#i did flick through the drafts of chapters 1+2 again and done a little more school story notes but

[jichanxo]

can someone else write senseific for me instead? this is too hard :( /jk

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart (Chapter 6) Human!Alastor x Married!Reader

Rated Adult Chapter Trigger Warnings: Alastor is a little shit. Acts of domestic violence

AN: Reminder- Fridays are our new update days. Comments and reblogs are the lifeblood of fics, please consider dropping a love note and let me know if you want on the tag list!

Now with Audio, read by the lovely Nyx of Nyx Productions! Chapter 6: Part 1, Part 2.

Masterlist AO3 KoFi

“What were you doing with him?” Laurence’s hand wrapped around your upper arm as he crowded your space. His voice came out as a low hiss, promising violence later as his grip became painfully tight. 

“Nothing.” You shrank under his hands. “He said you were drafting the contract. Nothing happened. He just lifted the kettle for me. I swear.” 

“You’re a lucky man, Laurence!” Alastor’s voice carried easily through the house. “Your wife’s cooking smells simply divine. Homemade bread too? I’d be a fat man if I had a wife like her at home to feed me. I can see why your pants are as wide as they are!” 

Laurance’s hands fell from your arms as he turned to face the guest, stepping again into your kitchen like it was his own. Alastor only glanced at the both of you, eyes running over you for longer than you were comfortable, before flicking up to Laurance. 

“She keeps me well fed,” Laurence said tensely, grip on your waist tightening as you tried to smile instead of grimace. 

“I can see that!” Alastor laughed, picking up the plater of roast beef. “I simply couldn’t focus on watching you tippity type on that typewriter with the lovely smell from the kitchen. Your restraint is admirable.”

“It’s really nothing special,” you felt off balance. Far too much of the attention was on you for a business dinner your husband was hosting. It was wrong. 

“Oh, but it is!” Alastor lingered in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, pot roast in hand. “If it hadn’t been for the lovely aromas pulling me down to the kitchen, however would you have gotten the kettle off the stove? It didn’t look like anyone else was going to come to your rescue!”

Alastor served the food, making a fuss about how you had done all the hard work of cooking it and the least the men folk could do was dish it up in exchange. You did not know how to deny him as you lingered off to the side, twisting your hands together as you watched. Laurence’s eyes burned into you as Alastor scooped beef and gravy into your dish, continuing to sing your praises as he gave you a healthy serving. 

Your husband was itching to say you didn’t need the hearty helping you were being given. He wanted to protest against the sweet butter Alastor slathered on your bread for you. Laurence wouldn’t be pleased if you put on weight, but there was nothing you or he could say to stop Alastor and you were so hungry. 

Part of you didn’t want to stop him. You focused your attention on pouring wine for the table, trying to ignore the fact that it felt more like you and Alastor had been the hosts of this lovely little dinner party. It was a strange thought, one that had no place in your head. With a shake of your head, you tried to banish the thought as you stood to Laurence’s side, next to the chair he sat in as you poured his wine. 

“Everything alright, darling?” Alastor called from where he served his own food. Laurence’s dish continued to remain empty. 

You startled under the attention, “Just a hair tickling my cheek, I’m afraid. Nothing to worry about.” 

“Off those feet, dear.” Alastor pulled your chair out for you as you motioned to fill Laurence’s still empty dish. 

“But I-”

“Nonsense!” Alastor laughed easily as you timidly sat, head down, while he scooted your chair to the table. You wanted nothing more than for the floor to swallow you whole. Whatever was going on, you couldn’t wrap your mind around it. The only thing you were sure of was the fact that you would pay for how this dinner had gone already. 

Alastor took his seat across from you as Laurence served himself for what you thought may have been the first time in his life. He was unskilled, gravy spilling onto the tablecloth and vegetables landing with a plop. 

Cutlery scraped and clanked against dishes as everyone ate in a tense silence. Laurence seethed, wanting Alastor out of the house. He couldn’t force the guest out before the contract was signed and money passed hands. The only person who seemed at ease at the dinner table was Alastor himself. 

Someone needed to say something. 

“Mr. Moreau,” you started only to get cut off by Alastor, reminding you again that it was his given name for you to use and he would take nothing else. You gave in with a soft smile as Laurence’s forced smile twitched. “Alastor then. How do you know Laurence?” 

“Business,” Laurence answered quickly. One tense word was all he gave you. 

“Oh,” the one-word answers every time you tried to open the doors to dinner conversation discouraged you. Laurence was clearly unhappy. Dinner was going poorly, and you were sure somehow it was your fault. 

“Our lines of business rarely cross.” Alastor offered, “I’m simply providing some financial backing for his latest endeavor.” 

“And what is your line of business?” You asked before you thought twice, eager to at least have Alastor talking and hopeful that he would pull your husband into conversation. Then you could fade out and be forgotten about like a good wife. 

Laurence kicked you under the table, making you realize that you and Alastor were having too much of a conversation between yourselves for his liking, though the conversation had only really just begun. 

“I work in radio!” Alastor’s smile grew wide, full of white teeth and pride. “Perhaps you’ve heard my show? We recently shifted time slots since it’s been rather well received and now, dare I say, it’s really taking off.”

“That’s where I know-” 

“We don’t listen to much radio.” Laurence said, cutting you off. “We should get the papers signed. It’s getting late.” He slid the papers and a pen across the table to Alastor, who was making a show of looking at his watch, eyebrow raised at the fairly early hour. 

Alastor’s eyes returned to you, where they lingered as he pulled the papers Laurence slid to him closer. You only felt like you could breathe again when he looked down and signed his name in places as he flipped through and read each page. As he leaned to the side, you glanced at Laurence. 

Your husband had his eyes locked on you as papers shuffled through Alastor’s hands. Laurence only looked from you when Alastor slid half the papers back to him, a small stack of twenty-dollar bills sitting on top signifying a deal closed. 

It was more money than you had ever seen and it passed hands in front of you as if it was nothing. You hadn’t expected the business conducted in your home over dinner to involve such high dollar amounts. 

No wonder Laurence had been so stressed! You were thankful it was done. Perhaps now things would settle down and Laurence would relax, but as you looked between the two men, you doubted it. The tension in the air seemed to only grow. 

At least the deal was done. 

It felt like liquid lead had settled in your stomach as you mechanically lifted Alastor’s coat for him. All dinner, Alastor sent thinly veiled barbs at your husband and paid you far too much attention. Having the paperwork signed did nothing to ease the tension between the two men. If anything, it seemed to only get worse. 

When the topic of the dessert was raised, Laurence was quick to write it off. You had made a pie but Alastor was fed the lie that it had burned. It was black and crispy, not salvageable according to your husband. He had bemoaned how you could cook a good meal but how your baking skills needed refinement. Alastor was really being spared not having to choke it down. 

You knew the words were a lie, every one of them, but that didn’t stop the shame from burning in your throat or the way your eyes stung. There was so very little in life for you to cling to. All you had was the hope of being a good wife and, for his own benefit, your husband tore that image down too. 

Had Alastor noticed the pie sitting atop the breadbox in the kitchen? It wasn’t black or burned. It had come out of the oven looking rather nice, you had thought. 

If he had, he said nothing about it. You thought maybe he remembered seeing it though, with how he offered you a small smile that felt far too pointed and private for the open space of your great room. You hoped he did. 

It was proper that you help the guest into his coat. It was heavy enough that your bad arm sagged, shoulder screaming as you struggled to hold it up and open for him. Alastor made no comment on it as he slipped one arm into the sleeve, taking the weight off the pained shoulder quickly. He reached across his front and helped the other sleeve up his arm.

As soon as he straightened his coat, you stepped back and to your husband’s side. Laurence’s hand settled on your waist, fingers flexing one at a time, again and again against you. Little finger, ring finger, middle finger, index finger. Twitch, twitch, twitch. Again and again the twitches ran up your side. 

“It was a lovely dinner, Mrs. Latimer.” Alastor reached for your hand. 

You pulled away, but you couldn’t go far with Laurence’s arm around you. Alastor was faster anyway, snagging your hand in his. Much as he did when he introduced himself a few hours ago, he bent at the waist as he brought the back of your hand up to his lips. 

Having spent more time with him, having been exposed to his kindness and the rich tones of his voice for more than fleeting moments, this time the action affected you far more than it had the first time. 

Your hand trembled in his as his soft lips lingered on the back of it. Your face felt hot, and you had to remind yourself to breathe as you watched the way his long thick lashes fell against his cheek when his eyes closed. His eyes opened slowly, though his kiss drew on a few heartbeats longer. 

His lips left your skin as his head tilted up, warm brown eyes meeting your eyes. The moment seemed to last forever before he spoke, breath fanning over your hand in a way that felt strangely more intimate than anything you had done with your husband. 

“I thank you for an absolutely lovely dinner, Miss Latimer.” 

You needed to correct him, to remind him that it was Mrs. You were married. You had a husband. You belonged to someone. You couldn’t find the words to do so, couldn’t make your voice work as Laurence’s fingers continued twitching one at a time, up and down your hip.

“Thank you for coming,” Laurence said, his voice tight. Finally Alastor dropped your hand and straightened when Laurence put his hand out to shake. “I hope to continue to do business with you.” 

“Likewise,” the tendons in Alastor’s hand stood out as he squeezed Laurence’s hand in a quick but painful shake. “You have a lovely wife. Do take care to hold on to her.” 

The door clicked shut behind Alastor. The house instantly felt colder, emptier. It was so quiet you could hear the soft click of Alastor’s shoes against the concrete walkway as he made his way off your property. 

You were scared, terrified to breathe as Laurence’s hand fell from your waist. It would start soon, you were sure of it. You didn’t know when, but you knew that tonight wasn’t going to be a good night for you. 

“What the fuck are you standing around for? Go fucking clean up from dinner.” 

“Yes, Laurence,” you flinched away at his booming tone before asking, hopeful to smoothe the night over, “Is there anything I can get you first? A drink?” 

You did not hum while you scrubbed dishes clean. You made as little noise as you could, hoping that maybe he would forget about you while you erased the evidence of the meal from your home. Maybe he would leave you alone. Maybe he would fall asleep. 

He had said his back was paining him as he stomped upstairs. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice you had taken some of his tincture. Sometimes when he took it, he simply went to sleep.

“Did you enjoy having our dinner guest over?” Laurence’s words were slurred as if his tongue was numb and too thick for his mouth. Did he take too much medication or did he have a few drinks? You were not sure and had no desire to get too close to him to find out. 

“He seemed nice enough,” you agreed carefully, setting the last dish on the dying rack before setting to work washing the kettle. 

At some point, Alastor had set it next to the sink for you, making it easy for you to clean up. Alastor had also been the one who gathered the dishes from the table, refusing to allow the woman who did the cooking to pick up after dinner as well. He had said that his mother had raised him too well to allow it. 

It had been a great help, allowing you to do most of the lifting one handed as you cleaned. You couldn’t convince yourself it was a coincidence. He had to have realized how much your shoulder was paining you and done it to help. The idea made your heartbeat a little faster in both fear of what he knew and the rush of being seen. 

“You seemed to like him an awful lot.” Laurence bit out. That was how the night was going. “Are you fucking him?”

“Laurence,” you gasped out his name, outraged as you turned to him. “I don’t even know him. I would never run around on you, anyway. I know better. I am a married woman and even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be proper.” 

“Did you want him to? Fucking bend you over the counter and fuck you like a whore?” Laurence quickly crossed the kitchen, fist tangling in a handful of your hair and shoving your face forward. Your shoulder ached as you braced yourself against the sink with your hands. 

“Please,” you cried out as your forehead struck the faucet. 

“Did you beg him as prettily?” Laurance asked, hand grabbing at your ass. “Or did I come down in time?” 

“I swear,” tears dripped from your eyes into the dishwater, sending little ripples out that bubbles surfed on. It was strange the things your mind focused on in moments like this. The ripples didn’t have a chance to die out before Laurence threw you to the ground, the sound of fabric ripping was loud in your ears. 

Another dress ripped by his hands. Another crash to the floor. More harsh words. Marriage was work, your mother had always told you. Marriage was often painful. 

“Look what you did,” Laurence seethed. “Another fucking tailor bill. Can’t you at least fucking learn to mend clothes if you’re going to insist on making me rip them?”

“I’m sorry,” you choked out the words, “I’ll be more careful,” you promised, as if it wasn’t his hands on you that caused the rip. 

Your words did nothing to soothe him. He kicked you harshly, your body curling into the fetal position as pain radiated through you. Groaning, you curled into yourself tighter as you waited to see what would come next, hoping that if you made yourself small enough, he would have mercy on you. 

Tonight, having you on the floor groaning was enough for him. Instead of striking out again with his foot or pulling you from the ground, he simply loomed over you, ranting, screaming, face red. He called you a whore. He made you say you belonged to him. He called you a slut for any man’s attention. 

“Why the fuck would I spend money to power the rest of this damn house for a woman who’s going to fuck some two bit radio man?” Laurence’s poisonous words continued to fall over you. “You can’t even keep your fucking dresses in good condition.” 

You didn’t even know why he was angry about the electricity. You hadn’t asked for it to be finished in months. Instead of questioning it, you whimpered, “Yes, Laurence.” 

You waited, holding your breath, for his next move. Would it be another kick? More words? Would he pull you from the floor and do to you what he accused you of letting Alastor do? 

“Clean this shit up.” 

You laid on the floor, curled into a ball and cried. It had been a while since you cried, or at least it felt like it. You could just have forgotten when you had last cried, too. Time blurred together in a sea of pain. 

What was it like to be married to a man who didn’t hurt you? 

What sort of husband would Alastor be? He talked as if he had no wife at home and surely if he had one, he’d have brought her as was common. Was it by choice or was there something wrong with him? Closing your eyes, you let your mind drift. It was okay to drift for a bit, right?

Brown eyes looked up at you from a veil of thick lashes as your mind floated away.

Tag list in the comments

Next? Masterlist

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers!

[imnotwolverine]

The Accidental Family - Chapter 3

Henry Cavill x OFC multi-chapter

< Chap 2 | Chap 3 Is there a handbook to this? | Chap 4 >

Disclaimer: Fluff, some strong language

Word count: 2.080

Author’s note: I had a super fun online dinner with my in-laws yesterday. Me and my boyfriend cooked all the courses and had them sent out to everyone - we had a blast! I hope all of you dear readers are doing okay; I’m sending all my love to you! And..of course another chapter of this little series ❤️

(Link to my Masterlist)

--

‘Have fun tonight. And if it’s too much; take a break.’ The nurse shot Henry a warning glare before she stepped out of the door, Henry’s warm smile showing just how eager he was to send her out so he and Bee could get the house ready for the arrival of the kids.

THE KIDS. HOLY… The thought alone made his stomach jump in excitement and terror.

Clicking the door closed, he was met with the mildly worried gaze of Phoebe, her arms folded over her long sleeve shirt, long blond hair braided away from her face.

‘What?’ Henry gulped, thinking he had done something wrong.

But Phoebe just grinned, her lips curling in a smile. ‘I never thought I’d see a man this excited to learn he was the father of four kids..but here we are.’

‘Well, can’t back up now, can I?’

Phoebe let out a chuckle. ‘You bet your ass you can’t, Mr Cavill!’ But as the words escaped her lips, that all familiar agony moved over her face. ‘I mean. It’s okay, if it’s..not what you want. I mean, you can’t remember and..it’s a lot..and..’

‘Bee.’ Henry sighed. She was right to think this was a lot to take in. And he was looking at a long recovery time. Many patients changed after such a traumatic event. And even though he thought he had always wanted this, a family, it was like being hit by a train at full speed, the way he was thrown in a life he didn’t know how to live. He cleared his throat and stepped in closer, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip. ‘So, what do we do now?’

Phoebe sighed. ‘Well, they’re just here for a visit. But I thought we could make some tea and biscuits and..’

‘I’ll make the tea.’ Henry smiled.

‘Sure?’

‘That I am. Though I’m so sure on how I am to handle four kids.’

Phoebe stepped in and clasped a hand around his shoulder, squeezing it gently. ‘Two hours, that’s it. And if it’s too much, you just head upstairs and we’ll say you needed to sleep early - they’re familiar with that.’

Henry looked down at her hand on his shoulder, her fingers quickly letting go, thinking he disliked it. He took another deep breath and slowly nodded. ‘Any other..things?’

Phoebe shrugged and laughed. ‘Well. I don’t even know where to start.’

--

Henry was glad he was about 4 times the size of these four little monkeys, because by the time their shoes were removed and Kal was decorated with their scarves, Henry was next in line to be welcomed by their grabby hands which clung to him like they were a pack of little Koala bears.

Henry thought he had plenty of experience with his little nephews and nieces. But this sure was different. Tumbles of dark brown curls cascaded over mischievous pairs of blue eyes, the youngest one somehow the fastest of them all as he crawled around the living room as if possessed, little knees thudding on the floorboards.

‘DADDDYYYY.’ They all screamed, tugging at his clothes and starting different stories all at the same time, their eager hands begging for his attention as their eyes lit up with excitement.

There was the eldest, Sam, a shy 4 year old boy. There were the twins. A boy and girl, Max and Piper - a rowdy bunch, now 3 years old. And the youngest, 1 year old Cole, named after his granddaddy, the same granddaddy having opted for settling down in the reading chair in the corner as he waited for the storm to pass.

‘H-hi.’ Henry breathed, looking down at the bouncing heads of his kids, his hands awkwardly brushing over their curls.

‘Daddy! Daddy! Did you see my draw-things?! I made like,’ The little girl widened her arms. ‘THIS many.’

‘OH, did you now? That’s a lot.’

‘Yea, and granny helped! And we baked cookies and..’ - ‘Daddy, I need to go peepee!!!’

And then the youngest started to cry as he failed to get the attention he wanted, his bone wrenching, shrilly cries reverberating through the suddenly much too small living room. Henry looked in panic at Phoebe and his mom, who were looking at the situation in mild shock; maybe it had been a little too rash to introduce him to ALL the kids at once. But here they were. Clinging to him like it was just another Tuesday. Four monkey babies, excited to see their dad after what seemed like a lifetime in their short little lives.  

It took another fifteen minutes to somewhat calm the children, Henry having settled on a dining room chair as he watched the four pairs of blue eyes that stared back at him. The youngest had settled on Phoebe’s lap, his head rested on her slow breathing chest, and the twins had settled on the carpet, twiddling with the long strings of the rug as they nagged yet again that they were bored.

‘But I want my toys mommm.’ Piper nagged.

Next up was the youngest, who started to cry again, making Phoebe sigh in exasperation as she bounced him on her lap, before she decided it best to take a little walk, her slim legs walking out into the hallway, leaving Henry with the other three kids and his parents.

‘Are you my daddy?’ Sam frowned, sitting on the couch next to his grandma, large blue eyes studying the strangely familiar being that was Henry. Henry gulped at the boy’s question, his lack of knowledge of these children making the situation ever the more painful.

‘I eh..’ He frowned as he heard even louder crying coming from the kitchen, Phoebe trying her best to shush the crying babe. ‘I am.’

‘So why don’t you play with us?!’ Max exclaimed, falling down on his little back, hands stretching out to poke at his sister who growled like an annoyed little tiger cub.

‘MAAXXXX. Granny he’s doing it - OUCH - GRANNYYY.’

‘You two! Calm it, or you’ll go in time-out.’

‘But daddy is being weirdddd.’ Max protested, jutting out his lip.

‘But I’m still your daddy.’ Henry said, slowly crawling from his seat to settle down on the rug as well, his eyes searching the gaze of the twins, whose eyes immediately lit up - playtime? PLAYTIME!

‘So you’re going to play with us?’

‘HORSEYYYYY.’ Piper cheered, crawling out to Henry to tug on his sweater to climb up to his back. Henry, however, was quick to stop her, before she’d accidentally tug his hair and agitate his head wound.

‘DADDyyyy.’ She cried, fighting him as he settled her back on her bum. ‘But I wanna..’

‘Piper, hey, hey. Look at me.’ Henry’s voice got ever softer, the louder she cried, until finally her blue eyes opened again and she looked at him with a big, overexaggerated pout. ‘Daddy needs a little time. He, eh, was broken, and now needs to be fixed.’

‘I can fix you!’ Sam climbed off the couch and started to search for the toy box, immediately earning the attention of the twins who quickly rushed over to get a look in the treasure box.

‘YAAAYYYYYY.’

‘We’re gonna fix DADDY!!!!’  

The three of them all picked pieces of toys, their fast little feet managing to escape Colin, Henry’s father, as the old man tried to grab for their little hands. ‘OI, young lady! Do not, I repeat; do not..-’

His pleas fell on deaf ears as the three children all went for the kill, Henry barely managing to sit up on his haunches in time to defend himself from the vicious attack of three hyperactive children.

‘OUCH.’ He gasped, feeling the familiar hurt of a piece of Lego in his skin, his mind having a difficult time to process how again he used to deal with his nephews and nieces in situations like these - then again, he had been sharp and witty then, and now he struggled with remembering the fact he has a wife now.

And kids. Don’t forget about the kids.

‘Ohhhhhkay!’ Marianne chimed with a fierce and loud voice, her hands clapping together with a sternness that made all three kids look up. ‘I think that’s enough fixing for today. How about we go have a drink and some biscuits, hmm?’

‘BISCUITSSSSSS!!!’ Piper cheered again - it was clear that the little girl was a bubbly bee. Bee. Oh damn, Henry thought, crawling up to a standing position before he followed the children that were running out into the hallway to get to the kitchen, his parents hot on his heels.

‘You can take a rest if you want.’ His mother whispered, laying a soothing hand on Henry’s shoulder before he stepped into the kitchen. His blue eyes met with the wisdom that lingered in his mom’s smile.  

‘Sorry about that, mom.’ Henry sighed quietly.

‘No, no. Our fault, remember? Besides, it takes some time before you know how to deal with this hot bunch.’ She chuckled as she looked over Henry’s broad shoulder, the children jumping up and down around the kitchen island as Phoebe made an attempt to cool them down while she also bounced Cole up on her arm.

‘Don’t worry son.’ Colin squeezed Henry’s shoulder as Marianne also slipped into the kitchen. ‘No matter what happens, we’re here for you, mkay?’ The old man winked at Henry, who slowly shook his head.

‘Man, I wish they had a manual for this kinda stuff.’

Colin laughed. ‘If only, if only.’

The two men remained in the doorway as the women managed to calm down the children, the lot of them all being placed around the kitchen table before they were treated to freshly baked biscuits and a lot of mommy love.

It didn’t take long before the two hours were up and the kids were packed up back in Marianne and Colin’s car, Henry and Phoebe waving them goodbye with heavy hearts, but happy smiles. Small clouds of nightly cold drafted from their mouths as they turned back towards the door, a certain melancholy left in the house that was now silent again.

‘Don’t you want to..go with them?’ Henry asked quietly.

Phoebe looked up at him, the two of them now crowding the door mat as she pulled the door closed. ‘I miss a lot of things, but I need to be here with you now.’ A slightly sad smile moved up her lips.

‘You sure?’

‘Yea. For better and worse, remember?’ She laughed, only to feel that her choice words were awful, her breath hiccuping as she quickly evaded his gaze. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t nice of me.’

Henry sighed. ‘Please don’t feel bad. You’re the best mom I know..or..can remember.’ He smirked a little, but Phoebe didn’t seem to be so easily consolable. ‘Bee, hey.’ Henry used his thumb to tilt her head up, their eyes meeting. ‘I don’t know if this is crazy of me to ask, but, eh…’ He cleared his throat, feeling his heart falter at the concerned stare of her penetrating blue eyes. Had he failed her? Fuck. He licked his lips, unsure of whether to proceed.

‘What?’ She finally breathed, her voice a little croaky.

‘Oh, it’s stupid silly I guess.’ Henry moved his hand to his head to scratch, only to be caught by her hand, her eyes giving him a half-amused smile.

‘I told you to stop doing that.’

‘That you did,’ Henry hesitated again, before simply blurting out: ‘would you like to go on a date with me?’

A short silence fell as Phoebe’s eyes widened in something so unreadable that Henry wasn’t sure whether she was about to scold him or break out in laughter. And how glad he was it was the latter, her lips pulling up into a most amused little chuckle. ‘What now?’

‘A..date? Wait, has that word changed in the..?’

‘No, no. Dating is a thing. And..’ She now burst out into a full fit of giggles.

‘What?’

‘Well, we never really dated. We just..’ Her eyes widened.

‘What, Bee? Don’t leave me hanging here.’

‘No, no. I mean YES! I want to go on a date with you, though, eh, no, let’s talk about this later. It’s been a long day and..’ Her words died as she sniffled again, her hand now moving up to brush carefully through his chocolate brown curls. ‘I’d love to go on a date with you.’

--

Chap 4 >

--

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @mary-ann84 @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly @just-a-normal-fangirl18 @hell1129-blog @agniavateira​ @tillthelandslide @elinesama​

@ceilingfann @do-youseeme​

[stillbandofbrothersthirsty]

As Far As Friends Go

Chapter 17 (Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11; Chapter 12; Chapter 13; Chapter 14; Chapter 15; Chapter 16)

Emily - September - October 1944 Emily’s mind was with Nixon as she quietly crept down towards the kitchen. He had looked so disheveled wandering the halls like a madman. Emily worried that he was struggling to sleep again. She flicked on a small lamp just inside the kitchen. It provided enough light to guide the kettle. Within a moment Emily stood beside the stove waiting for the water to boil. She wanted to be careful to pull it off the burner just before it whistled. The last thing she wanted was to wake the entire house of officers before they left England for good.

A slight draft blew through the window panes just above the sink and Emily was glad she had thought to bring the tartan blanket from the foot of her bed. As she waited, she peered out the window expecting to see nothing but black. Emily imagined all the creatures that may be roaming about in the night. She had seen plenty of deer, rabbits, and even a few foxes since coming to Aldbourne. Instead of woodland animals, Emily made out the faint silhouette of someone sitting on the bench only a few yards from the manor. She squinted through the pane wondering if it was one of the officers. A speck of orange illuminated the raven night and Emily recognized the posture of the man smoking. She knew that figure, she had sat beside him for hours. Emily pulled the kettle off of the stove and filled two mugs. Clutching her blanket with one hand, Emily balanced the steaming mugs against her chest. The ceramics weren’t hot through the wool blanket but she walked quickly outside anyways, afraid the tea would cool once it hit the night air. “Hey Joe,” Emily approached Joe Toye, adjusting her grip on the mugs. It was chilly outside, but not so cold that the blanket wouldn’t suffice for warmth. The bench Joe sat on was perfect for over looking the low swooping valley below. Emily could smell the smoke from his cigarette who’s tip glowed each time he sucked at it. “Am I disturbing you?” She asked. “Emily, hey,” Joe hardly turned to look over her shoulder, “nah, take a seat.” Emily circled the bench and sat down beside him gazing off into the darkness. She held out one of the hot mugs, “tea?” she asked. Joe grimaced, but accepted the cup, “I don’t know why the tom’s are so moony over this stuff,” he said taking a tentative drink. Emily chuckled, “you don’t have to drink it.” “Eh it’s okay, thanks,” Joe flicked his cigarette to the ground. “So what’re you doing out here?” Emily asked. “I don’t know, just couldn’t sleep.” “Feeling anxious about tomorrow?” Emily kept her voice gentle. Something about Joe allowed her to immediately let her guard down. She felt totally comfortable around him but that didn’t mean he was comfortable around her. “A little bit, I don’t know.” “That’s reasonable to feel that way,” Emily said. She didn’t want to push him. Joe exhaled deeply. They sat in companionable silence for a while. A breeze rattled the leaves in the trees as if warning them of their fate. Emily much preferred the cold to the heat. She was perfectly content cocooned in her blanket with the cool air turning her cheeks red. “Would you call me a coward if I told you I was scared?” Joe’s voice was husky. Emily looked at him in surprise. “Not at all Joe! Not one bit.” Even in the dark Emily could see Joe’s Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “Is there something specific you’re worried about?” Emily asked gently. “I don’t wanna let anyone down,” Joe confessed into the night. “Joe, why would you say that? You’re not going to let anyone down. You’re one of the best soldiers in Easy Company.” Joe chuckled humorlessly, “I have a hard time believing that.” “It’s true,” Emily kept her voice low, “ask any guy here. You’re the one they want in their corner. You’re the one I want in my corner.” Emily wasn’t just saying that to make him feel better. She had gotten to know Joe well since Normandy and there were few people in the world she trusted more. Joe was the kind of guy who would be there for you without question. “Ugh,” Joe groaned. He ran a thick hand across his face. “Fuck. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing here, why I deserve to be with the best of the best.” Emily’s heart ached for him. She knew exactly how he was feeling. There were few feelings worse than doubting your own place. It was incredibly lonely. “Because you’re one of the best,” she said firmly. Joe laughed bitterly but otherwise accepted her compliment. “I honestly wonder what I’m doing here sometimes too,” Emily admitted. “Yeah?” Joe looked at her properly for the first time all night. “Yeah. I came over here a completely different person and now,” she shrugged, “now sometimes I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing.” “You’re the map girl,” Joe said matter-of-factly. Emily laughed, “oh is that what I am?” Joe allowed himself a little smile, “I mean that’s what we call you. That’s one of your nicknames at least.” Emily’s mouth dropped in mock shock, she was curious, “What? How did I not know I had nicknames! What else am I known by?” “You really wanna know?” “Yes!” “Mrs. Nixon.” A shiver ran through Emily’s body and her face grew hot. “Sorry if that embarrasses ya,” Joe said. “Why Mrs. Nixon?” Emily tried to keep her voice light. “You know there’s a real Mrs. Nixon right?” Joe shrugged, “yeah, but you’re like Captain Nixon’s work wife. You guys are always together workin’ on somethin’,” he said innocently. Emily’s muscles relaxed slightly at his explanation. “I prefer map girl,” she said. “Yeah me too, you got me all set up for Normandy.” “I’m glad you made it back,” Emily said sincerely. They exchanged a look that only two people who had been to hell and back could interpret. “Yeah,” he said. Emily inhaled deeply, pulling as much of the outside air into her lungs as she could. “I’m going to go back to bed. You should probably think about getting some sleep too.” “Yeah,” Joe said morosely. His thousand-yard stare was back, “yeah.” “Okay Joe,” Emily patted him tenderly on the shoulder, “good luck tomorrow.” “‘Night.” Emily made her way back to her bedroom where she fell into a restless sleep. The journey to Holland was much more grueling than the trip to France had been. The action was less concentrated and it took weeks for Emily to be reunited with her paratroopers. Operation Market Garden had gone poorly and her route was diverted towards Arnhem rather than the over-ambitious point across the Rhine. The 101st had managed to secure a few bridges and roadways but the initial encounter near Eindhoven had resulted in Easy Company’s retreat. When Emily finally reconnected with the 101st in Schoonderlogt she sought Nixon out for instructions. He and Winters were standing outside of the building where Easy’s second platoon was bunked up. She noticed the spot of raw red flesh on Nixon’s forehead as soon as she saw him. “What’s that?” she demanded, “wait and why do you smell like urine?” 
Nixon shot Winters a dirty look but didn’t offer any explanation. Winters retold a rather jarring close call Nixon had outside Eindhoven. As Easy Company moved to retreat a bullet ricocheted off his helmet, leaving behind a burn at the top of his forehead. For all intents and purposes, Nixon was fine. He had only been left with the small red scar which was expected to fade away. Nixon thought so little of his brush with death that he had the gall to be annoyed with Winters for informing Emily about the incident. Winters, cool as ever, was uninhibited by Nixon’s attitude and explained matter of factly how shaken both he and Nixon had been in the moment. “I’m fine, it’s fine. It’s not some dramatic war story!” Nixon protested. “No,” Winters conceded, “I’m just telling her how it happened.” Emily tried to match the candid energy of the men but deep down something stirred in her: panic. She wanted to scold Nixon for not retreating quicker. She wanted to ask him so many questions like if the burn had caused him any pain. What would she have done if the bullet had penetrated the metal? She would’ve lost him. It was in that moment she realized she would not be able to cope if he had been killed. “I’m fine,” Nixon repeated firmly, looking directly in her eyes. Emily cleared her throat, “I know. You’re standing here aren’t you?” “Exactly. Plus, you’re lucky you didn’t make it here earlier. 2nd and 3rd Battalions’ C.P.s were hit in force. Major Horton was killed.” “What?” Emily asked in shock, her stomach rolled with fear. “Yeah, glad you weren’t working when the Germans hit,” Winters added. Emily had missed out on so much. Obviously, the army had gotten her over as quickly as they could but she wasn’t priority personnel and the roads were difficult to travel. She cursed her femininity. If she had been a soldier she would have been able to slip back to 2nd Battalion with greater ease. Every day throughout her journey she had encountered men who were AWOL from the hospital, trekking back to their companies, and it didn’t take them nearly a month. “By the way, Em, I think we’re gonna need you later. Dick and I have got to go meet Strayer and I’m sure he’ll have a project for me,” Nixon said. “I’ll be at HQ anyways,” Emily said, “I have some things to set up anyways.” Nixon nodded at her, “thanks.” He and Winters jumped in a jeep and drove off. Emily took the chance to take in her surroundings. Everywhere around her soldiers were bustling about unloading trucks and dodging jeeps. The dirt roads were sodden with mud. Emily looked down at her boots. This wasn’t the first time she was grateful that they were part of her uniform. She began to make her way down the road past thatched grooves and stone buildings. As she walked she made various plans in her mind for what she wanted to get done once she made it the Battalion HQ. It was difficult reconnecting with her team after so much time apart. There was no saying what they had started working on, and Emily had little clue as to the recent developments in their corner of the war. The first couple of hours would inevitably be spent playing catch up. It was an extra hurdle for her to overcome, all because she would never be authorized for jump training. Let’s keep the bitter thoughts to a minimum, she chided herself. There was no place for negative thinking in a war zone. She made it to the command post to find it bustling with officers. Colonel Sink was barking orders in the background. Emily slipped in as inconspicuously as possible and found her way to a side room where other intelligence staff members were working. “Hi Larkin,” she said to a young S-1 working over an open chest. He was pulling out stacks of papers and re-arranging them on a nearby desk. “Hi Miss Rooney,” he briefly looked up to greet her. “What’s the most recent status on things?” she asked him. “Um, we’ll be in this area for a while. Patrols are being sent out to monitor the area while we get situated. A few have already successfully taken some key crossroad points.” Emily nodded, “thanks.” Larkin was concise. It was enough information for Emily to begin to work off of. She located a map of the area and began to review the intersections surrounding Schoonderlogt and outside of Arnhem. “Has anyone been tracking what’s been secured?” Emily asked. Larkin handed her another version of the map she was looking at with few places marked in red ink. “Thanks!” Emily accepted the map. “Okay,” Nixon clapped his hands together sharply, announcing his entrance, “we’ve got some work to do. We’re assisting the British Lt. Colonel Dobie here with rescuing a bunch of his men.” Lt. Colonel Dobie stepped in behind Nixon. “Where are they?” Emily asked looking up from her map. “15 miles north of the river.” Emily tracked the map as he spoke, “Easy company will meet them on the riverbank with boats.” “What do you need from us?” Emily asked Nixon. “We need to pinpoint where exactly to place the boats. Also, we need to take a look at the enemy dispositions and area maps.” Larkin directed Nixon and Dobie to the dispositions as Emily sat by feeling somewhat useless. She hadn’t yet familiarized herself with this intelligence room and she couldn’t help but feel somewhat embarrassed that she wasn’t the one confidently assisting Nixon. She could not afford to slip, not now. The rescue mission, known as Operation Pegasus, was more than successful. It took three trips but Easy Company was able to get all of the Brits across the Rhine without incident. That night Emily could hear the men cheering from the long thatched building down the road. The allied men were celebrating another day of life in their godforsaken world and it made Emily smile to think of their joy, no matter how fleeting. But tragedy struck soon after. A jumpy private shot Moose Heyliger while on guard. Welsh had arrived at the scene. The day after the event Emily could tell Welsh was shaken. His face was gaunt with exhaustion and worry. Emily’s first instinct was to comfort him, at least in the way she would have before Normandy. But Nixon’s words from months ago rang in her head. Since then, Emily had become self-conscious of her friendship with Harry. Heading Nixon’s words she had distanced herself somewhat from the engaged man; not that he really seemed to notice. And to her surprise, she hadn’t really missed him. He was still a happy face to see around and she felt an obligation to be there for him in moments he was hurting. But she had realized that she didn’t crave his company, no more than she craved George’s or any of her other friends. Welsh was nice to have around but Emily didn’t pine for him like she thought she should’ve if she were truly in love. The weeks passed and the weather grew colder in Holland. One day Emily was reviewing the allies' advance deeper into Belgium when a quick question came up. She decided to seek out Nixon to see if he could help direct her. He wasn’t in his office so she walked down the hallway to Winters’ office which was her best guess as to where Nixon might be. The glass-paned door was open but she could hear voices conversing inside so she hung back. The office was occupied by more than just Nixon and Winters. A moment later, Bill Guarnere exited the office and Winters assistant closed the office door. 

“Hiya sweetheart,” Bill said as he passed her. Emily smiled warmly at him then moved to approach the door. As she drew closer she could hear Nixon and Welsh conversing with Winters. “I’m outta here, I’m going to Rheims.” She heard Welsh’s voice through the thin door. “Strayer will be in London for at least another week for Lt. Colonel Dobie’s wedding.” Nixon was speaking now, “I personally am heading back to Aldbourne to look up a certain young lady.” Emily’s stomach sunk with Nixon’s words. She hadn’t realized he was still in touch with the woman he had been seeing in Aldbourne. There was no explanation for her feeling but the idea of Nixon traveling so far back to see his lover filled Emily with rage. What was he doing wasting his time on that woman? He was married for christ’s sake, why was this woman worth compromising that? “May I help you?” Winter’s assistant asked. Emily looked at him blankly, “uh, no, actually, never mind.” Clutching her pad folio closer to her chest she turned on her heel and marched back down the hallway.

[alistair-blackwood]

MoMM Chapter 3: The Empty Corridors (Preview #2)

(Note: this is not the finalized draft; anything featured is subject to edits or deletion!)

Chapter 3: The Empty Corridors (Preview #1)

Martin snapped up straight, the book nearly tumbling out of his hands, but Jon didn’t seem to notice him at all. His eyes were cast down on the dinner tray as he glided right past Martin and his spot on the lounger.

Bollocks. What did Martin do now? It was one thing for Jon to notice him as he came walking down the hallway and for Martin to strike up a conversation; it was another to shout at him, clamouring for his attention like a child.

Jon was almost out of the foyer. Now or never.

“Jon?”

Jon yelped, the tray jumping in his hands, and Martin covered his mouth, face warming. The cavernous space of the foyer made everything seem louder– his voice had sounded like a crack whip.

“Sorry, sorry, I just, um, uh …” Dammit, what should he say? Nearly two hours of fake-reading a book and he hadn’t thought up something clever and interesting to say in the meantime?

Recovering from his fright, Jon straightened. “Is there any particular reason you’re out here?”

It was so much harder to hear that chill in Jon’s voice when Martin knew what it sounded like soft and gently amused. “Just, you know–” he weakly held up his book “–getting some reading done.”

Jon’s eyes flicked from the book, then back to Martin. “I see. In any case, I have your meal prepared. Would you prefer to eat it here?”

“Oh, uh, yes. Thank you.”

Strolling over, Jon placed the tray on the small table. Martin waited for him to inquire about the book (“–I see you’re almost finished with Kinsey, what do you think?” “Oh! It’s really good, thank you so much for recommending it to me! Would you like to take a seat and maybe we could talk about it some more?” “Yes, Martin, that sounds lovely, tell me what you thought about chapter 3, personally I felt that–”) 

But Jon straightened. Turned back towards the hallway. “I hope it’s to your–”

“Wait, wait.”

Jon paused, and Martin yanked back the hand he’d thrown out. Still too loud. He couldn’t just let Jon walk away, though, not without … something. “I-I was thinking, actually, that, uh,” he glanced down at the tray, “that you don’t have to keep bringing me food.”

“Pardon?”

“Yeah! I mean, well, I’m feeling much better. Definitely all patched up by now, and I know my way around the kitchen and everything. So, yeah, you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“I … see.” A soft flush dusted Jon’s face. “My apologies. I tried to make something more palatable–”

“Oh! No, no, it’s not that at all. I just …”

But Jon’s expression had cooled once more, and the words curdled in Martin’s throat. “I will of course abide by your preference. If you’ll excuse me …”

“Wait.”

Jon whirled around, eyebrows flying up, and Martin could have cried from the mortification of it all. How was he still so loud? “Do you want to read together, sometime? I-I started Kinsey and I think you’re right about his writing style and I was– I was wondering if you wanted to talk about it …”

He trailed off under Jon's unblinking stare and forced down the rest. Is this what an ant felt like trapped under a glass panel? But then, Jon's eyes, with a curious light, flitted to the stack of books. Martin's stomach lifted with hope–

But Jon held up a hand. “Please, you don’t need to worry about me. Carry on.”

He left the foyer, footsteps clicking on the tiled floors before fading.

Martin sighed, long and draining, his shoulders sagging. His eyes dropped to the dinner tray– a sauté today. Jon’s been getting really creative these last few days. The tea looked to be Earl Grey. The vibrant flavours tickled his nose, eliciting a low growl from the pits of his stomach.

He’d best savour it, he thought, taking a small sip of his tea.

.

Okay, so. Jon wanted to be alone. Martin had known that already; frankly, it was a little embarrassing he hadn't backed off before now. Jon didn't owe him his company just because he had no real choice but to board Martin in his home– not unless he wanted to throw Martin out into the blizzard. Besides, Martin had plenty to entertain himself, anyway, things that didn’t include bothering Jon.

It wasn’t long before it became obvious, though, that that wasn’t really true.

“You know, I think I’m really starting to miss working in the castle.”

Phillipa looked on from across the aisle as Martin speared a patch of clean hay into the trough. It had been such a relief when he’d learned that the feeding hay Jon had on reserve was normal and not some freaky collection of worms or something. Phillipa was much luckier than him in this regard.

“Yeah, working there was stressful,” he continued, wiping a hand across his sweaty face, “God knows with the way Griffiths shouted at us all the time. But at least I was doing something, you know? Keeping my hands busy.”

As Phillipa grazed, Martin leaned against the stall door, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, sure, it was mostly grunt work. Anyone could have done it, but I did it, you know? I was at least making someone’s day a little bit easier. I wasn’t …”

The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed them back down. Blast it. He really needed to move on, already.

“I just wish I knew if he was angry with me,” he murmured. “Then I could apologise, right? Make it up to him somehow?”

Phillipa butted his shoulder with the brunt of her nose, and he startled before settling back down. He reached up to pat her nose, running his thumb over the white strip pattern of her face.

"I suppose I can just make my own work. Roll up my sleeves, do a little dusting, maybe? Pluck some weeds? I mean, it's only fair. Not like I'm paying rent or anything. My mum always said idle hands were the devil's playground or something."

And then, maybe, Jon could see Martin could be helpful. Useful.

And then maybe they could talk again.

He just wished that they could talk …

He glanced over to Phillipa. “What do you think?”

She lipped at the wisps of his hair, and he sighed. He felt a bit better now, though. He had met few conversational partners as willing to put up with him as Phillipa. He should probably start getting inside now, though– didn’t want to risk an encounter with John, the dog.

A sudden, sharp pain exploded in his ear and he cried out, jumping back. Phillipa had nibbled on the soft bit of his ear.

“You-” he started, cradling his sore ear. Phillipa lifted her head with him, continuing to chew, content– probably on a bit of his ear. “You’re a very naughty horse, do you know that?”

She snorted in his face.

.

It was decided, then; he’d do a little tidying up in Jon’s greenhouse. Pluck some weeds, clear the pathways of debris, or however else he could make busy. It was certainly the easier task than dusting, anyway– his sinuses wouldn’t stand for it, not without any supplies.

Besides, Jon harvested the vegetables roughly every two or three days, so it might make for a nice surprise, coming in to see the space neat and orderly. After all, nothing cheered Martin up like a little spring cleaning.

He’d found an old cloth and broom in the kitchen cupboard and, after lunch, he ventured into the storm. The winds pummelled his side and he dug his feet into the cobblestone when a strong gust buffeted his side. He knew it’d be a trek, obviously, but he’d no idea it would be this brutal. The wind cut through the fabric of his cloak and, even though the walk was short, by the time he closed the panelled door behind him, his body shook with fierce tremors, his fingers and the tips of his ears burning.

Rubbing some warmth back into his extremities, he hung his cloak and took hold of the broom’s handle. May as well get the easy bit out of the way. He’d always liked sweeping– it was easier than polishing or mopping, at least. Less back strain.

Dirt and dead leaves littered the path, likely from the freaky vegetable patch, and he swept it all into a tight pile on the dustpan. Easy and quick to complete, yes, but, as Martin surveyed the clean floors, he let himself savour the pinprick of pride. It was nice to be working again. At least he was making a difference, even if it was a little one.

Now, the plots.

Rolling up his sleeves, he settled down by the plot closest to him, crouching on the cold floor. It had been ages since anything had been planted here, the dry and dusty soil crusting under his fingernails as he plucked out twigs and cracked roots. As he stood to move to the second plot, a jolt shot through his knees and weeks.

Two weeks of a comfortable bed and skipping out on proper hard work and he’d already gone soft. Not good. He’d need to build back up his stamina.

The second plot took even less time than the first. He settled back on his haunches, dusting off hands. This wasn’t taking as long as he thought it would, but that made sense. The only plot that needed any real tending to was the one with the dead rose bushes, but with the way Jon reacted when Martin had seen them, it didn’t seem right to weed them without his permission. Maybe Martin could ask–

A loud slam. Martin jumped, whirling around.

Jon leaned against the entryway door, eyes closed, letting out a slow, relieved breath. Snow clung to his cloak and dappled the curls of his hair. Martin's heart thrummed with anxiety– he didn't think Jon would come here now. It was supposed to be a surprise.

Before he could think of what to do, Jon opened his eyes, and they locked on Martin. Jon stiffened with surprise and Martin sat there, frozen.

He lifted a shaky hand. “H-hello.”

“What on earth are you doing out here?”

Martin took his hand back, nearly a flinch. Bad start. “I-I thought I could help tidy things up. Um, I was thinking about maybe dusting next. You know, make myself useful.”

Jon let out a long sigh through his nose, riddled with exasperation and impatience, and Martin just barely stopped himself from curling up with embarrassment. “Martin, please. Despite the circumstances, you are still my guest– there’s no need for this.”

“No, no, I really don’t mind–”

“I promise that the manor doesn’t need your attention.” Carving a path to the vegetable patch, Jon crouched down, reaching for the stem of one of the radishes. He hadn’t even turned around when he spoke to Martin. “Please, take this time for yourself.”

Martin wanted to say something– was desperate for it, actually. It’s really no trouble and I just need something to keep myself busy and please just let me do this, I need this.

But Jon made himself clear. He didn’t need, or want, Martin’s help.

Martin stood. Hesitated, just a moment. But Jon had moved on to the eggplants. He didn’t look back as Martin approached the greenhouse door, and closed it behind him.

-

END PREVIEW

Check out the Monster of Magnus Manor here!

[antihero-writings]

Survey for Ch2 of What They Want to Believe! (Varian fic)

Hello! I’ve never done something like this before, but I thought I’d try it out!

I’m working on chapter 2 of my Varian fic “What They Want to Believe” (I’ll put a link to the first chapter in the replies or a reblog!). The first part of it is a memory scene of when Varian and the Saporians erased the king and queen’s memories. But I’m super torn on how that part of the memory scene should/would go. This fic is supposed to be as accurate to canon as I can make it.

I’ve written three options for the first few pages so far, and am trying to figure out which of them would be most accurate, if any. And, regardless of what’s most accurate/if they’re all accurate, I’d just love to know which one people generally like the most and would like to see in the final version of the fic.

If you have a moment, I’d really appreciate if you could read through the three options and give me feedback on which one you think is most accurate, and/or which one like the most, and why. Or if you have a totally different idea for how this scene should/would go, or you think I should add something specific to any of these, please don’t hesitate to say so!

Please also feel free to give me any other feedback, like on what smaller lines or phrases you liked, or didn’t like, or if there’s a line of dialogue you don’t think is accurate to how a character talks, or if you have ideas for the parts that I put in […]. (But please always try to be as kind as you can) <3

I wrote them in the order that you see them. Before re-watching S3 E1 I forgot that erasing their memories was Varian’s idea, so that’s why the first one is how it is. I think it’s actually my favorite of the three, but I’m not sure it’s accurate, as they make it seem like making everyone forget was Varian’s idea and the Saporians springboarded off of it (hence why I started writing other versions). I might be able to add to it to make it more accurate if you guys like it the most, I’ll just have to finagle it more. The last version is the one I’ve worked on the most, as I think it’s the most accurate. But I think its concept is probably my least favorite XD

Please note that all three of them are rough drafts and will be added to and polished before the final draft. I even left some of my notes to myself or blanks it [ ]. I’m super unsure how their dialogue would go in the second two.

Also please note that any/all of them would have the level of internal monologue closer to what’s in the third one in the final draft. And they would all have that last scene where Varian says he needs to go back to his house, but as that scene doesn’t change I only put it in the last one.

I could probably put these in a google doc if you'd like to comment more thourougly on them, but I thought I'd start with just posting them to tumblr and seeing what people liked more generally.

Thank you for your time!!

OPTION 1:

“What did you do to them?!” Varian tried and failed to keep his voice calm, his eyes ping ponging from the king to the queen.

Frederic and Arianna’s countenances were unchanging, their eyes hazy. He waved his hand in front of their faces and their expressions stayed the same [make this more descriptive]. Varian turned and looked at each of the Saporians in turn.

The girl with the white hair and gravelly voice gave a dark laugh. “Oh didn’t you know? I’m their fairy godmother!” She pulled a wand from her pocket with a flourish and twirled around. “Though, I’ll admit, I may have gone a teensy bit overboard,” she said like that was something to be proud of.

Varian’s eyes widened. He rushed up to her, examining the wand. “That’s a Saporian wand of Oblivium! You erased their memories?!”

“Relax Varian.” Andrew leaned against the wall. “It’s better this way. For us…” he lowered his gaze, “and for you.” He stepped forward and walked around Varian. “You think the King and Queen would be happy to see the kid who tried to overthrow their kingdom running free? I’m gonna save you the brainpower on this one; uh”—he leaned forward and poked Varian’s nose—“no, they wouldn’t. They’d throw you right back in jail, where you belong.”

“But…erasing their memories—” the alchemist jerked back to look at the vacant expressions of the once majesties. “I mean what if they can’t get them back?! What if—?”

Andrew gripped his arms, making Varian turn back to him. “Trust me, making them forget is the only way to accomplish our goals.” he lowered his head and voice, “The only way to fix what you’ve done.”

Varian bit his lip, glancing between them. [add internal monologue]

“But I…”

Andrew leaned back and folded his arms. “You don’t want to go back to prison, do you?”

“No! no! I just—!”

“Good.” Andrew began walking away with the other Saporians. Varian was about to follow them, when the king and queen stirred.

The alchemist froze, his eyes ticking up to the them, then to the Saporians, who were now all hidden in the wings, safe from view.

“Tell them you’re their most trusted advisor!” Clementine shout-whispered. The other Saporian’s sniggered like schoolchildren.

Varian turned again to the king and queen, who were opening their eyes.

He didn’t want to do this. It wasn’t his fault. [add more]

“Who…are you?” Frederic’s voice was distant.

Varian looked up at them, his eyes softening. They didn’t remember who he was. That had its benefits, to be sure. Still, he couldn’t help but feel bad, seeing his king and queen, Rapunzel’s parents, like this, so helpless. He cleared his throat.

“I-I’m Varian…your majesty.” He stepped closer. “You…really don’t remember me?”

He stirred, as if trying to dislodged the memory, then stilled. “I’m afraid not, young man.”

“‘Your most trusted advisor!’” Andrew mouthed.

The alchemist sighed. “I-I’m your most trusted advisor.”

Frederic stirred again, as if in a trance. “Yes…Varian…my most trusted…advisor…”

OPTION 2:

“Are you sure you can erase their memories?” Varian breathed.

The alchemist stared from the wing at the king and queen on their thrones, his heart hammering in his chest. What if they saw them? What if the spell didn’t work? What if they stopped them? Then their whole operation was over, he’d get thrown back in jail…

There was currently a long line of people preparing to make their requests to the king. If they failed, their whole plan fall apart, and everyone would see it crumble.

“Don’t tell me your wussing out on us now,” Andrew groaned.

“No, no! I’m just…I’m a scientist, its only natural that I’m skeptical.”

“You told me you were going to analyze that mineral. Our whole plan is kinda based on it.”

“Yeah but still, erasing people’s memories…”

“Relax, science boy,” Clementine stepped in front of him, walking backwards, “let ol’ [a name for her wand] here do the talking.”

She walked backwards into the throne room, then turned and marched straight up to the king and queen. Andrew put his hand over Varian’s mouth to keep him quiet, and against the wall.

Frederic looked perplexed by this visitor, and slightly affronted. “Excuse me, mam,” Frederic cleared his throat, “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait in line like the rest of these good people.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. No, you’ll be glad I didn’t wait, after you hear what I have to say.” She pulled out her wand.

“…What you have to say may be very pressing,” his eyes darted from her face to the wand, “but these good people have been waiting for a very long time, and have equally important requests. You must honor their—”

She rolled her eyes and flicked the wand. The gem at the base started to vibrate, pink smoke swirling in the air—the crowd was starting to mumble with unease, shout in warning and fear—then there was a flash of pink light.

Varian resisted against Andrew’s grip to get a better look at what was going on.

The king and queen blinked, and collapsed in their chairs. The crowd started to scream and run around through the haze, run for the doors.

Andrew let go of Varian and walked out into the room.

“People of Corona!” he bellowed, and people quieted. His cronies moved from the wings to support him. “There’s been a new edict! From now on this land shall be called New Saporia!” They all raised their weapons. “You will henceforth obey our orders!” [add more]

The screaming restarted, this time peppered with spitting and protest. [add more]

Varian looked at Andrew.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this anymore. [add more]

The king and queen stirred, then opened their eyes.

“Wh-What’s going on?” Frederic looked around, horrorstruck at all the screaming people. “What is this place? Where am I?” he paused blinked again, “Who am I?”

“Your majesties,” Clementine said with a certain mocking air, bowing low, “I am afraid to say you have suffered a recent incident that has cost you your memories.

“Nevertheless, Clementine here will explain everything. You are the king and queen of a quaint little kingdom called New Saporia. We are here to […]. The people of your kingdom are […] and we must ask you to stop all […] until we can get enough […]. These people just […]”

[“Funny, you’d think I’d remember ruling a kingdom,” Frederic chuckled at his wife.

Andrew stepped forward, putting his arm around Clementine. “Ehh, the memory can do funny things sometimes. Anyways], we are here to […]. Your kingdom [something about the minerals—you need to issue an order]. Your most trusted advisor...” he paused, glancing at Varian. When Varian didn’t come out he cleared his throat, loudly and fakely. “I said,” he enunciated like he was speaking to a five-year-old, “your most trusted advisor.”

Varian stepped back, a shadow coming across his face, his breath tempered.

He didn’t want to go out there. Yeah, he just had that epiphany. He didn’t want to do this. This wasn’t right. They shouldn’t—

Kai walked up and pulled him, stumbling into the room.

When he regained his balance he found said room was staring at him.

Some people were silently staring, others started to mumble to each other: “Isn’t that Varian?” “Yeah, the kid who kidnapped the queen!” “He’s a traitor!” [add more]

“R-Right!” he tried to ignore their mutterings and pushed his too-long hair out of his eyes, “Yes! I’m Varian, y-your majesties.” He bowed. “And… You see the people of Corona have been […] and […].”

OR

“Your majesties,” he said darkly. “That’s right. My name is Varian, and I’m […]”

OPTION 3:

“Are you sure you can erase their memories?” Varian breathed.

The alchemist stared at the king and queen on their thrones from the wing, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Don’t tell me your chickening out on us now,” Andrew groaned.

“No, no! It’s just—I’m a man of science…I-I’m skeptical by nature.” Varian bit his lip.

“You told me you were gonna analyze that mineral.” He folded his arms over his chest, “We kinda based our whole plan on it, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, I know, but still, erasing people’s memories…”

“Relax alchemy boy,” Clementine stepped in front of him, walking backwards, “let ol’ [a name for her wand]—” apparently that was her name for her wand…and not a good one—“here do the talking.”

She walked backwards into the throne room, then turned and marched straight up to the king and queen, holding the wand behind her back.

Frederic offered a very confused look, considering he didn’t recognize her, but spoke kindly all the same, “Excuse me, mam,” he cleared his throat, “But the time to make your requests has passed…I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait until tomorrow to—”

“Oh, I don’t think there’ll be any need for waiting after you hear what I have to say.”

He looked indignant at the fact that she had just interrupted him, but continued in the same genial tone, if a little sterner. “…I understand what you have to say may be very important, but you must—”

Clementine flourished out her wand, and the gem at the bottom of the wand vibrated, pink sparks flying off of it, pink smoke circling it ominously.

Varian stretched to get a better look.

“What’s going on?!” Frederic barked from the haze.

Its power burst across the room in a sphere. Varian shut his eyes against the blast, before looking up at Andrew, who gave him a smug, what-did-I-tell-you? look.

When he turned back, Clementine had seemingly materialized back in the wing. “You’re up, kid.”

“Wh-Me? Why me?”

“You’re the one who wanted to erase their memories aren’t you?” Andrew sneered.

“Yeah, I did but—”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Andrew shoved Varian into the room.

He stared incredulously at him from the room. “How do we know it even worked?”

Andrew made a go on motion.

As the pink mist cleared, the king and queen stirred, their brows furrowed, and opened their eyes.

They looked around the room, confusion lining their gazes.

“Wh-What’s going on?” Frederic looked around. “What is this place? Where am I?” he paused, blinked, “Who am I?”

Varian’s eyes widened.

So it had worked, after all. They weren’t crazy. That was…unexpected.

He’d love to figure out how it worked, but that was a question for later.

He looked up at the king and queen, whose eyes were unknowing and as they fell upon him.

They no longer knew who he was, or what he did, the fact that he had kidnapped the queen and tried to kill their daughter, nor that they had put him in prison for it all.

….or who they were, for that matter.

“Excuse me, young man, could you tell us what’s going on?” Frederic looked from him to the room, to his wife.

They weren’t going to throw him back in that dungeon. They weren’t going to scold him, or else try to save his soul. They didn’t even suspect something sinister was going on. It was freeing; he was untouchable. As long as the king and queen didn’t know who he was, no one else could throw him back in jail, right? He could start anew…

This was unsettling. Seeing his king and queen, no, Rapunzel’s parents like this made him feel guilty. Wasn’t he just committing more treason? A crime for a crime. They always say two wrongs don’t make a right. Even without taking the treason into account, he had already hurt these people enough a year previously. Ripping them apart just to put his own family back together. It didn’t have to be this way…did it?

Varian cleared his throat. “Your majesties. I’m afraid you’ve suffered a recent incident which has cost you your memories,” he walked in front of the throne. “You are King Frederic and Queen Arianna of—”

—Andrew waved vigorously at him to get his attention, and pointed emphatically at the medallion on his chest bearing the Saporian logo. Varian sighed.

—“New Saporia.

“My name is Varian and I am…your most trusted advisor.” He paused for a moment. They didn’t even question it. He continued, “You rule with kindness and fairness, and treat every citizen with respect and dignity.” He bit his lip and looked away, thinking of his own punishment, his own unkindness. “But you see, the people…they too are in dire straights. I think I may have found a mineral which can save your people, and return you your memories. I just need to analyze it. It resides in […] once I do analyze it I suggest that you stop all [trade/commerce/…] and gather/call everyone to mine it, until we have enough to solve the situation.” [this might change a lot]

The king looked at the queen, and for a second Varian feared they were only playing along until now, that he’d bellow for the guards to grab him and to send him back to prison.

“If it’s for the good of the people…I suppose I will…make a decree! That’s what kings do, right? I will make a decree right away.”

“…Thank you,” Varian bowed, folding his arms and walking back.

On his way back to the wing, memories floated up, pieced themselves together, and pierced through his brain.

“What?How?! How can I trust anything when my own father just lied to the king’s face!”

Varian grimaced at the memory.

What would Quirin think of him now? Varian had been appalled to know his own father would lie to the king back then…but what would Quirin think if he knew what Varian had done to the king? Last year, and now? Even if he’d lie—(which Varian had come to understand wasn’t actually a lie, but a code)—Quirin would never do anything like this. He’d never use science and magic on his king and queen just to get what he wanted. He’d never release monsters and automatons on the citizens. No, he’d help people. He’d admit where he was wrong and…He wouldn’t run. He’d try to fix what he’d broken…or better yet not break it in the first place.

“A little stale on the delivery but I give you a solid five.” Clementine commented as he returned.

“I give him ten outta ten” Kai said with his hands over his heart, looking up with tears in his eyes, “His performance was from the heart.”

“That all the proof you needed?” Andrew demanded, folding his arms. “You said you could synthesize the memory formula into a serum.”

“Yeah, I did, but…” Varian looked away.

Andrew folded his arms. “…What?”

“Well…in order to know what exactly we’re dealing with, and to actually make the serum…I kinda need my lab equipment.”

“They don’t have lab equipment here?”

“…Not unless you count cooking pans and […]”

Andrew groaned. “So we need to go all the way to your house in the boonies just to grab a couple of your stupid little science tools?”

Varian winced. “…Yees?” He paused. “I can go by myself—”

“I’m no [something that’s not a job—it’s basically “I’m no doctor” but he’s making up a word] but I don’t think someone of your…uhh…stature can carry a whole serum’s worth of lab equipment all the way from your house to the castle. I’ll go get a horse.” He waved him off, “Clementine, you keep an eye on the king and queen, fill them in on anything else they need to know, and make sure they don’t wander off.”

“With pleasure!” she said in a way that made Varian not want to hear the list of things she found pleasurable.

[archiveofidentityconstellations]

birds all sing | part 2

part 1

and we’re back! chapter has been revised for the better! enjoy!

August

“That’s right, give it a good hard stare. Make that menu tell you all its secrets.”

Selina’s whisper tickled his ear, which would have been pleasant if Bruce wasn’t so infuriated. The past couple of weeks had not gone according to plan. For one thing, Tim had not quit. Rather, he had reached into his resources and manipulated multiple employees as well as members of the board. Bruce couldn’t count how many visits of “good will” he had received since last week, hoping to make him “aware” in subtle terms of their position. Bruce wasn’t surprised, per se, at the actions Tim had taken. He had been a resourceful boy and now was a rather ruthless…man. Bruce adjusted in his seat. That was a trait that he had cultivated in him, and now the tables had turned. He did not regret cultivating the trait, not for an instant. Tim was the most cerebral of his sons, the one he could rely on to do what must be done, even to his detriment.

Especially to his detriment.

“Have you even tried talking to him?”

Barbara’s voice had been snappish, dry, and derisive, though lacking any real bite. Bruce had stopped by the clocktower in lieu of Tim for the monthly check-in. Bruce, being an adult, had kept the details of the situation from the family.

Which meant that Barbara had interrogated him the minute he stepped into the clocktower.

“It’s not about that,” he had told her. At her look he explained, “Tim is young. He’s young and he’s never branched out. Besides that, he never proceeds with the expected. He didn’t throw a shampoo bottle at my head and move out like Dick did. He left home by time I returned, and his lifestyle hasn’t been investigated since then.”

“You really think getting married is his act of rebellion?”

Her tone was not flattering. Bruce bristled.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he said. “Children are—“

“I think you don’t understand, Bruce, I really think you don’t,” she interrupted. “This isn’t a catch-all situation, it never is. You always think there’s a formula to these things. Why, I don’t know, especially since the fall-out is always terrible. My ears are still ringing from Jason’s tantrum in the eighth grade. You wouldn’t let him know why he wasn’t allowed to go on that D. C. field trip, remember that?”

Bruce did.

“Look,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m not here to argue or to lecture or any of that. I don’t think you’d listen to me if I did, though I’d try my damndest to make you.”

He scoffed. She smirked.

“I just want you to consider that this isn’t about you.”

Bruce paused. “How could this not be about me?”

“You get wrapped up in yourself, Bruce.”

Bruce cleared his throat, ready to deny this, but then Barbara sighed in a knowing way, cutting him off.

"I'm not here to argue about semantics," she said, looking at him behind her glasses. "Just consider that people, your children, everyone around you—we all have our own melodrama,” she said. “And we’re the main character in it. You’re the sidekick in this scenario.”

He stuck his tongue in the side of his cheek, blinking mulishly.

Barbara sighed.  “He’s not doing this to hurt you.”

“He put Bosch in the office,” Bruce protested.

A beat.

“He’s doing this to hurt you a little.”

Tim was sending a message, and it was personal. Besides all the office machinations and manipulations, he had taken to hiding out in Stephanie’s apartment, a place he knew Bruce wouldn’t visit. Not only that, but he went out of town for his birthday, decidedly not inviting the family or even letting Bruce know his plans.

Bruce didn’t know how to feel about that.

It wasn’t that either of them were especially attached to their birthdays, but ever since Tim had been adopted things had been—well. Different. Bruce had tried, put in more effort than he realized, in recognizing Tim’s birthday every year. He knew the boy’s parents hadn’t made it home more than not, and Tim had mentioned that through the years, a sure indication that it bothered him even if he didn’t admit to it. But Tim’s twentieth birthday had dawned bright and clear, and he had ensured that Bruce wouldn’t be part of it.

If Bruce was being honest, it hurt.

He had tried, damnit, and to have that effort thrown back in his face just because of a fight—Tim was supposed to be the good one. The understanding one, the easy one.

Bruce clenched his fists. Tim was supposed to be the reliable one.

“Maybe you should take that menu outside.”

Bruce looked at Selina. She quirked a brow at him.

“What, no come-ons? No sweet nothings about how good she looks?” She reached over and twisted the menu in Bruce’s hands, keen eyes surveying the width of the menu. She whistled. “I hear she also knows how to cook.”

Bruce didn’t smile, but it was a near thing. “I’m not ignoring you.”

Selina set her elbow on the table, leaning her head on her hand. “Oh?” She dragged a finger around his temple, long, scratching nail almost making him shiver. Almost. “You haven’t been paying attention to me either.” She pouted playfully, but her moue disappeared when Bruce only hummed. Her green eyes widened. “What’s wrong?”

Bruce hesitated. But before he could answer a waiter was directing a friendly-looking couple to their table. Selina sent him a look and stood up; time to meet the in-laws. Selina and her sister Maggie had discovered each other years ago after losing contact for more than twenty years due to foster care. Maggie had been shipped off to California and adopted. It was only after she had married Simon that Selina had brokered contact, and now his fiancé was deadset on including Maggie in the wedding details. Which meant meeting the groom. Which meant Bruce.

He sighed around his water goblet, taking a swallow and pasting a smile on his face when he shook Simon’s hand.

The situation with Tim could wait. Bruce had made it this far, he could hold it together for another hour.

“So then she said, ‘I sent my draft over’ and I was like ‘bullshit’ and then he went ‘I think we can all understand that folks have been busy’ and I was like ‘BULLSHIT’ and then she said ‘It’s not my fault that you spent all night working on it’ and she knows the grade is based on a group effort, it’s not individual, so I was about to go all Solange Knowles in the elevator, and THEN--"

Tim set his head against the wheel.

Stephanie tapped her fingers against his skull. “Honey? I know that my dramatic retelling of my summer class might be boring but you need to keep your head up to see the traffic light.” She tapped again. “Chop chop, eyes on the road.”

Tim obliged. “I’m losing it, Steph,” he murmured. “I’m losing it.”

“I’ll help you find it,” she assured him. “In the meantime we can share mine. Don’t crash my car. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the elevator. So THEN—“

"It’s just,” he began, “he is up my ass—”

“Oh wow,” said Stephanie. “I have no idea what that feels like. I feel so sorry for you.”

Tim sent her an unimpressed look. She smiled beatifically at him. He reached over and pinched her thigh. Steph gave a shriek of laughter and drew her knees up to her chest. “Both hands on the wheel, Timothy Drake!”

He laughed and returned to the wheel, eyes scanning the road.

“But really,” she said, continuing their conversation. “He’s just in one of his Moods. You just have to ride it out.”

“Screw that,” Tim muttered.

“What is up with you two anyways? Normally you let him go crazy-anal and don’t get defensive about it at all.”

“Did you just call me a suck-up?”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Seriously, though. You’re obviously unhappy. What happened?”

“He just…he’s too much. And I’m sick of it. You know he was trying to get me to go to college?”

“Yeah, I only heard about it twenty times.”

“Well,” he flicked on the signal, “he basically threatened to fire me if I don’t do what he wants.”

“No! Wait, this is Bruce we’re talking about. Yes!”

“So I’ve basically been getting back at him at the office. And on patrol. And at home.”

“Is this why you’ve been sleeping at my place?”

He didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish. “Yes.”

“Okay, while I love that you’re using me as a tool to piss off your dad,” Steph took a sip from her water bottle, “what do I get from providing sanctuary?”

“I’m getting you a new car for your birthday,” Tim deadpanned.

“Volvo?”

“Lexus.”

She leaned over and smacked a resounding kiss on his cheek. “Mwah!”

He grinned.

“Has Bruce retaliated yet?”

“No,” he admitted, bitter and not sure of the reason why, “but then again I’ve tied his hands. I made Tam hold all my calls.”

Stephanie burst out laughing. “Oh Tim,” she gasped. “This is Mean Girls petty and I should say I’m disappointed in both of you but I’m also loving this?”

Tim gave a half-smile but didn’t respond. It had seemed fun, at first. Hitting Bruce where it hurt, like he had done to him. But after the third quasi-manic episode at the office (which had included balloons and Eiffel 65 blaring—he didn’t want to talk about it), it felt…empty. Like no matter what he did, Bruce was still going to think of him the same and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. There was no concept of a permanent sense of self, only a ‘Bruce sense of self.’ That didn’t mean he stopped the lying and manipulation; he just felt strange using Lucius for personal reasons. Like giving Bruce the finger.

Tim shifted in his seat, barely listening to Stephanie chatter. He thought about actual aggressive “negotiations” with the man. He visualized launching himself at Bruce and choking him out.  

Tim hummed, considerate. He took a left, merging onto the highway.

Not that he could really do anything. He’d just hang there, like a Tim-sized necktie.

But it’s the thought that counts.

“—And so then I’m stuck between two seats, my tongue almost touching the—hey!” Stephanie took her feet off the dashboard in surprise. “Why did you go on the 95? You know it always gets backed up.”

“Does it matter? Do you have to pee?”

“No, that’s not it.” Her eyes narrowed at the traffic. “We talked about ordering in tonight, and China Panda closes at eight.”

“I’m sure we’ll get home by—”

“You KNOW the 95 takes hours ever since they closed Doyle Pike, it takes—”

“Shit,” Tim swore. “For god’s sake Stephanie, you couldn’t have warned me?”

“I did!” she said shrilly. “I literally got into the car and the first thing I did was remind you about Doyle Pike and Mallowan Road and asked you if you had stopped off because I had less than half a tank of—”

The car gave a sputter.

Tim’s heart went cold.

“No.”

It jerked.

“Nonononono—”

It stopped.

This was hell.

Bruce examined the cutlery for the twenty-fourth time (he had counted). Silver, same as last time. It wasn’t as if he disliked his future in-laws. They were very nice people. Very…nice.

“And just think,” Maggie was saying, “after the wedding you could come visit us in California!”

“Yeah,” said Selina, face lighting up when she spotted their waiter across the room.

“And you could meet Linus!”

“Our son,” Simon explained, smiling at Bruce.

“Maybe you could even bring a friend for him,” said Maggie. She raised her eyebrows, alluding to something Selina knew about, for her sister smiled testily at her.

“Our waiter is coming,” she snapped, pushing the appetizer plates out of the way.

Maggie unrolled her napkin. “And Linus could even meet all the other kids! You have six, don’t you?”

If Bruce was surprised at being addressed, he didn’t show it. “I do.”

“You adopted, right?”

“I did.”

“I’m part of a blended family too!” she exclaimed. “I mean, besides Selina. I was adopted into a family, there were four of us until mom had Constance. I was seventeen, but I loved having a baby around, I think it really shaped me as an individual. What do you think about large age gaps between siblings?”

“Look, bread,” Selina announced. “Bruce, eat the bread.”

Bruce ate it.

Maggie moved on from her question, listing off her siblings’ names and dipping her bread with gusto, but Bruce considered it. Had his children’s ages and life experiences influenced the younger ones’ decisions? He knew that Damian was far more tactile due to Dick’s impact, and he likely would not be that way had he only been involved with Bruce. Perhaps that was what was going on with Tim. Perhaps there was some outside influence at work here, something (or someone, he thought to himself bitterly), that made Tim so stubborn. He knew the boy didn’t used to be this bad. He used to be able to wait him out. He remembered a specific scenario, giving Tim a look and Tim had immediately come clean, sniffling all the while.

Granted, he had been twelve at the time, but still.

There was something to this situation, an aspect Bruce hadn’t considered.

“What date for the wedding were you thinking?” asked Simon, stepping in when his wife paused for breath. “Have you set one yet?”

“Not yet,” Selina replied. “Look, food.”

Their waiter set down their entrees. Bruce unrolled his napkin amidst Maggie’s excited report on flexible venues.

“—And after a year or two the booking is still good!” she exclaimed. “So if anything comes up—”

“Nothing will. Bruce, steak.”

Bruce obligingly cut up his steak.

Although, perhaps an outside influence wasn’t the answer. Perhaps the answer was that Timothy felt that lies and manipulations were a viable tool of communication. Perhaps Timothy believed that respect was not warranted, not to his family, and not to Bruce. Bruce, you know, the man otherwise known as his father? Perhaps Timothy felt as though he should be able to do things with zero consequences. Perhaps Timothy thought that Bruce was stupid. Perhaps Timothy thought that it was funny that Bruce cared about him, that he wanted to see him succeed. Perhaps Timothy should be forced to cooperate, should answer his questions that he hadn’t bothered to ask because Timothy would feed him lies, all that boy did was lie, he woke in the morning and thought “How can I lie to Bruce today?” because lying about sleeping and his caffeine intake and his plans for school and where he was going to live and whose ring was in his closet—

“Bruce, chew.”

Bruce chewed angrily, snapping his jaws together.

“It is a lot,” Maggie was saying. At that point Selina had decimated all the breadsticks, wheat corpses mangled across the tablecloth. “I mean, I’m exhausted,” she admitted. “I’ll never sleep the same again, I swear it. But Linus is just so amazing. I can hardly believe that God gave me a baby, and that I get to have such a wonderful one. Especially after we struggled so much.”

Simon met his wife’s eyes, smiling reassuringly at her.

Selina paused. Her face gentled. She set her hand on her sister’s arm. “I have no doubt that you are a great mom, Maggie.”

Maggie bit her lip to cover up its tremble. “Thank you,” she whispered. She then cleared her throat and picked up her wine glass. “All in all, children are such a blessing,” she concluded.

Selina returned her hands to the table, face pinched again. She took a sip of her water.

Bruce twisted the napkin in his hands.

“I mean, what could be better than children?”

Sip.

Twist.

“I mean, they really are such a blessing!”

Sip.

Twist.

“Don’t you think, Selina?”

“Unf,” agreed Selina around a huge gulp of water. It spilled out of her mouth.

Twist.

“Plus, Simon and I are enjoying all these firsts of parenthood,” Maggie continued. “First time they roll over, first time they coo—”

Twist.

“First time they smile,” Simon added. They smiled at each.

Twist. Twist. Twist twist twist twist twist—

“And we’re so excited for what comes next!” Maggie squealed. “The first time they crawl, the first step, the first word—”

“The first time they set up an elaborate lie and tell you that they’re going to live with an imaginary uncle.”

The table went silent.

“PUSH!”

“I am pushing!” he bellowed.

Stephanie stuck her head out the window, eyes fixed upon him and definitely not on the road. “Push harder!”

Tim rolled his eyes. He planted his hands against the back of Steph’s 2003 Toyota Corolla and pushed. His heels lifted from the exertion, but he kept going. Sweat dripped and fell on the black tarmac. Cars inched forward behind him, growing more and more discontent.

Step by arduous step, they crawled up the highway.

Of course this would happen on the hottest day in Gotham City since 1999.

Of course today, of all days, this would happen. The climax of the truly spectacularly shitty summer. The summer a la Bruce, with special appearances by judgement and paternal harassment. Of course Tim would forget to fill the car up with gas. Of course. Of course! OF FUCKING COURSE.

“Do you want me to push?”

Tim leaned to his left, meeting her eyes.  “No. Keep your eyes on the road.”

“Are you sure?”

“Steph!” he shouted. “Keep your eyes on the goddamn road!”

“Okay fine!”

Her head disappeared inside. Tim hissed, hands slipping off the hot metal. “Shit,” he muttered, throwing his weight into the next push. The car behind him hovered, then quickly cut into the next lane. Horns immediately started blaring. “Let them in!” he shouted, in a rare show of traffic consideration. “We’re not going anywhere, let them in!”

Gotham’s heart must have grown three sizes since Tuesday, because, miraculously enough, the car in the next lane let them in. A line of cars merged over like a shiny caterpillar in the sun. Tim wiped his brow on his shoulder, arms straining with effort.

This was shit. Complete and utter shit. It wasn’t even funny in that cosmic, haha, look at this human fail, what does he know sort of way. It was shit. That’s all it was. There wasn’t a bright side or a “trial of soul” as Jason liked to say. It was just shit. His life was shit, his relationship with his dad was shit, his job was going down the tube, everything was shit.

Tim grit his teeth. The next lane’s goodwill had worn off, so cars were piling up behind him again. It really was a matter of time before he was run over, and at this point he would welcome it.

The driver door slammed open. He looked up.

“Switch!” Steph yelled, popping out of the car and racing around it, “Switch!”

Tim, without knowing he was doing it, dashed to the front seat. “This is a dumb idea!” he said. He adjusted the seat.

“Keep the windows rolled down!” was the reply. “Sometimes the wind picks up and you get a faint breeze!”

“Steph!”

The car suddenly heaved forward.

“What did you do?”

“I kicked it!”

“Don’t kick the car!”

“It’s my car!”

“I’m going to push again!”

“No!” Another heave. “It’s my turn! You rest!”

The car was moving faster than it was before. Tim tried not to let that rankle. Of course he would fail at pushing, he couldn’t do anything right nowadays. If he ever had. He groaned, slamming his head back against the headrest. It was bull self-pity, but at this point it was all he had. Bruce had basically already kicked him out of the family, and now was attempting to get him out of Gotham. Which, you know, pissed him off. Gotham was his home too, and he didn’t go around ordering people out of it. It was like Jason said, they all served the same mistress. Helluva lover, though. Tim brushed his knuckles over his jaw; he winced. Since fighting with Bruce he hadn’t bothered to check in, not even for patrol, which had resulted in no back up with some rather nasty bruises to show for it. Was it immature? Yes. Did Bruce absolutely deserve it? Yes. Tim couldn’t believe that he had had to hide at Stephanie’s apartment to escape him. He had been wearing the same business suits in rotation for a week, too scared to go back to his place and be immediately jumped and shipped off to Oxford. He imagined himself stuffed into a suitcase, strapped down to the luggage area of the batplane. Tim frowned.

And yet on the other hand, why was he fighting this at all? Bruce had made it clear, been explicit when he threatened to fire him, that he didn’t want Tim around anymore. Which, he’ll be honest, hurt his feelings. A lot. (He may have laid face-down on Steph’s couch and emitted dying squirrel noises at low moments, couldn’t be sure.) Why did Tim always do this? Why did he stick his nose into places where he was unwanted? Why did he slide into places with no room and insist he be allowed to stay?

This…wasn’t what he wanted. None of this was what he wanted. Maybe it was better he just take the hint and go. He wasn’t legally part of the family anyways, having been emancipated years ago. After Bruce got his way, there would be nothing holding him here.

“This sucks,” he whispered.

“HUH?”

“I said this SUCKS,” he shouted out the window.

“It’s all right!” she shouted back encouragingly. “It’s just like my eighth birthday! You get to live a day in the life, rich boy!”

Tim closed his eyes. Hot tears gathered around his eyelashes, but he didn’t let them fall.

Bruce always got his way. One way or another, Bruce always got his way. It was like the universe was curved to suit him and all the rest of the sorry bastards had to fight for the scraps. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. Nothing was ever fair, and that sucked.

Life sucked, Bruce sucked, Tim sucked.

“Tim!” shouted Steph. “Hon, you’re veering!”

Quick as a jolt, Tim opened his eyes and righted the wheels in the nick of time. Stephanie crowed in delight and the car heaved forward again from her kick.

Everything sucked.

But Stephanie didn’t.

Stephanie had been great about everything, like she always was. She hadn’t pushed him to explain and she made him coffee in the mornings, even gave him that stupid red mug that was made more for soup than coffee. She dealt with his stupid crap and mood swings and insisted that they go buy more suits for him because he was “starting to look like a business gigolo making ends meet” and had even made him laugh when he was being fitted because that’s what Steph did, she made everything brighter and happier and made the world not seem so bad.

Everything sucked, but Stephanie Brown didn’t.

“Switch!” he yelled suddenly, hopping out of the car, foot caught beneath the seat. He stumbled. “Switch!”

“No!” Stephanie yelled, but she was already halfway there.

“My turn!” Tim insisted, hair flopping in his eyes. He rounded the trunk, skidding into position. “Don’t worry, it’s my turn!”

Bruce always got what he wanted, but not this time. It was his turn. He pushed the car, ignoring the blisters on his heels.

Tim was staying.

“And they think you don’t know, they think you’re over the hills and simply believe them when they say they’re not doing what you know they’re doing. They think you’re an idiot that goes, ‘huh, they must be telling the truth because in this family we honor our word and respect each other enough to be honest.’ HAH!”

Maggie dropped her silverware.

“And you wonder, how long has this been going on? How long have you been going behind my back and doing EXACTLY what I told you not do!”

The couple at the next table looked over. Bruce didn’t notice.

“’Well, Dad, it’s been three weeks,” Bruce said, parroting a teenager’s voice. “And you haven’t confronted me so I’m going to assume that you’re alright with me lying to your face! Ha ha!’”

“This is really good,” Selina commented, taking another bite of her food.

“’Ha ha’?” Bruce repeated incredulously. “‘Ha ha’? How about I ground you for two months, that’s a ‘ha ha’ for me!”

“It’s got like this…” Selina quirked a brow in thought. “Lemony texture? It’s really fresh.”

“But you can’t do that, because while you were living your life, trying to ensure that everyone is doing alright because you can’t just let things go—”

“No kidding,” muttered someone behind them.

“Is that Bruce Wayne?” said another.

“—like others do! You know what happens when other people let things go?” He waved his hands. “Nothing! You know what happens when I let things go? Cataclysm!”

“What?” asked Maggie, puzzled. She leaned closer to Simon. He took her hand under the table.

“So while you were trying to prevent another cataclysm, they go off and grow up! So you can’t ground them, you just have to look them in the eyes while they smile and wreak havoc and tell you everything is fine.”

“So good. I’m definitely getting dessert.”

“And you just want to…” Bruce mimed closing his hands around a neck, “wring them by their skinny little neck and say ‘I know you’re LYING to me, you little SHIT!’”

The couple jerked.

“‘I know you’ve been lying to me,’” Bruce continued, caught up in his fantasy. “‘I know allllll your lies! But I pretended not to notice, because I wanted you to be comfortable! Well, fat lot of good that did!” He slammed his hands on the table. The glasses chinked. Selina chewed on her calamari. “’Because now, NOW? You’re screwing up your own life!’” He yanked the wine glass and downed the contents.

The room was silent. Simon cleared his throat while Maggie shifted in her seat. Selina waved their waiter over and asked for another entrée to go.

Bruce closed his eyes, letting the wine fill his senses as a reprieve. “But yeah,” he said after a moment, “Other than that. Kids are great.”

Was the I-95 made out of fucking lava? He could hardly feel his feet, they felt like they had been freezer-burned like old strawberries.

“Switch!” shouted Stephanie. Tim gratefully sprang forward and dashed into the front seat. He would feel bad, would feel like he was slacking, but he knew his turn would come again. He and Steph had managed the time required to catch a breath before switching. Tim had expected to do it all by himself but Stephanie hadn’t let him. And he was glad of it.

Steph was just…wonderful. In good times and in bad, Steph supported him. Even when he was being an idiot.

He was…glad to be taking this next step with her. Taking the plunge. After all, if not now, then when?

The feelings bunched up in his chest, shooting down his veins, so he stuck his head out the window. “Steph!” he shouted. He sat up further, tucking a knee on the seat. “STEPH! Steph, I love you!”

“Thank you!” she shouted back. “And here I thought you were only with me for my ass!”

Tim shook his head. “No listen,” he instructed, leaning out as far as possible, “I love you! I really, really do!”

The car stopped.

“Really?!”

“Yes!”

The car began moving again.

“I love you too!”

Tim grinned. “I think this is going to work!” he shouted again. “What we’re doing, I think it’s going to work this time!”

“Us or the car?” she shouted.

“BOTH!” he hollered. “SWITCH!”

Tim hopped out and Stephanie ran forward. Instead of going around the front, Tim circled back and almost smashed into her. They both laughed, breathless and exhausted.

“September,” she reminded him, shaking her hair off her face, halfway in the car.

“September,” he repeated, already making his way to the back.

They smiled.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

A beat.

“Is this guy seriously honking?!”

“So when I said, ‘Let’s have lunch with my sister and her husband, tell ‘em about the engagement, really let them get to know you,’ you heard ‘have an absolute meltdown at the table; just fuck with them,’” Selina said, laughing. She swiped at her smeared lipstick and shut the sun visor mirror, leaning back and scrunching her hair in one hand. Bruce groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice muffled. “I really screwed that up, huh?”

“Nah.” She popped one of the complimentary mints in her mouth. “I told them you thought you were Christian Bale, today is your method acting day.”

He looked up. “You did not.”

“Nope.”

“Selina.”

She giggled, leaning over to massage his shoulders. “What’s the deal with you today? You’re so tense,” she complained, fingers digging at a muscle knot.

He sighed, but not in pleasure. Selina frowned. She pinched him.

“Ow,” he said dully, yet didn’t bother to push her away. She sat back anyway.

Selina huffed. “Really, what’s going on?” she asked, crossing her arms. Bruce didn’t respond. “Don’t make me pinch you again,” she threatened, holding her fingers like pincers.

Her fiancé turned on the car, grumbling, “What do you think is going on? I just told every staff member of Vivace about my problems, not to mention my new family members.”

“Tim? Still?”

He frowned at her incredulity. “Yes, Tim, still,” he said, taking a sharp turn into traffic. A horn blared behind them.

“Aw, baby.”

“He’s just,” Bruce sighed. “I can’t…”

“I know,” she murmured. “Have you tried talking to him?”

He frowned.

“Bruce?”

No response.

“Bruce.”

“He won’t answer any of my calls,” he admitted irritably. That fact stuck like a thorn. Worse than a thorn. More like a two-by-four. And he had been hit by them before, he knew what it felt like. “He told me to stay away from him.”

“Did you?”

He didn’t reply.

Tim didn’t want to be around him. Every instance of Tim’s new life, every personal decision, from age seventeen onward, had created distance. At this point, Bruce would believe that it was purposeful. But just what had he done so wrong? What had made Tim wake up one day and decide to schedule Bruce out from Monday to eternity?  

Had Bruce failed? Worse yet, had Tim realized that and moved on?

Bruce wasn’t a proponent on fairness, but he did believe in justice. And justice was fair. And that meant that Bruce would get another chance, would get to see his son succeed and not be stuck choosing something he thought was right, something he had trained for. Something he thought was meant for, something that had made sense at a young age but wisdom and experience and death had tempered. Something that broke him, warped him, made him unable to recognize himself through the bruises. Something that was a lifelong mission and that sounded so grand at twenty-two, but at thirty-two it stings and at forty-two it aches. Something that made him less than what he was, what he should have been, if he only had just…taken a moment.

“Are you sure it’s the ring you’re worried about?”

Bruce blinked. “Pardon?”

“Is it marriage that concerns you?” Selina asked, peering at him with keen green eyes. She then smirked. “Should I be worried about that?”

“I just…don’t want him to do something he’ll regret,” he said, throat tight. Tim was still young. Too young. Tim was his, and Bruce had barely had him. To lose him to marriage, to adulthood? After everything? He didn’t think he could bear it.

“Well, look on the bright side,” Selina teased. “You haven’t heard from him. He could already be married. Then you have nothing more to worry about.”

Something caught his eye.

Tim’s location blinked on his phone. Bruce looked at it. He twisted the wheel.

“I’m going to confront him.”

“Okay, babe. I support you. Now, can you drop me off first before you—”

Bruce drove past her apartment.

“–okay.”

“Merge onto I-95,” instructed the GPS. Bruce flicked on his turn signal.

“You do realize I was just kidding about them eloping, right?”

Bruce didn’t reply.

Selina sighed, slipping on her sunglasses

“Here we go…”

[kdlovehg]

Chapter 2 - Twelve times the season - a festive everlark fic.

Oh look, I’ve finished another chapter. Enjoy. XO

Click for links to chapter 1 and summary - tumblr

Fanfiction

AO3

*****************************************

Chapter 2

First thing the next morning, Peeta received his first envelope from the letter carrier. After finishing his draft the night before, Peeta had made sure to write the post in his best handwriting and had then faxed it over to the head office, eager for them to have it published in time for the next morning. Now Peeta wasn't a fool, he'd made sure to add a footnote so that the publishers were aware of the situation and thus wouldn't put a copy of his column in any of the papers in his apartment building, except for his. Unfair? Perhaps. But it was better than risking Katniss nicking someone's paper and seeing it. This simply avoided the problem altogether.

He tore open the envelope and pulled out a single scoresheet. Now as this was a sponsorship, the company had made sure that there would be a way to track the number of papers being read from page one until the final word in the column. One common way was to check for any fingerprints on discarded papers, that way they'd know if the reader had flicked through the pages or not. They would also send out workers to see if people had chosen not to grab their paper at all as this was all important information in finding out how many people were reading it.

Two, was written in bold in the centre of the paper. Fifty views. No recommendations as of yet.

It wasn't the best start, because no recommendations meant that nobody in the town or wider part of Panem was talking about it but it was fine. He'd only just started. He turned over the page to see a few comments printed on the back, all of which must have been submitted back to the head office.

Mockygirl: Good luck! Can't wait to see where this goes.

Atrinketonthetree: Fabulous idea! Spread that cheer all through the year.

Unfortunately the last comment wasn't as promising as the first ones.

SwiftG: Just leave it. A Grinch ain't gonna change for you so don't bother.

Despite what the third reader had suggested, Peeta had already planned his first move to woo the little Grinch into the festive spirit. He washed, dressed and left just early enough to grab both Katniss' and his newspapers.

Once he'd collected them, he rode the elevator back up to their floor, checking the time as he went. She hadn't left yet so his plan should be perfect. He knocked on her door and listened for her voice, yet he was only greeted by a loud bark.

After waiting for a few moments he knocked again only to receive a muffled "What?".

"Its your neighbour" Peeta said, doing his best to sound perky. "Mellark. Peeta Mellark".

Silence.

Realising that he wasn't going away Katniss replied "Am I supposed to care?".

Peeta ignored her comment. "I brought gifts". That would work. It always did with the children, besides who didn't love free stuff.

"Don't need em".

"Should I leave it against your door?".

A pause.

"Leave what?".

Gotcha.

"Its a surprise. Don't you like surprises? I sure do. Puts you in a great mood for the day".

The door flew open and she stood in front of him, her skirt failing to conceal a layer of shaving cream that was painted across her leg. Katniss held the razor in her hand tightly as if it were a weapon she might strike him with. Her other arm was holding onto doorframe, creating a blockage for Mutty so that he couldn't escape. Regardless the dog peered over as if he too were curious about the surprise.

The familiar scowl settled back on her face. "I hate surprises".

"Here's your paper", he said, thrusting it towards her.

She grabbed it and tossed it over her shoulder, someone managing to make it land on her table. The accuracy was honestly quite impressive.

"You're welcome", he added, both of them knowing that she didn't appreciate the help. Before she could start mumbling under her breath he turned around and left with a "Have a good morning!".

"Whatever".

"You say that a lot don't you Everdeen?", he commented with a grin. For someone who he assumed was smart, she wasn't very creative with her responses.

"Do you mind? I'd like to finish what I started". Peeta tries not to think about her getting out of the shower when he knocked. Imagine if he made her open the door in a towel. Just for a paper she could've gotten herself. Goodness. It'd be hard to talk his way out of that.

"Go for it", he added, refusing to turn around. Granted it was a little rude but if she could do it then so could he. His nice deed had been done so he didn't owe her anything.

At least she hadn't slammed the door on him.

There was progress at least.

He returned to his room and waited for the familiar sound of her opening and closing her door as she left for work. Then seconds later he left to accompany her at the elevator.

Couldn't break tradition.

"What a coincidence", he lied as they entered and she pressed the button for the bottom floor. Katniss glared at him, clearly not believing a word he said.

He glanced over, seeing the familiar paper tucked under her arm. Perfect. Unintentionally, his gaze dropped back to her legs to see a small piece of paper peeking out from beneath her skirt.

She must have cut herself. Odd. Katniss didn't seem like the type to be distracted easily, but mistakes happen, he supposed.

"I hope that wasn't my fault" Peeta said, gesturing towards the injury.

Katniss huffed and tugged her skirt lower slightly so that he could no longer see it. "Course not".

It totally was.

She'd never admit it though.

"The little cuts are the worst kind".

She shrugged, avoiding conversation, but he heard the quiet "So are happy neighbours".

Well she thought he was the worst kind of neighbour? Perfect. The feeling was mutual.

"Forgive me, I was just trying to be helpful. Next time I'll knock and leave it at your door for when you leave".

"Don't".

"Don't what? Its too big to slide under your door".

"Don't be helpful" she insisted. Katniss didn't need anybody's help. The only thing she needed was for this elevator to hurry up. His voice was getting on her nerves.

"Its really not any trouble".

"I said don't".

"Alright", Peeta said, backing off. "If that's what you want".

"That's what I want" she said, finishing the conversation. Gosh he was annoying.

As soon as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, Katniss flew out of there, eager to get away from her neighbour. Peeta found it amusing to say the least. He'd never made someone run from him before.

"Enjoy your day", he called out after her, if only to wind her up more.

Finnick was right. Being nice wasn't half bad. It was the most entertainment he'd got in weeks.

As a treat, Peeta decided he'd go to a local store, 'The Hob', as it was the closest place to get produce. Inside it they also had a small counter of freshly baked goods, mainly breakfast items, and hot drinks which likely earned them all of their customers. As luck would have it, he noticed that Everdeen was four people ahead of him. Odd since he'd never seen her in the store before.

Despite knowing that he shouldn't, Peeta shouted out to her, his voice quickly getting the attention of the other patrons. "Katniss I didn't know you came here! You should of told me, I could've came earlier to grab you something".

Katniss tensed up, swallowing back a curse at the familiar voice. Of course she couldn't escape him. She knew she should've went straight to work. She just can't catch a break.

Sae, Peeta's favourite barista and the owner of the store, gave him a toothless grin. "Morning Peeta".

"And a good morning to you, lovely", he said with his typical charm. He gestured towards Katniss. "She's my neighbour. I'd like to buy her a hot chocolate".

Everdeen spins around, hand on hip and leans to the side so that she can see around the other people in line. "No. I can buy my own hot chocolate - and cheese buns", she added. "I'm very capable". She didn't want his money. She didn't want his help. Gosh she hoped he'd miss his train so that his day could be as annoying as hers .

"Consider it an apology", Peeta explained as Sae bagged the fresh, gooey buns. She handed it to Katniss along with her drink and waited for the outcome. Peeta knew the older woman must be confused, why would anyone refuse an act of kindness?

"No", Katniss stated and slapped the money down on the counter, capturing Sae's attention.

"Well if you insist", Peeta said as the queue moved towards the counter, every other barista completing their order quickly and with a smile. "I really am sorry. I'll be quieter next time. You won't hear a single Christmas noise from me" he lied. Rather than acknowledge his insincere apology, Katniss grabbed her goods and left the store, not even saying a goodbye to the woman who'd served her.

Peeta considered if Sae knew anything about the woman. Surely she's visited before, just at a different time perhaps? When it was his turn to order he asked, "That girl" and leaned slightly across the counter. He rubbed his face, playing up the curiosity as if the thought just happened to cross his mind. "She come here often?".

"Aw yeah all the time. She orders the same thing, never talks really but what can you do".

"I figured", he said politely. What did he expect? She was an older woman, hardly one to gossip. He asked for the usual hot chocolate and paid, and then gave Sae extra money with the memo that it was to pay for his neighbours order the following morning. "Tell her its from me". Katniss would have to accept his generosity one way or another.

"Well if you're sure boy. She seemed a bit mad about you trynna do it today though".

"She's like that. Talking ain't really her thing", he said as if he was actually friends with Everdeen. Sae handed him his coco.

"I noticed. I'll make sure to serve her tomorrow, just for you Peeta", she added with another grin. There's the community spirit he missed.

"Perfect. Thankyou Sae".

He turned to leave with his drink and added, "Just a shame I won't see her reaction".

Peeta hurried out the store and rushed to the platform, just in time as the train had already arrived. He slid through the doors as they closed and sipped his hot chocolate. What would Katniss do?

///////////////////////////////////

The man was driving Katniss crazy. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? He was obviously just doing it for the attention. No-one was that happy in general let alone in the morning, yet every day its the same smile that he greets everybody with. Katniss knew he was playing a game with her and she didn't like it one bit. So she decided she'd do what she did best - ignore him. Unfortunately he'd already managed to get her to talk on two separate occasions so far but that was a mistake. She knew better now. Walking quickly, Katniss headed towards the Justice building. Being late was never an option. She had bills to pay and a cut in her salary wouldn't help. Besides she had a schedule: work in the morning and then for lunch she would go home, grab a snack, get changed and take Mutty out. Then once the dog was all tired out - which seemed to be never the older that he got - she would quickly wash and change back into her work uniform. Then she'd leave just as he'd settle down for his nap. It wasn't always that way, but Haymitch's building didn't allow dogs so she had to take him in. The more she thought about it, the worse she felt. Katniss loved her Uncle - even though he was a pain - and she was grateful for all that he did in raising her. Luckily he seemed to adjust well to the new place, and by that she meant, she had yet to receive a complaint from the complex.

Even when she was young, Katniss knew she wasn't a people person. Her father had tried many times to help her make friends but she hated everything about it. She'd much rather sit alone in the woods and study the animals. That's why her job in agriculture suited her. She could spend time away from people as often as she wanted to. People were dangerous. Animals were smart. They knew to be careful with their trust and she'd been fooled before. She didn't even want to think of Gale's betrayal. No - it was over. Her mind had moved on.

"Morning Miss Everdeen!", the receptionist said in greeting. She was unusual as the place was known to be quite cold and workers were stoic, but Katniss didn't mind as the girl was never mad at a lack of a reply. On her counter sat a small Christmas tree with ribbons wrapped around it and trinkets hung from the branches. It did nothing for Katniss' mood but she supposed some of her colleagues might like seeing the sight.

With a nod in her direction, Katniss moved on. She didn't remember the young girl's name, or perhaps she hadn't bothered to ask. It didn't matter she supposed. The less familiar she was with people the better. She closed the door behind her, glad to be back in her office. Silent. Alone. Perfect. It gave her time to ponder her odd neighbour. He was a nice guy. That wasn't unusual, but why now was he trying so hard to get her attention? And why did she care?

////////////////////

After work, Peeta headed down to 'Monsieur Cornucopia', a building full of different clubs for young children, so that he could help them with their holiday program and then he travelled to the orphanage. He'd had a good day - better than yesterday at least. The shoppers seemed more patient and they sold out of a lot of fish. He liked to think that it was some type of good karma, for trying to be nice to Everdeen. Sure she rebuffed it, but these things take time.

The kids in the orphanage enjoyed the singing and loved the chance to sing to those in their community that were often forgotten; the elderly, the homeless, even some of the new mothers. The previous week they'd sung at the local hospital, for the new parents, most of whom were underage and thus looked down on. The children didn't judge them though. Maybe that's why he liked them so much. They were just jolly, none of them needed a reason for it, unlike some people.

This week the children were heading down to The Seam. The small living-complex located on the outskirts of twelve, didn't always sound like the ideal place to take children but they wouldn't mind it. He knew how excited they were. Some even hoped to see their old relatives, after being separated from them for good reason. They wouldn't understand that though. They didn't care.

By nine-thirty, Peeta made it back to the lobby, he was exhausted, but still in a good mood. He headed towards the lockers to check for any mail - if it was a special delivery letter then the carrier would take it straight to the room but anything else was just stored in the designated box. As he unlocked, the locker, he grabbed his mail and began flicking through the envelopes. Bills. Gas. Water. No Christmas cards yet but there was still a chance for those that could afford to send them, to do so this year. In his peripheral vision he caught sight of a familiar brunette. Everdeen. He wondered were she'd been as she was dressed in the same clothes that she would wear when taking her dog out but he was sure she must have done so already, and the little fella wasn't with her so she must have been somewhere else. The faint smell of sweat tickles his nose but he doesn't comment on it. She'd probably take it as an insult anyway. Although, he glanced her way, she did seem to be pretty athletic. That was a nice surprise. Not that he should be looking. It was her body, who cared what he thought of it. He looked away before she could catch him. Maybe she'd cuss him out, out loud this time. He didn't want that, it could ruin her mood for tomorrow and then she'd never appreciate his gift.

Katniss kept quiet. Of course she'd seen him, subtlety wasn't his forte, but she chose not to comment. She'd had enough interaction with him for one day. A week even. She just wanted to relax so she watched as he shut his locker closed. She checked her locker quickly, and seeing that it was empty, she closed it again and as had become the custom, the two of them rode the elevator together in blissful silence. Katniss made a point to stand in the corner so that she could have as much space away from him as possible. She needed time to breathe. There were too many people around at this time of year. Peeta chose not to acknowledge the distance between them and when they finally reached their floor, they separated and headed for their own apartment. For some odd reason, Peeta felt as if she was watching him - just staring at his back because he wouldn't see her. Rather than turn around he glanced over his shoulder at her to see the usual scowl on her face. Lovely.

Katniss couldn't figure out why he still hadn't spoken to her. She liked it obviously but it didn't seem right. Just hours ago he was bugging her and now he was content with silence?

Peeta forced a smile in her direction, "Have a good evening, Katniss".

"You don't look good".

His eyebrows jumped up. No way.

She spoke. Goodness had he broken her already?

"Its been a long day" he said, testing the waters. He wouldn't draw this conversation out, that was up to her.

Unfortunately for him, that answer seemed to satisfy her enough and she spun on her heel and disappeared into her apartment.

Accepting defeat, Peeta entered his own apartment and collapsed onto the chair. He wasn't making a lot of progress. But it was only day one. At least he knew there was promise there. Yet before he drifted off to sleep, he remembered that the day was over and thus it was time to start his second column entry. With a huff he hauled himself off of the chair and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. He wondered what the commenters would think of it this time.

Twelve times the season - Entry 2

December 15th

A letter and a lady

Operation Grinch to little elf is officially underway, ladies and gentlemen. Have I granted her a cheerful smile today? Oh yes. Did I give her the gift of a surprise? Why certainly! She just hasn't warmed up to the idea yet. Since seeing me this morning, I'm fairly certain she now wishes she'd succumbed to the festivity weeks ago but alas it is too late and thus my presence is here to help.

What wonderful thing did I do you ask? I woke up early - gave up a full ten minutes of sleep for this woman - and trekked downstairs to retrieve her newspaper so that the Lady wouldn't have to even spare a second to locate it. Not only that, but I offered to buy her breakfast. She refused of course, but at least I've set the tone for the next few days. And not only that twelve but I've bought her breakfast for tomorrow. How convenient is that? A lovely way to start her morning I'd say. I can't wait to here about how she reacts to that.

However something occurred once nightfall hit. A strange encounter one might say. I was merely collecting my mail in the lobby when she appeared. Odd but not unusual. Coincidences happen. From previous experience I knew how these encounters would go. If I were to strike up conversation, especially when she is at the end of her day, then I was sure to be ignored, and I didn't feel like finishing my night on a sour note. Now granted I know I'm not her favourite person, but I don't believe I'm the only one. It seems the one with the problem is her.

Now I like to believe that my newfound fascination with her is unsettling. How do I know? Well I changed tactics for a moment. I was tired and thus gave her the cold shoulder. And did she like that twelve? Oh no.

She cracked.

It was small. An ever so small dent in her façade as she asked me how I was. Were I not so exhausted I would have revelled in her words. Am I getting to her? Who knows. Its still early but I'm optimistic people.

I'll end it here for now until I can figure out a new way to... sweeten her up. In fact, I think I might have just found one.

[the-goat-writer-blog]

Segment of Novel for Y2 University Seminar (Draft for Assessment) (2015)

Chapter 1

  I washed off the red under the outside tap of the house across from us. After, I took the knife and stashed it in the wheelie bin. Wrapped it in whatever rags I could get my hands on; shabby white blouse off the line, probably abandoned like the rest of the place. That was behind me now; about three miles and counting. Well, guessing. I’d been walking for maybe an hour, maybe two; didn’t matter. Point is, I was away.

The brunt of it didn’t hit me until I’d reached The Stoke. I imagine I must’ve looked a bit mad to the punters, stumbling to the gents, and white as sheet. Lucky there was a game on, Chelsea v Spurs, I think; a decent clump of heads didn’t even turn to look when I walked in.

So there I was; hands tight on a grimy sink, knuckles as drained as my face, struggling to hold my own weight above the jelly that used to be my legs. The gents was empty except for me, thank god. The room was still and cold; a window above was ajar though the angle was steep and the crack small. Frosted glass blocked a view to the rough country blackness. However, despite how far my mind ran, I soon noticed there was more life around me than the simply thunder of my own pulse, and the rush of my breath. I could hear muffled jeers of the locals floating from the door to my back; and a voice on the TV, clinical and sure.

…Taking the first corner of the game… Stepping up.

I stroked the rough hairs on my chin and stared at the blurred mass before me. The heat of my breath had condensed the glass and yet I think, without it I still wouldn’t have recognised the face.

…High number of red cards this season. Higher than any other team in the division…

 It was surreal, to see a thing you’d seen so many times before – a thing you attributed meaning – and feel it strange.

…He’s probably the best performer on the squad, but he’s had an unfortunate game, Geoff. It’s a real shame, and I hope we can see him do better next game.

I stood there for a while. Must have been about ten minutes but it felt like an age. Just staring. Staring at the face in the mirror. Was it really my own? Then, as if to shake me loose from paralysis, the door came quickly swinging open. The roar of the punters rose and fell as the man entered and the door swung shut behind him. Regaining my wits, I splashed my face with water from the faucet and wiped my eyes dry. Before leaving the room, I took one last look at the reflection. I saw then the glass was broken; a series of cracks distorted the left side and ran the full length of the mirror. It was in me to blame my distaste for the face which stared back on this fact, but I could not. I knew that was wishful thinking. If you were to remove the cracks, repair the mirror, the face would stay the same. In a way it was broken too.

It’s time for me to get this down. So here I am. After all, I promised I’d explain everything before the end. Everything that happened, everything I am, everything I should’ve told you from the beginning. As you can probably imagine there’s quite a bit in-between now and that night in The Stoke, and even more around it that I need you to understand. So while I write this now – sitting in the house I own, in clothes I don’t, and blood I’ve spent on a life I can’t continue – I want you to know, all I’m thinking about is you, Sarah.

  Chapter 2

  If you’re reading this it means one of two things: I’m out. Or I’m dead. Either way, I need you to understand what I’ve done. And get ready, because this is one hell of a final vow, Sarah. So you best not skip a single word.

  I met with her the day before. Who, she says, staring at the page with that ruffled brow. The iron lady. The shrink I told you about once; maybe you weren’t listening. It’s okay, I wish I could forget her too. Face like Thatcher’s ghost, voice like her too – except more shrill. I thought psychiatrists were supposed to be calming to spend time with. She’s succeeded at one thing I suppose: at least it’s not my own throat I want to wring now. Then again, I didn’t need to, did I? Old bat went and fell down an elevator shaft last week. I bet you’re pretending to feel sad now. If you could remember her you’d say you hated her too. And you only met her once. And no, of course I didn’t have anything to do with that. I know you’re wondering. Just a little.

Anyway, I walked in at about twenty-past nine. God knows how or why I was up at 9AM on a Tuesday. Bad dreams, maybe. The reason it was twenty-past and not nine on the dot was due to the grim bastard that preceded me, He was old, so naturally he was slow. Like, real slow. Talked like Gary Barlow crossed with that tree guy from The Two Towers, and walked like every step was his first. Face as grey as Newcastle sky; head hung low, almost in his hands. As I passed him at the threshold I thought, damn, maybe my problems aren’t so bad. But looking back now, maybe this guy was just used to another level. Some people are not cut out for dark times like us, Sarah; but they’re in me, have been all my life, and I suppose in a way that makes me lucky. That’s the kind of optimism that Thatcher throws at me, anyhow. Disgusting. If any of that crap sticks I better be dead by the time you read this or else I’m going to need you to end me. Like putting down a dog. It’s just kinder.

Good morning, Gren, she said to me politely, albeit annoyingly, as I took a seat on the sofa. Light green, cheap, that kind of artificial fur stuff that leaves really clear marks if you part it with your fingers. I hated that green; reminded me of those horrible knockoff marshmallows I used to get as a kid. What ever happened to the cosy rose red like in all the films, I thought. How’ve you been feeling, she said. A question my own mother has never asked me, so it’s easy to imagine my discomfort in these meetings. I should probably mention at this point that her name was Mary. The shrink’s, not my mother.

Fantastic. That was my usual response, cut with a dry sort of irony. She didn’t press it, even though I knew she heard it. I just figured I’d stop by, long time no see, I went on.

Yes, amazing, she replied, sarcastically. Especially since my office is appointment only.

Banter, I suppose I’d call it. Lying, you’d call it. You get the gist anyway; we can skip ahead for time, I think.

I’m worried about a friend, I said, roughly ten minutes later. Mary sat with her legs crossed, a notepad on her lap which she had touched only to scribble ‘Defensive’ on earlier in the conversation, and her eyes peered over slim black spectacles to study me on the green flump.

Is this the same friend who I’ve heard about in the past, she inquired snidely, her eyes narrowing. The same friend whom you told me – she took a moment to flick through her notes, then briefly halted on an older page – needed to make six thousand bar at the dogs or he’d have his right hand removed, she recited the quote as if she herself hadn’t written it. The language was strange to her but I knew exactly what she was referring to. Mainly because that friend was me. And yes, I made the cash on time. Obviously.

Yeah, the same one, I answered defiantly. He might be a bit fucked this time.

What seems to be the problem, she said, and then after a moment added: with your friend. I sighed loudly, it must have been clear to her that I didn’t trust her. Nothing personal, and I’m sure she knew that too, I simply don’t trust anyone. Not even you, Sarah. Not yet.

He’s going to die tomorrow. Mary didn’t react immediately, as people do when they’re not sure you’re serious. But soon silence lends weight to words and breeds honesty, belief. She turned slightly in her seat, unconsciously edging her ear closer and cocked her head to the other side.

What makes you think that?

He’s in deep with the wrong crowd.

He can always speak to the police.

I turned to face her. I’ve never been good at threats, but faces I can craft. One look to let her know that that would be impossible, a bad idea, and one look to warn her. She took my meaning and retreated very slightly.

Perhaps, she paused, her own words seemed to pain her, and I knew that what she was about to say was not strictly ‘correct’. She had often given her thoughts this way, after a length of conversation. The only reason I would come to her still, through all of my discomfort.

Perhaps your friend could find a way around this arrangement. He seems to have a knack for self-preservation, has he considered applying that skill? She spoke slowly, carefully choosing her words as not to lead.

No way out this time, I’m afraid. If he doesn’t go they’ll find him. Or worse, they’ll find her. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

There are other ways of avoiding ends, Mary said quietly. I thought for a moment as to what she meant by that. The question seemed to mould my face, which Mary noticed. She smiled, a hint of fear on her lips, then shook her head and shrugged. Maybe we should change the subject, she said at full, shrill volume, once again.

I had nothing more to say. This time it seemed the request was too far beyond my psychiatrist’s scope, and so I’d have to find my answers elsewhere.

Therefore, with no time to waste I thanked her for her time and departed.

  I still wonder what Mary might have been suggesting. I wonder if she would’ve been surprised at my solution, had she lived long enough to hear of it. Or afraid? Or proud? We never truly know the measure of a person until we confront them with the barest of our truths. The grubbiest and most animalistic parts of humanity. When you discover my solution, Sarah, what will you feel? I’m not worried. But I know you are. But not of the truth; not of what I’ve done. But what I’ll say. You know I’ve seen your measure, and I know just what to say. So will I lie? When it comes to it, will I alter my story so it hits you just right, so that you’ll forgive me?

Will you know when I’m lying?

  Mary knew when I was lying. Shrink tricks, I guess.

(Experimenting a little with first-person perspective - I’d used it a few times before but not to this extent: attempting to build a personality for the perspective character as well as a compelling opening for the narrative. Additionally, this was the first time I’d actually tried to input some humour to my writing... not sure if any of the jokes will land, especially since the tone might be confusing - I was aiming for black comedy. Either way, I’m happy with this, probably moreso than the Y2 piece I actually submitted.

P.S: my class hated the indirect speech thing.)