most likely) being overqualified for detective work at some point in those 15 years. then he spent a year in processing, despite, again, most likely being overqualified. then he spent 4 years presumably working his way up to lieutenant. in a work environment that was just as racist as the previous one. all this is to say, i don't think criminal investigations would've made that swift rank advancement very easy for kim. going presumably from patrol officer to a 4x decorated lieutenant in 4 years sounds like crunch and burnout waiting to happen, if i'm understanding everything right.

granted, he wasn't in as grueling of a district as precinct 41, and he has half of harry's case load (not that it's a competition on who can have the most self destructive burnout imaginable). but still, it sounds bad. it sounds awful. it sounds like he should resign immediately and never look back. do literally anything else with your life kim, i promise there are more fulfilling jobs out there.

[boop-le-snoot]

masterpost • main masterlist • taglist & faq

previously on...

Chapter 1! Reader's job has no chill and Wanda means well (Tony does too), but, as we know, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Reader discovers the source of some peculiar things and can't help but be overcome with curiosity. F-bombs galore!

Fun fact: this story's main soundtrack is Claire de Lune, for some reason. Usually I can't stand classical music.

I didn't anticipate my first day at the bodega to be remarkful in any way but I was quickly proven wrong. My expectations were low: few customers, some of them flat-earthers of the garden variety, perhaps one or two of those 'witches' from social media blogging platforms and an overzealous Satanist or two, since I was pretty sure I saw an Ouija board and a silver pentagram hanging in Odette's office on the day of the interview.

Boy was I wrong.

We averaged a customer every fifteen minutes with each person requesting increasingly strange items: healing quartz and sage were on the closer end of normal; I felt like I had teleported to Hogwarts and was now attending Professor Snape's Advanced Potions class, having to race between the high shelves and memorize the exact location of each and every ingredient. In the end, I sacrificed a few dollars and bought one of the beautiful, leather-bound notebooks off Odette to write down the shelf and position number for the most commonly requested items and planned to begin memorizing them at home.

There's a little bit of Ravenclaw in all of us, I supposed. My curiosity only extended further: sometimes, a haggard looking person would come up and declare they had an appointment with Odette and was quickly whisked away by my boss to her office, coming out looking slightly less haggard in about half an hour or so.

I adapted to the routine fairly quickly, choosing to make my personal peace with the strange customers and Odette's mysterious meetings: after all, I got the job because I needed money - who was I to judge her for doing Tarot readings and spiritual séances for an extra dollar?

The bodega's atmosphere did grow on me rather quickly, as I had thought it would. It was warm and homely even on the rainiest afternoons, there was an unlimited supply of herbal tea, free of charge, and I grew to appreciate it just like I learned to find the positives in my job at the café. That remained a constant, mildly interesting affair too - my regulars, especially the superheroes, had started coming in during the morning hours and we were able to resume our chit-chats without a hitch.

Wanda still fished for my most recent, memorable reading and Dr. Banner left his incomprehensible scribbles on every napkin within an arm's reach for me to return to him on his next visit. The fully grown man with multiple PhDs didn't fail to blush like a schoolgirl every single time it happened, causing Mr. Stark to double on his own salacious jokes, should the engineer have had come with. They often came together, blabbering things I couldn't even fathom understanding even with the help of Google.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Wanda sounded surprisingly chipper for it was freaking seven in the morning.

I blanched, banging my arm against the display door painfully with a softly muttered, "Fuck!".

The witch frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I muttered, hoping my face wasn't portraying the mixture of confusion and fear that I felt. "Something weird happened at my other job yesterday, I'm still processing," I replied honestly, looking to the side.

In fairness, I didn't know what to think. The situation wasn't something that should have shocked me, with aliens and magic people an abundance in NYC, but seeing it with my own two eyes had been jarring.

A limping, paranoid young man had arrived for an appointment with Odette shortly before closing time; I had escorted him to her office without as much as a blink, only noticing he was dripping oddly colored blood when the door behind him had closed. I cleaned it up, dead set on confronting Odette about the obviously injured person - the blood, it was more of an attempt to clean it, since it merely stuck to the rag, refusing to wash off it with water or any of the organic cleaning solutions kept under the sink.

I had to leave the rag in a paper bag, acutely aware of the fact it could not have belonged to a normal person. My best guess was that a man was a mutant - NYC had plenty of them living behind a blue wall. Odette's office wasn't soundproof: I heard a pained yelp and then a vocalisation of relief as whatever was causing the man to bleed had been removed. In a few minutes while I was closing the cash register, he came out looking almost brand new - and as I paid him a more careful look, he was missing his scleras, leaving his eyes to look slightly terrifying.

And then he winked at me, a surprisingly human, boyish gesture - the smile that crawled up my face was purely automatic. I was sure it looked frozen. He disappeared without a word as Odette herself emerged from the backrooms, a tired sheen to her brow.

"Did you manage to clean up?" She asked, eyebrows raised at the lack of stains on the hardwood floors.

"It stuck to the rag," I replied, eyeing her warily. "The rag is in the unmarked bag next to the sink. I didn't know what else to do with it."

"Sometimes it does that," her sigh was very telling. This was to be expected to become a regular occurrence. She motioned for the notebook I got to keep track of everything in the store, rattling off a recipe for a cleaner and solvent combo, made purely from the items she had inside the store, giving me stern instructions to add the ingredients in the exact order I was told. I sighed but added the footnote. Odette was a far cry from the greasy git from Hogwarts so she deserved the benefit of the doubt at least.

I didn't dare to ask any more questions about the strange man; not that day, not after I had suprised Wanda with a quick recap of my story. It's not like I had anything against mutants - as long as they were peaceful and didn't harm humans with their abilities, I was content to co-habit, share my space and even be friends with them. A very nice old lady who came by three times a week had gills peeking out of the top of her turtleneck and she was just the most polite, sweetest thing.

Wanda's curiosity was understandable and not suspicious in any way: I was under the impression she was a mutant, too, along with her twin brother - so the feeling of dread that blossomed within me as soon as the two suited figures entered the small store I attributed to the larger size of the man and vulture eyes of the woman. They both appeared extremely out of place with their black two-pieces and badly hidden pistol holsters, topped off with badges I couldn't take a good look at without losing my customer service facade.

I decided to play it dumb, self-conscious of the thudding of my heart in my ribcage. My body screamed 'danger' at me. "Hello, how can I help you?"

The woman cast an observant look over me, my plain clothes, lingering on my star-patterned scarf and matching hair band. "Are you the owner of this store?"

"No," I frowned, not liking where this was going. "Do you have an appointment with Odette?"

"We'd like to see her," the man pointedly moved his arm, exposing the gun and the badge.

I dropped the nice act, staring him down in earnest. I never liked self-righteous, pushy government officials; even less so, when they didn't follow protocol and started the conversation with demands instead of proper introductions. As I shot a quick text to Odette, noting that there were 'strange people in uniform' looking for her, my suspicions were only confirmed when the woman looked around the store with eyes that knew what they were looking for. Those two definitely weren't cops or even feds, they were straight up shady.

Odette all but flew to the bodega, the imposing, suffocating aura I'd seen only once on full display. It was hard to breathe standing so close to her; with muted satisfaction, I noticed both agents squirm, their fingers twitching, as they took in shuddering inhales through their, undoubtedly, lying mouths.

The whole spectacle was over quickly. I had managed to serve and quickly usher out Ike, one of the Satanists (yes, we did, in fact, have a few of those as regulars) with his paper bag full of powdered goat horn and a fresh cat skull under his armpit before the curtains parted and the two agents left without saying a word. I thought their eyes looked - wrong, like glass marbles, dull, lifeless and unseeing.

Odette dismissed my worries with a frivolously waved hand: "They won't be bothering us anytime soon," closing the door to her office - it reeked of strong incense and horseradish, for some reason. Like she'd been making some hell salad in front of the two nosy officials.

I took a deep breath in and then a deep breath out. The weirdness should've bothered me more, I knew, but I couldn't bring myself to decide whether I wanted to know what that interaction was actually about or live in blissful ignorance, where my boss might be some sort of a mutant or an actual witch that helps other mutants.

The longer I thought about it, the louder anti-mutant propaganda articles screamed at me: children being killed or abandoned because one day, they woke up and could fly or move things with their mind; every potential situation could end up like Carrie or Brightburn - two movies so blatantly obvious in their point to instill fear against children that could grow to work alongside Earth's Mightiest Defenders.

Needless to say, my conscious calmed down pretty quickly. I had felt the hairs on my nape stand up as soon as the agents entered the room and in my experience, a reaction like that was never good. I had been taught to trust my gut.

Odette had cancelled her visits for the day, holing up in her office as the whole store rapidly filled up with the stench of horseradish, old blood and sage. The occasional noise came from the office, interrupted by mumbling, and I was quickly told to just turn up the old, vintage radio if it bothered me.

I was too busy taking in the contents of her office - the table that previously stood in the far end of it, stood in the middle, folded out into the shape of a circle. Something was drawn on it, something the color of dried blood, and there were light candles, white and blue, littered on almost every possible surface. The air was clouded with incense smoke, so thick, it made my eyes water.

Odette's grin was sardonic as she met my eyes, wide and shocked, that had previously landed on what looked like a pot- or a cauldron, emanating the strongest bitter stench that wafted even through the lead curtain of incense. No wonder the whole store reeked.

Before she gently shut the door in my face, I caught the centerfold of the whole show - an extremely large, tattered, leatherbound tome with yellowed pages and a heavy metal padlock laying next to it. Overcome by stupor, I didn't manage to make out the intricate silver letters on its cover.

Needless to say, walking home that day was an adventure. In part, I was cautious that the agents would find me, follow me home, interrogate me - I've never been arrested even by usual cops and it was unlikely that shady government agencies were delicate in their approach. A larger part of my brain was wondering about the implications of what I had seen, I'd nearly chewed off my fingernails remembering the vacant, lost face expressions on the agents' faces.

As soon as I got home, I set to do some serious googling. And find information, I did. Plethora of minor details - candle colors, herbs used, deeply individual incantations and mythical deities that chose to work with a particular witch. It was nothing short of a whole science; I'd go as far as to say it was a complete lifestyle. The use of magick bled into every aspect of daily life, from sleep to food to communication with others.

Part of me felt incredulity at the implication of sacrificing so much to get results that might be the opposite of the ones desired. A larger, braver part of me - the very same that used to push me to explore abandoned buildings with my friends and drink booze given by a stranger - admired the work and the dedication my boss and her kind put into their work.

Having received my first paycheck and successfully having made it through rent day without having to make excuses, my conscious allowed me to treat myself to a few items - I decided to give into my curiosity and placed an order for a few books on modern witchcraft, happily waiting for the package to arrive next afternoon. I went to sleep with my head full and a new world at my feet to explore.

The books were late - or more like, never showed. The refund couldn't come soon enough. My curiosity began to reach unbearable levels the longer I worked the front desk at Odette's. These days I didn't need much assistance anymore, ready to help any new or returning customer with the help of my notebook. Time after time, I noticed a certain working order, a pattern to things if you may - and was able to recommend a few things here and there. In short, I stepped over my initial apprehension and dove into the world of natural remedies and energetic manipulation headfirst.

It made all the sense that Odette would start to take absence from the bodega as my training progressed. On the days she had fewer or no appointments, she would don her favourite scarf and trot out the front door, large purse in tow, to run errands or restock on the rare, pricy items that couldn't get delivered directly to the shop. I'd grown accustomed to locking up on my own; the spare key to the entrance door was my pride and joy, the dull silver a warm comfort hanging on a chain around my neck. Its antique design made a fairly pretty necklace.

The customer coming to pick up a special order hardly disrupted my time. I had Janis Joplin blaring from the old radio, my skirt swayed to the rhythm of the song together with me. The elevated mood while working in the shop was something I appreciated fully - with a kind smile, I departed for the backrooms to search for the package with the customer's name, not finding it anywhere near the proper place. A call later, I was opening Odette's office and extracting the paper-wrapped shoebox from the fridge, passing it into the customer's arms with utmost care: 'FRAGILE. KEEP REFRIGERATED AT ALL TIMES.' read on it in Odette's sharp cursive.

The bell above the door rang as the woman departed but I was already inching behind the curtain, overcome by sudden inquisitiveness.

The book. It stood right in the middle of Odette's desk, shut, but missing its padlock, beckoning with the thick gothic letters spelling out 'PRACTICAL ALCHEMY'. I noticed it as soon as I stepped into the office, confused and puzzled by my own unbearable desire to approach it immediately. I knew something was amiss, yet, my legs had a mind of their own and my hands firmly placed themselves upon the heavy cover of the book, seemingly without the input from my brain.

"What the hell..." I muttered to myself, finding the books contents to be - for the lack of a better word - peculiar. "Protect a babe born on all Hallows Eve..." I numbly mouthed the first words that my eyes registered. The pages made a soft noise as my shaking fingers turned them, one after the other. "Bestow healing upon a barren womb... Punish a thief..." There were - spells, and potions, and so many plants I've never even heard about before.

The pages turned and handwritings changed - at the start, words were written out precisely, the cursive neat and sharp, obviously written by an ink pen. Some things were scribbles, pencil or charcoal, so barely intelligible I had to guess about a third of the words written. Towards the end of the book pages made with a typewriter appeared - blocky letters and numbers, language modern, ash and cigarette smell coming from the paper.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The longer my hands touched the pages, the stronger the tingling sensation became - I failed to notice it at first, attributing it to the exhilaration of finding something so strange yet so precious, but as I was finishing a page that contained a fairly short spell for protection of a witches' home, the discomfort of my palms rose into a mild stinging pain.

"Fuck," I yelped, casting a look at my fingers. They were hot, angry, as if I had briefly touched boiling oil - and the skin on my fingertips began to blister, little white pustules forming where I had gingerly held the pages of the book in place. "What the fuck?" Was my reasonable question to nobody in particular.

The books contents were, no doubt, interesting but I was more concerned with the state of my hands - had I ignored the pain for five more minutes, I might have had to go to the hospital to treat what was beginning to look like a second-degree burn. I slammed it shut none-too-gently, placing it exactly as I found it and winced when barely a second of touching it brought on more excruciating pain.

The healing peppermint oil salve I knew people bought for mild burns only soothed the initial sting, so I had to suffer until I clocked out, stopping by a drugstore on my way home to purchase some much-needed burn cream. And while it didn't make it worse, I knew that my next day at work was going to be Hell.

Most thankful, however, I was to my voice-to-text option on my cell. Not only it allowed me to communicate with my friends without hurting my abused skin even more, but it also dutifully saved the short, simple spell that was supposed to protect my house. There was no harm in trying it, I supposed, after seeing what I didn't doubt was the book's own protection wreak havoc on my snoopy little hands.

The tag list is open until the story is finished.

@couldntbedamned @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites

[moon-stars01]

Carnations

Woozi x Reader

Author-SBK

Summary:y/n knows it’s deadly from the way it burst inside her,But she doesn’t care not anymore.

Pairing:Woozi(Svt) x Reader

Gene:Baseball au,unrequited love,Angst,bad ending,hanahaki Disease

Rating:Teen Audience

Word Count:1536

-Carnations-

She can feel the tears, like their swelling just behind her eyes unwilling to spill over like a dam filled with way too much water. She doesn't want to admit that though, never in a hundred words - and well, if she ever tried to explain how she felt, it'd probably just fall short. No, maybe short is the wrong word, it would be more like her feelings skydiving, twisting through the air at over 800km/h, a mad descent into the earthy, rocky ground below.

Like falling without a parachute.

But maybe it would be made worth it, because for just a second, you got to imagine the whole world in your palm, got to feel the wind whisking through your hair, as if pushing you away from your very death - it would be worth it because just for a second, just for a second, the earth would seem so tiny, incomprehensibly small.

She imagines, perhaps, this is what dying without actually dying, feels like. It's the twisting in the pits of your stomach, tossing and turning in your bed sheets at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering - just wondering. What did I do wrong?

Maybe there really isn't a simple answer for that though, no - there could never be a simple answer. It's a bitter swelling within the confines of her chest, one that makes it feel like something is about to burst from him - like striped carnations from her ribs, stretching and poking, ripping and prodding -

Conceivably, this might just be what the harsh reactor of reality might feel like, the way it comes crashing down around you - and you can't stop it. You can't do anything, but witness from afar as it cascades around you like a leaf trapped at the bottom of a children's swimming pool, harmless in appearance, but deadly in occurrence.

L/n y/n  feels like she's, by definition, drowning.

It's spring, the time for flowers and life to rear their ugly heads from muddy, green earthy grounds - begging for attention, demanding for rain - demanding and demanding and demanding - and y/n, she doesn't remember flowers hurting this badly. Doesn't remember feeling like her bones were cracking under immense weight, doesn't remember the way she feels like she's going blind - like she's losing sight of yellow mitts - but she is. She's losing sight, slowly but surely, as striped carnations in all their glory stretch from eye sockets, over taking her vision like cloudy reminders -

You were never enough.

They whisper menacingly in her ear at night, force their way into her dreams, picking and plucking and ripping - removing all resemblance of what was known as the harsh word: love. There was no room for that here, in a land of rowdy driven teenagers - she knows that, she tries to know that, she tries to remind himself when she can see, the baseball resting comfortably - familiarly in her palm.

But love? That doesn't grow here.

What does is the bitter taste of regrets that linger on your tongue like acidic candy to teeth, sticking, and melting away any defense you might've had. It's like worms digging their ways through ripe, rounded apples - consuming, eating it - but not all the way, just in a way that leaves a long, hollow tunnel - winding and twisting.

It's like trying to guide that tunnel without sight, it's like being unable to see any hope at the end - no, chasing things here, things that aren't related to hitting home runs and achieving number ones - well, it just doesn't happen.

It. Just. Doesn't. Happen.

So when Y/n rips stems from her eyes, bloodied petals that were once obscuring her vision now laid out in marble, white sinks, she knows. She knows.

Oh God, does she know.

Striped carnations, in their own, fluttery existence mean something y/n wishes they never meant.

Stripes mean a regret for love that cannot be shared.

The flowers are more like a gentle reminder, than anything. They are from Lee Jihoon, and the catcher has no idea he even sent them. It's like a soft whisper into the harsh night, as if he's replying without ever really hearing y/n.

They say, bitterly:

"I want to be with you, I'd love to be with you, but I can't."

She knows this as the sudden yellow, bold yellow, carnations grow from her ribs, pushing against her skin until they sprout through her flesh - dripping a violent red shade with them, when paired with a bold, solid color, striped carnations mean so much more.

It's a regret for saying no.

But regrets don't stop the spread of vegetation, and how do they even survive - these flowers. With no water, no sunlight, they protrude through the darkest veins and darkest caverns of the human body, fragile, unable to stop their spreading - like an infectious disease, it keeps going and going, running its course - and Y/n is at the mercy of flora, beautiful colors, sickeningly sweet smells.

Sickeningly sweet ideals.

Now bitter, against the remaining taste buds in the sunlight's harsh gaze.

If the catcher, the one y/n  has chased so diligently, wondering when the next time she'd be able to pitch to the other would be, had just said no - just a flat out no, simple within its existence, she could've trudged on.

Could've understood, maybe.

But a no with regrets, was like sex with strings attached, it pulls at you like a puppet, forcing you to remember all those times - all those moments you got a little too close with someone, let lips linger a little too long, let eyes stare a little too much.

It's all those times you were a little too exceedingly in love, it's all those times you cared a little too abundantly.

It's all those times you cried into your pillow at night.

Maybe the flowers were capable of growing from salty, wet tears.

It's all those times you said to yourself, in the dark to no one else, no louder than the tiniest squeak of a mouse:

I just want him to look at me back.

Just for a little while.

It's all those times you admitted those feelings to yourself.

That's why, that's why with long stems, striped carnations stretch from her eyes like extra limbs, yellow carnations erupt from her chest like she's being impaled - and she is, really, in the heart. Over and over, and over again. Like once wasn't enough, maybe this is how Julius Caesar felt.

Julius was only stabbed twenty three times, though.

Y/n has been stabbed over a hundred, she's sure, and counting. Although this isn't something you'd brag about, isn't something you'd write home about, isn't something you'd enjoy enough to care about.

Y/n knows, silently in the back of her mind as she takes sharp shears, sawing away at overly thick stems that are inching from her eyes like dark omens, like the literal festation of regrets:

It would all go away if he'd just look at me, just want me back.

But if Lee Jihoon wanted her back, then l/n y/n  wouldn't be growing a personal garden within the careful little innerworkings and cogs of her body.

If Lee Jihoon shared feelings, the flowers wouldn't be striped, wouldn't be mixed in with bold ones too.

See, Jihoon is saying, in his own way:

You're great, really, I want to love you, I do, but I only love baseball.

Jihoon has only one love, and that's for catching baseballs on a baseball field, behind a batter's box, in a catcher's zone, crouched in front of the umpire like a jester before an emperor.

Obsessions, how they blossom within you before you even realize it, and Seokmin is shaking at y/n shoulders - pleading with the flowers to stop growing, an entire dorm room - number 5 painted on the door - is overflowing with posy - another word for flowers.

There's a lot of words for a lot of things, really, but nothing quite feels like this.

Seokmin is sobbing now, tears dripping onto carnations, carnations that already looked to have been soaked in blood from the tips - just naturally, now with the added, dark red - near brown, that seeps into the pedals, turning them into a different shade altogether -

It's fitting, really, how y/n's blood changes them to a swirling, calamitous red hue.

A color that denotes deep love for someone, and y/n really did, have a deep love for someone.

She loved someone so much, with every fiber of her being, she died for it.

Jihoon coughs out pink and light red carnations the next day, they, in their silent yet deadly approach, spread from his lungs and out his mouth, they mean:

Admiration, and missing someone unforgettable.

You could give everything to someone,

And it still wouldn't be enough.

[gaily-gavotte]

Oh, how it hurt.

It seemed incomprehensible that mere minutes ago he had been puttering his way along the streets of Soho, headed for his favourite bakery, enjoying another day in the aftermath of saving the world. It had been such a pleasantly sunny morning.

He hadn't seen them coming.

It hadn't been supposed to happen like this - Aziraphale thought he'd have bought a few more years of being left alone at least, in the wake of the body switch and the uncertainty it had sown in both head offices. But evidently Heaven had decided not to grant that courtesy. Instead, he had been snatched off the sidewalk to face the imposing judgement of the archangels in the bright, sterile hall of Heaven once more, and receive their ultimatum.

Evidently it had been too optimistic to hope that they would ignore a renegade angel in their ranks simply because he'd fooled them into thinking he could not be effectively punished. After all, there was one other punishment they could still threaten to inflict; one that had not been utilised since the whole scandal with the nephilim all those thousands of years ago.

The terms were bluntly decreed, no patience or feigned attempt at niceties. Fall, or...

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale started politely, after a horrified pause. He had heard them perfectly fine, but still sought clarification out of some vain and rapidly dwindling hope that he was somehow mistaken. "What?"

"Kill the demon Crowley," Michael repeated flatly, "Or be cast Downstairs to join him."

Really, it hadn't been much of a choice at all.

Perhaps in retrospect it would have been wiser to try and buy more time, rather than to give his superiors the implicit middle finger with his calm response.

A shame he'd never been very wise.

Falling, as it turned out, was a rather literal affair, but it was not the plummet from Heaven that had him writhing in breathless agony. Before casting him down, they had reached inside of him, caught ahold of something and ripped.

It was the worst pain he had ever experienced; he was burning from the inside out, and the heavy rain he was currently getting soaked by did nothing to alleviate the feeling.

After an unknown period of time (minutes? Hours? Days?) it abated just enough for Aziraphale to stagger to his feet, take in his surroundings with bleary disorientation, and stumble his way to the first safe place he could think of - the only place he could think of.

His wings were still searingly painful. Aziraphale did not dare look at them. He avoided his reflection entirely, focusing his dwindling energy instead on traversing the few blocks to Crowley's flat, moving between waves of pain. He couldn't stand to remain out in the open like this, not even long enough to use a payphone.

The relief at finally reaching the demon's front door promptly petered away at the marked absence of the Bentley, and the lack of answer to his increasingly insistent knocks. Crowley wasn't in.

Of all the bloody times for him not to be in.

"...Fuck." Aziraphale pressed his forehead against the door for a moment, teeth gritted in pain and frustration. It was impossible to tell whether the wetness dripping from his face was due to tears or rainwater.

Intruding upon his friend's space felt wrong, but collapsing on the doorstep was similarly unpleasant, and with another excrutiating wave of pain rising, the desperation won out. A sharp flick of his wrist and the door unlocked; Aziraphale barely managed to kick it closed behind him before nearly dropping to the floor with a choked sob.

How long was it supposed to hurt this much for? When would it end?

Half-crawling, half-staggering his way through the flat, Aziraphale grabbed the first vaguely phone-looking device he found in a series of button-mashing attempts to call the demon. It did not do anything, however, except turn on the flat screen tv at a horrible volume, and after several vain attempts to turn the blasted thing off Aziraphale simply gave up, slumping down onto the couch. The other phone-looking device was in the kitchen, and he didn't have the strength left to make it that far.

After what felt like an eternity, there was the distant sound of the front door opening, and too-loud tv programme abruptly turned off. Aziraphale didn't look up.

"Angel..."

Aziraphale's lips twitched into the ghost of a wry grimace at the word, so uncharacteristically soft and tentative.

Not any more, my dear boy. Not really.

Quiet footfalls indicated the demon's approach; Aziraphale became distantly aware that he was shaking.

"What have they done to you?"

Aziraphale flinched at the gentle touch to one of his feathers; even the faintest whisper of contact was sore.

"....Took a bit of a tumble, I'm afraid." His voice was still hoarse from screaming, barely above a whisper.

"...I didn't know it hurt this much."

@creeping-crowley

♱ Satanic Panic ♱

Something in the air felt wrong.

The perpetual absence. The sudden drop in the atmosphere that comes in the breath between lightning and thunder. A plummeting sensation of wrongness had settled over London beneath the darkened clouds that chanted for rain. From outside, everyone was stirring and hurrying about the Mayfair streets, scurrying about as the first errant drops of the coming storm cascaded downward.

Crowley was busy. What he was busy with few acknowledged as a real task, but he went about the routine with just as much (if not more) dedication than to most of his other work-related endeavours. Every week he would patrol his flat, tending to the plants and stirring the petrifying knowledge into them of what happened if he noticed any failures to thrive. As he went about his business (with a good degree less discussion than he usually made), Crowley permitted his attention to dip in and out of the news report on the television in the living room.

The disembodied voice echoed softly throughout the flat.  A man’s voice presented numerous stories in a stern sort of severity- the way one might deliver the news that a family member had suffered an unfortunate accident.

‘With last year being London’s bloodiest in almost a decade, as the number of homicides reached 135, the plague of knife crime is not nearing its end.’

Crowley closed a window as the first drops of rain devolved swiftly into a torrential downpour.

‘…Slews of schools across London have introduced them…But for some people, the implementation of knife arches comes too late.’

The TV flickered, jumped, then continued. A low rumble shook the sky.

‘Tory leadership contender Jeremy Hunt has refused to guarantee that the UK will leave the EU before Christmas, but said he “expects” it to happen by then.’

Crowley rolled his eyes. There was a rumour flying around that he’d had a hand in setting Brexit in motion. A rumour that Crowley had not directly addressed to anyone. Nor did he intend to.

‘Up to 160,000 Conser—’ The power blinked, crackling as another rumble of thunder passed overhead.

Ignoring it, Crowley moved onto the next plant. A quiet frown crossed his features. He had already started to tune out the topic as talk of politics babbled away across the empty rooms.

‘…voting for their next party leader - and UK prime mini—’ Static broke the report, lulling into a temporary hiss until the voice returned.

‘… replace Theresa May.’

A flash of lightning filled the room with a temporary brightness. And then it was gone.

As was all the brightness. And power. And sound.

Crowley ignored it. Moving on to the next plant that trembled at his mere proximity.

From the living room the distant hum and crackle of static flickered in and out, picking up on the hollow tone of the reporter’s voice but failing to provide enough clarity for his words to carry in anything more than an indistinct hum. The lights did not turn back on.

“…Well that’s not good.” The demon remarked at last with an absent sort of tone that implied the comment was not entirely tied to the thoughts he was having towards the power cut. Or the storm.

“IT’S SIMPLY DREADFUL, CROWLEY.”

The silky tone of his Master oozed from the sound system, echoing out of the hollow reporter’s mouth.

Static continued to pick apart at the voice, but the message came loud and clear. After a long moment of remaining rooted to the spot, Crowley abandoned his plant mister and skirted back into the living room. Perhaps this was what he had possessed such a vile feeling about. He’d felt some sort of ill-will in the air and now Satan himself was reaching out- it had been a while since they had spoken. He certainly sounded significantly less angry on this occasion.

“YOU’VE QUITE MARVELLOUSLY OUTDONE YOURSELF, CROWLEY.”

“Err.” A faint noise of acknowledgment sounded at the back of the demon’s throat as he eyed the static that danced across the television screen, playing with the features of the news reporter and occasionally causing his expression to twitch into a wicked smile.

Well hang on, Brexit hasn’t actually been completed yet. Wasn’t this a little early for a commendation?

“YOUR EFFORTS TO CORRUPT OUR ENEMY FROM THE INSIDE OUT HAVE BEEN RECOGNISED, CROWLEY.”

Crowley squinted. Perhaps this wasn’t to do with Brexit.

“WHILST MY DUKES AND BARONESSES HAVE SECURED ME SOULS OF THE MORAL KIND, YOU HAVE EXCEEDED EVEN THEIR WORK, CROWLEY.”

A thin sheen of sweat began to creep across Crowley’s forehead.

“HEAVEN HAVE INFORMED ME THAT THE NECESSARY PAPERWORK WILL BE COMPLETED SHORTLY, CROWLEY. THE ANGEL OF THE EASTERN GATE IS OURS AND IT’S ALL THANKS TO YOU, CROWLEY. HE WILL BE COLLECTED SHORTLY FOR THE PROCESS TO BEGIN. YOU HAVE ACHIEVED THE UNACHIEVABLE, CROWLEY. AND

YOU

WILL BE

R̸̨̛͙̱̙̭͐́̐͗͝ Ẹ̴͍̼͎͉̩̫̝͙̮͖̣̪̪͈͑́ Ẃ̸̗͍̼͐̀̄̀ Ḁ̶̞͇̒͐̒̽̊͌́̅̽̊̌͘͝͝͝ Ṟ̸̡̡̜͕͎͚̮̲͇̼̥̗̀̒̍̍ͅ D̸̛͎̗̅̅̎̆̈͆̽̌̕͜ È̸̛͙͉͙̣̯̦̤̤̭̯͋͐͂͗̎͑͘͘ D̶̡̖͕̦͙͚̮̻͎͖̼̰̤͋͆́̈͒̎̄ “  

“…Thank you, lord.” Crowley breathed. His voice almost as numb as the news reporter’s.

A horrified sinking sensation bored its way through him.

How?

What had taken place in recent history to justify such a vast overreaction from heaven?

Deep down, a part of Crowley felt he knew. Along with the mounting fear, there kindled a deep, unforgotten hatred. A hatred towards the ones who had likely come to this decision. The ones who were about to enact a ritual of such pain, hurt and humiliation it had stripped away the very essence of every angel that survived it.

A thought stuck in Crowley’s mind as the television flickered back to life and the reporter began drawling on about referendums and deals once more.

They were coming to collect Aziraphale.

Scenes of the bookshop engulfed in flame flashed back into the demon’s head. He scrambled out of the flat as though it had been doused in holy water. Like a bat out of hell. Or like one whom had the fear of God put into them. The latter would be the most accurate.

Half-throwing himself into the Bentley, Crowley set himself hurtling towards the first place he knew the angel would be. With the help of breakneck speeds, tactically willing traffic lights, officers and pedestrians out of the way, Crowley worked to slice his journey down to a mere fraction of what it should have been.

“Call Aziraphale.” A wracked voice that hardly sounded like his own demanded.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Until an automated voice ended the call after a redundant offer to leave a message. With a snarl Crowley smacked the steering wheel.

“CALL. AZIRAPHALE.” The phone shuddered.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Nothing.

Faster than should have realistically been possible, the Bentley pulled up by the bookshop. No fire. At least not visibly. Ignoring the ‘Sorry, we’re closed!’ sign and the locks, Crowley entered. The entire bookshop radiated the essence of Aziraphale- every corner was so thoroughly steeped in love and many cared-for volumes that it felt as though he was always there even on the occasions where he was absent.

“AZIRAPHALE!” He couldn’t not shout. By this stage it was horrifically urgent.

“AZIRAPHALE YOU BASTARD DON’T DO THIS TO ME AGAIN.” Crowley’s voice shattered mid-roar. Saving little time, he tore into the back room, growing frantic. Snake-like eyes bolted across the room for the sign of anything that appeared remotely out of place. The sign of a struggle. Anything.

“WHERE ARE YOU!?”

“IT CAN’T HAVE HAPPENED YET!” Desperation twisted his tone upward.

After pacing the shop a good number of times, Crowley fell to his knees atop the thread-bare carpet that covered a neatly-drawn chalk circle. He wasn’t supposed to be in such proximity to it. But it hardly mattered now. Golden eyes lifted, pleading skyward for someone, anyone, anything- some divine voice that had cast him aside only just after time began- to listen.

“YOU CAN’T DO THIS!

HE’S—

HE’S GOING TO LOSE EVERYTHING AND IT’S ALL MY FAULT!

I’M THE ONE YOU SHOULD BE HURTING! NOT HIM! HE’S GOOD, KIND, FORGIVING—NONE OF THE BAD STUFF WAS HIM! WHY DO YOU PREACH FORGIVENESS BUT NEVER PRACTICE IT? YOU’RE GOING TO BE THE REASON THERE ARE NO GOOD THINGS LEFT!”

A series of deep, ragged pants stole Crowley’s words away. No reply.

They never replied.

Frustration spurned him back into motion. Although a dawning part of Crowley knew that if Aziraphale was not in the bookshop and failing to answer his phone, he was too late. But abandoning the search was unimaginable. He had to find him.

In a series of stray attempts to locate the angel’s aura, Crowley simply found himself stumbling upon various places they had met over the previous two weeks: places that had been touched by the angel’s aura. Restaurants, cafes, The British Museum and Hyde Park. Two hours later, Crowley returned to his flat, soaked through from his attempt to battle the rain on his hunt. Outside, thunder and lightning continued their violent dance. He had not given up, but a grim realisation had presented itself to Crowley: now that he had exhausted his most likely options (and checked the bookshop once more for good measure), it would make sense to reconvene, dry off and attempt to focus somewhere more quiet in order to tap in to Aziraphale’s energy.

It was difficult to not feel defeated as he scaled the stairs to the flat. Once entering, Crowley kicked off his sodden shoes. With a wave of his hand, the rainwater vanished from his clothes, leaving the only evidence of his trip outside in the mop of sodden auburn hair atop of his head. After a couple of steps, Crowley stilled.

‘Thanks very much and hello! Welcome to The Chase, tonight four celebrities will be raising money for a charity of their choice. Hello, yes, welcome to the show Ian,’

That’s strange.

He hadn’t left the television on when he’d left.

Warily, Crowley began to slink towards the living room. A familiar shape sat on the sofa. No-less tense, Crowley edged over the threshold. He didn’t need to see Aziraphale’s face to know he was too late. At Crowley’s presence the television flickered, blinked, and switched itself off.

“Angel…” The word dripped painfully from his mouth, thoughtless in the very moment of things.  

Not anymore…

Resignation swept over the demon as he rounded the sofa to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale’s face. It was too late. There was no undoing such an act. Hopeless guilt writhed across Crowley’s features as he inched closer, not quite knowing what one says to someone who falls and does not mean to. Crowley had been in the minority in that sense (and nobody had offered him any words of assurance when the day of his fall had taken place).

“What have they done to you?” A mournful whisper encapsulated Crowley’s words as he uttered them. Golden eyes drank in the extent of the damage. With great care to be gentle a finger extended to run reverently along a coal-black feather. Oh, the world was wicked.

It was unjust.

But never quite so much as those who had created it all.

(( @gaily-gavotte ))

[judeonthemove]

Livin' La Vida Locomotive

I'm not sure why I expected Ecuador to be a bit less developed than Peru, but I did and it isn't. The niceness of Baños wasn't an anomaly, which has been handy considering we'd discussed treating this month as more of a holiday. For our wedding anniversary we treated each other to some time apart and I went off to investigate the eponymous thermal baths of Baños. I jest of course, but the longest we've been out of each other's sight in nine months was just under four hours when I climbed Sydney Harbour Bridge. This is not natural by anyone's standards.

For those of you who've had the pleasure of visiting the Thermae Spa in Bath, you need to clear your mind of that image. Baños baths are an altogether more basic proposition of four outdoor pools: one clear and cold, and three murky ones at the Goldiloocks temperatures of tepid, hot and cauldron. The hot water comes courtesy of the nearby volcano Tungurahua, while the cold water arrives direct from the waterfall above. $3 gets you an entry ticket and compulsory natty pink swim hat, but no instructions. I stared cluelessly at the watery chaos for a minute, a symphony of concrete cancer and trip hazards, before throwing my things in a crate and finding what seemed to be the right place to leave them. I also stared at the hole on the lower level, empty save for a woman with a broom. One of the pools was closed, but which one? Getting to work with the remaining three I soon rejected the tepid pool as it was essentially children soup. I'd been looking forward to the challenge of the cauldron, but of course it was that one that was closed. That left me with cold and hot, so I concentrated on maximising the difference. In addition to the cold pool were a set of cascade showers fed from a pipe inserted into the waterfall. Most of the locals were avoiding the cold water completely, or tricking each other into standing under it and laughing at the screams. As the only gringo woman in the place I was pretty conspicuous as the person who actually seemed to enjoy the freezing inundation. After a couple of hours I was fully pruned up and couldn't justify waiting another two hours for the super hot pool to fill. I squelched back in the drizzle to make myself presentable.

We had a look at the museum attached to the cathedral, which featured a great display of pre-Colombian pieces, some unbrilliant art, the extensive wardrobe of the local Virgen figurine, and a hilariously creepy room full of taxidermy, religious art, toy vehicles and typewriters. I never need to see the stations of the cross juxtaposed with poorly stuffed pumas ever again. In keeping with the Alpine flavour of the area, we went for dinner at a Swiss restaurant, where I promptly mixed up stroganoff and goulash and ordered the wrong dinner. What a numpty.

Another emerging feature of Ecuador has been the predictable and efficient bus system. Everything's clearly marked and they leave on time. Most of the long distance buses, regardless of the operator, cost about $1-1.5 per hour so you can have a reasonable guess as to when you're going to arrive. With Ecuador being a compact gem of a country, there weren't going to be any arduous legs. Two or three hours up the road was Riobamba. We were due to stay a couple of nights in order to play on the restored train line. What our guidebook failed to mention was that since it was published, they've changed the schedules and the daily train now runs from a town two hours further away. Whoops. We had no trouble entertaining ourselves in Riobamba and had a well timed visit to the city museum and gallery, while an orchestra rehearsed below. Having not heard any orchestral music since Australia, the sound brought a grin to my face and a tear to my eye. The snowy peak of volcano Chimborazo emerged from its cloud shrouds to loom in proprietary fashion over the city. Back at our hostal, the owners' confident small daughter assailed us with an incomprehensible monologue and barrage of questions and/or instructions that we were incapable of responding to. Bored of rearranging piles of unread Gideon bibles among the pot plants and fed up with my refusal to biro in them on command, she hid our room key and hit us both on the head with a stick. Highly entertaining but nevertheless a great reminder of why we don't have kids.

Alausi is a little town with a big claim to railway fame. Halfway down the newly restored Quito to Guayaquil line, it sits above La Nariz del Diablo (The Devil's Nose). I'm very partial to an epic train journey, and what this lacked in length it certainly made up for in engineering and sheer bloody-mindedness. Around two thousand men died to create 12kms of switchback track, descending an 800m rock face. We arrived in town and were most joyful to find that the train tracks ran up the middle of the street we were staying on. A couple of hours later and we were ensconced in a classic wooden carriage, slowly making our way down a cliff. My camera chose this moment to start malfunctioning with a blank screen, leaving me pressing the button and hoping for the best. As this is basically the extent of my photographic skill anyway, it didn't make a great deal of difference to the results. At the bottom was a little station with retail opportunities and a couple of horses and llamas to be used as photo props. The horses looked very much over it, but the llamas had some spirit left and concentrated on being noncompliant. We hid from the souvenir frenzy, but I got drawn in when the traditional dance display took a turn for the interactive. James stayed safely on the side-lines, in charge of incriminating pictures. Back in Alausi we checked into our lodgings and discovered that even the glowing reviews had not prepared us for how nice a hostal it was. Brand new contemporary styling, spotlessly clean, delicious breakfast, and with a massive comfy bed. I immediately declared that I was to be transported around Ecuador in said bed from then on, and it was with some regret that we moved on after one night. Rough calculations told us we had time to get to everywhere we wanted to see, but only if we kept rolling.

The route to the city of Cuenca assailed us with more handsome scenery than is seemly, scrolling down in scale through Alpine, Scottish Highlands, and Lake District. In a clear contrast to previous countries we've visited, there don't seem to be Inca-style terraces here. No matter how steep, the fields follow the line of the hills and are separated by shrubs or trees. The result is a verdant cornucopia of produce and a very different look to the countryside. The southern city of Cuenca was elegant and cultured, and we'd hoped our hostal with integral bar-restaurant would make for a lively weekend base. The hitch in this otherwise sound plan was the profoundly intrusive noise bleeding into all the bedrooms. We were prepared for the late night music, and indeed made good use of happy hour and the tasty menu on offer. What was less manageable was the 6am pounding rock wake up call. I shambled, incredulous, into the restaurant area to find the source was actually next door. A staff member told me with a shrug that their neighbour did it every day. And he did. Clearly there was some beef going on, resulting in the hostal guests being tortured with a sleep deprivation spit roasting. On the second night we coped by playing our own loud music which worked really well and still couldn’t be heard by the other guests over the general din. There is music everywhere in Ecuador, but the ‘80's and ‘90's pop and rock fetish of the rest of South America is not such a thing here. As such I have had withdrawal symptoms from the tracks we've heard most days since May, and James kindly downloaded Alphaville’s ‘Big In Japan’ to help with my DTs. I invite you to join me in my obsessive earworm: https://youtu.be/tl6u2NASUzU. Five hour sleep window notwithstanding, Cuenca itself lived up to its Unesco hype with beautiful colonial architecture, galleries and museums. A riverside walk took us further out to the suburbs. Cuenca was clearly one of the wealthiest places we'd been in months, as suggested by the number of aesthetic dentists, gyms and plush interior design studios. Strikingly as we left, our bus drove for miles before we saw anything like the simple breeze block and wood homes we've been accustomed to seeing.

Our flying visit to Ecuador's second city, Guayaquil, was achieved thanks to a stunning bus trip up and over the Parque Nacional Cajas. Sat on the continental divide with roads winding up over 4300m the first couple of hours was textbook glaciated landscapes of u-shaped valleys and interconnected lakes. My geography teachers might have despaired at my sixth-form attendance rate, but they did instil an absolute love of this stuff. Pine trees and eucalypts gave way to a tight, spongy carpet of mosses and tough grasses as we ascended into the clouds. With ears popping, our water filter bottles leaking under the pressure strain, and the inevitable altitude cough, I tried to make a mental note to be ginger with my deodorant. Every time we do this I forget, and end up with an unfortunate looking cream explosion in my armpit the first time I dislodge the roller ball. I forgot yet again of course, because travelling turns you into an in-the-moment goldfish brain. A brief stop at the top with the mists rolling and burning off in the ravines below allowed the poor bus a bit of a breather. Heading off again, we must have passed through some magic geography portal as we were straight into lush cloud forest. A great deal of down was followed quite suddenly by dead flat as we proceeded across to the coast. Acre upon acre of cacao, banana and pineapple plantations baked in the sun.

Guayaquil itself was a thriving, sprawling port city and we had one and a half days to get acquainted. We focused our efforts on a park full of iguanas, the expansive riverside promenade, the excellent free museums and galleries, and a pretty hillside neighbourhood topped with a stripy lighthouse. Our cheap as chips flophouse next to a main road was still quieter than the aesthetically pleasing but acoustically offensive hostal we'd had in Cuenca. The modern art gallery had an extensive ethnographic section and we became mesmerised by a documentary about a group of men who sailed from Ecuador to Australia on traditional balsa wood rafts. We sat there for over an hour, prompting a security guard to come looking for their missing in action visitors. When you essentially don't have anywhere to live, there's a risk of being in constant motion. Just sitting in a quiet place, and getting immersed in something can be a real treat. Guayaquil was our gateway to the beach, so off we went again. The scenery may have been unprepossessing barren-looking sand and gravel, but it showcased the quality of the highway. Uniquely among the South American countries we've visited, across Ecuador there are subtle hints of coherent government planning and investment. From the ubiquitous rainbow branding onwards, there is a feeling of continuity despite the radically different terrains of the forest, mountains and coast. The excellent road and bridge system is one of the most obvious indicators of massive infrastructure spending, but it's also there in the schools, healthcare facilities, emergency services provision, free museums and public spaces. It seems to connect the country without homogenising. It feels lovely to visit, and I hope that translates into the experience of actually living here as Ecuador recovers from the financial troubles of the recent past.

The highway wasted no time delivering us to tiny Oloncito. Unlike most of the Pacific coast of South America, Ecuador is blessed with inviting sandy beaches so this was the first opportunity for a sea swim in four months. I say swim, but the water was really more suited to surfers, so jumping around trying not to get knocked flat by waves is probably a more apt description. Our hostal was one of those quirky labours of love, set in a tropical garden with lots of knick-knacks, hammocks, great carpentry, and inventive use of concrete. Unusually, the building we were staying in was complete, but more typically one of the others was a work in progress and another had been left with the classic concrete uprights and sprouting steel reinforcements look. Imagined but never realised upper floors are the quintessential South American building practice. We were the sole guests, which suited us just fine. Down with another cold, I took the opportunity of spending a day with nothing more pressing to do but nap. Suitably rested, we spent the next day walking on the beach, chaperoned by the resident dog Dixie. Like most of the numerous dogs in these parts, Dixie was nominally owned but free to do as he pleased. What pleased Dixie was accompanying guests wherever they went, so he'd been for lunch at a beach cabaña, showed us round Olon, and now came miles up the beach. Dixie busied himself inspecting all the corpses of huge sea birds, puffer fish, and a big turtle. Nervy orange crabs scattered as we approached, flitting into holes in the sand. We turned round as the tide reached the top of the beach, and Dixie spent the return journey accelerating wildly into the surf chasing birds. I don't spend much time with dogs and am not generally a fan, but it was a great pleasure and entertainment to be in Dixie's company. Fully in holiday mode we committed the evening to good food and sangria.

Our nine month travelling anniversary saw us reluctantly crowbarring ourselves out of Oloncito and moving a not too challenging hour up the road to Puerto Lopez. Having found our brick and bamboo hut at the northern end of the tourist town, we alighted upon a seafood restaurant for lunch. Said restaurant had a resident floofy cat and we required little persuasion (read none) to share our laps and food. I have no poker face when it comes to cats anyway, but my desperation for mog company is utterly shameless now. Puerto Lopez was well stocked with felines so there was plenty of chances for a fuss. The sea off Puerto Lopez was well stocked with whales, another fluky bit of timing on our part. The obligatory boaty day trip took us out to sea and for a visit to Isla de la Plata. We'd been given a 100% guarantee of seeing whales, which boded well, but we tried to manage our expectations. An hour off the coast and there were humpback whales everywhere. The helm did a great job of manoeuvring into good positions so we could watch these magnificent creatures sliding through the water. I'm not sure you'd ever tire of whale tail salutes. Moving on, we visited the island for a couple of hours hiking and bird watching for nesting blue-footed boobies and frigate birds. I'm not sure you'd ever tire of the amusement of hearing the word ‘boobies' repeatedly. The birds were entirely unfazed by the visitors admiring their big turquoise feet and fluffy chicks. Turtles had surrounded the boat when we arrived, and afterwards we went round to a bay for snorkelling and general coral and fish wonderment.

Much as it would have been nice to tarry by the sea, we bid our final farewell to the Pacific and embarked on a ten hour, three bus slog into the mountains. Although a long day, it all went very smoothly and we had the entertainment of passing through the marvellously named Jipijapa on the way. It was only over the last couple of hours that we gained altitude, but once the climb began it did not muck about. Sunset found us above the clouds, like a duvet of pink candy floss, before the bus picked its way across to Zumbahua in the dark. Chucked off on the highway, we zig-zagged down into the almost deserted town and found a bed for the night on the square. Finding any tea was a little tricky as the only clearly advertised restaurant wasn't serving. Next door, in what looked like someone's tiny front room were four tables and a lady serving a great value set menu. Starving, we gratefully dug into the soup, chicken and refreshing chicha morada (purple corn drink) before heading to bed. Morning revealed Zumbahua to be no more busy by day, but we found a corner cafe where another lovely indigenous lady conjured up everything she had on offer for breakfast: pastries, chicken and rice, boiled eggs, juice, tea and coffee. It was a good job she did, as it would be twelve hours before we had anything else.

Zumbahua sits on what is known as the Quilotoa Loop, a multi-day Andean hiking route. Quilotoa itself is a volcano and while we were too time strapped for the full loop, we were keen to visit there. Waddling away from breakfast we caught a lift up the road. Quilotoa village appeared to have had a very recent and very comprehensive redevelopment, resulting in something of a The Prisoner does Middle Earth vibe. There was little going on, which served to heighten the undeniable presence of the rim. Picking our way in slightly the wrong direction through a stony car park and building site, we found the main viewing area. It was, exactly as advertised yet still difficult to believe, a ruddy great volcano crater lake. So we stood there admiring it, both starting to wonder what else we were going to do with our day. Well there was a path...and maybe we could walk round the rim for a bit...and well we're at least a third of the way round now and that high bit over there looks just about manageable...

Seven hours later we were chasing the sunset back into Quilotoa, James just about still with a spring in his step, and I with legs of jelly and lead. Sometimes you really question your own sanity. Our circumnavigation had been quite a scramble round the narrow ridge, on a path primarily featuring powdered granite. Asthma plus my latest cold did me no favours whatever, and we realised part way round that this was the highest elevation yet that we’d done vigorous exercise at. The high bit reliably informed us it was 3930m, which I appreciated from my position sprawled on the ground under the sign. You certainly value your views when you've worked for them. Vast rolling mountain landscape surrounded us, striped with fields and rent with canyons. Vibrant flowers, grasses and heather-like shrubs softened the vertiginous drops on both sides. Intermittent clouds behaved themselves but painted the lake a steely emerald. Pine and the woody scent of burned stubble filled the air around the crunchy path. Given that my dodgy knees make me less mountain goat and more Professor Yaffle on slopes, it wasn't the most elegant or proficient descent. Content that we had done the volcano justice, we negotiated a lift back to Zumbahua, squished in the front seat of a pickup. Evidently, Tuesday nights in Zumbahua are even quieter than Mondays, so we had to content ourselves with a beer, then crisps and chocolate for dinner, from one of the very local local shops.

A chilly, sunny day greeted us as we exited our guesthouse the next morning. A sheep trotted across the deserted square. We eschewed the chance of fried fish for breakfast and went straight up to the highway to wait for the bus. The bus was already there so it all proved mightily efficient. A couple more hours of gorgeous mountain scenes, with occasional llama spottings and a good workout for the brakes, and we were down in Latacunga. There was no particular reason for us to visit this city near Cotapaxi volcano, but it seemed like a sensible stop on route to the north. We found somewhere to stay and were pleasantly surprised to be overlooking the main square. The rest of the day involved eating and TV, which was just what was required. Evening entertainment came courtesy of an aerobics flashmob in the square, and the sight of a group of nuns enjoying a night out at the pizzeria, sitting below a large poster of the Vatican.

We bid farewell to Latacunga and set off for Mindo, a journey involving a bus to Quito, traversing the length of the capital from southern to northern bus terminals, and then another bus. Cloud cover blocked the potential view of Cotapaxi as we sped through the self-explanatory Volcano Alley. Quito snuck up quickly, but due to it's position in a twisty valley, there was no big reveal moment. The southern bus terminal was all gleaming airport-style modernity as we transited through to one of the cross-city bendy buses. Warnings about crowding and theft risk came to naught and we made it two thirds of the way up town before being turfed off and directed to another stop on a different line. Arriving at the northern terminal we needed, we were feeling pretty smug about being in time for the one o'clock bus to Mindo. The lady selling tickets, however, was not so confident. Our transactional Spanish has developed to the point where we can ask for things, which is fine as long as those things are available and the person doesn't really have to say anything to us in response. This was not one of those times. The one o'clock wasn't going to happen, but we had no idea why. Baffled by my blank face, the woman borrowed my phrasebook and managed “the way is closed”. This wasn't particularly enlightening so I gave up and had a grumpy, helpless sit down. James successfully procured tickets for the four o'clock and we sat for three and a half hours, contemplating the meaning of her gnomic proclamation. Later, sitting in traffic so bad that the driver turned off the engine and got out of the bus, we had some idea of what she might have referred to. As we were just five hundred metres short of the equator, James posited that there had probably been a pile-up caused as all the vehicles turned the right way up for the northern hemisphere. We never did figure it out, but the road cleared, we took our latitude screenshots and the bus clambered off into the cloud forest in the failing light. It would have been a beautiful journey...on the one o'clock bus. Four hours later than expected, and after James narrowly avoided starting a barney with a nun as we tried to get off the bus, a nice cold beer was the only way to say hello to Mindo.

The morning brought hummingbirds and a large group of young Americans to our hostal. There's nothing like vocal fry grating around a hammock attic to cut through a lie-in. The hummingbirds however, were delightful, flitting and chirruping around. In the light of day, Mindo was revealed as a pretty little hippy town sitting in a bowl of forested hills. With only one road out, all other paved thoroughfares ended abruptly in trees, and were liberally decorated with snoozing dogs. We had a nice lazy day pottering around and avoiding the inevitable cloud forest rain. When choosing our accommodation we’d narrowed it down to two, both the same sort of price, and both with resident cats mentioned in the reviews (I told you it was bad), but plumped for the one with the great chill out area. The cat, a spirited little ginger, appeared when it rained and stood on my shoulders for a few minutes when I picked it up. The hostal owners didn't know what its name was or even if it had one, so we really weren't sure who had adopted who. We had vowed to be more active the next day, so set off in a cab up the mountain to the tarabita cable car. The cable car involved an open cage powered by a car engine. This led into a series of gorges full of prehistoric-looking plants, and waterfalls where you were encouraged to swim. An hour of steep forest paths later and we were at the top of a flight of waterfalls. James waited patiently as I insisted in swimming in each one on the way down. I became more soggy, dishevelled and excitable, until we ran out of waterfalls and hiked up to the cable car and back down the mountain. Needing to secure bus tickets for the next day, we went back via the high street, which involved passing the other hostal we'd considered. Surely we wouldn't happen upon Felipe, cat of Booking.com review fame. Of course we would! Felipe turned out to be a super-sociable ginger who fairly demanded a through belly rub. Mindo was full of cats, including at one of the general stores where we spied one nestled among the bananas. After a thorough shower, Saturday night proceeded in pizza and cocktails fashion.

Despite the excellent distracting cat action, we had managed to procure bus tickets, so it was off to Otavalo via the bus stations of northern Quito. Sunday traffic made this pleasingly straightforward and we were quickly through the city and heading north across the equator again. The seemingly brand new highway entered a huge, complicated valley which had been carved up and sprayed with more concrete than I've ever seen. The engineering involved was both shocking and impressive. We wound through the crumbly, cactus strewn mountains, chased by angry clouds and beat the rain to Otavalo. And here we are, in a third floor corner room with full on volcano panorama view. We've seen and done so much in Ecuador that it's exhausting just trying to remember it all. Only two weeks left now. We've gotta keep on keepin’ on!