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honeyhenry · 4 years ago

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Captain Confusion

A/N: Inspired by this video that makes me weep with its cuteness! I just had to write this okay 🥺🥺🥺 This is in the same universe as Homeward Bound, which happens after this story. Feel free to give it a read after this, if you haven’t already! ALSO should note that the lovely @ohmygoodie is my Sy partner in crime and without them this fic would not be made possible :)

Warning: mention of operations/hospitals, and a whole lot of fluff!

It was a simple procedure and so it hadn't worried you too much, other than the usual fears when a loved one is under the knife while in the hands of trained doctors. Sy’s hernia had been authorised for operation only five minutes into the doctor’s appointment you had all but dragged him to, and scheduled for 4 days later. Not really much time to prepare mentally, but you knew it was necessary with your big bear of a man in pain. Despite the painkillers prescribed, he was walking with a limp and groaning in bed for all the wrong reasons.

In the waiting room, you and his Ma kept busy during the 45 minute wait by looking through magazines, talking about how the Captain’s quality of life will improve, and what kind of minor jobs you’ll have him do around the house while he’s recovering as you continue to work.

“I hope the recovery isn’t as long as some people have said. I know for a fact he’ll not want to be cooped up all day. If he’s anything, he’s stubborn” you sigh, knowingly.

Ma smiles, looking at you pointedly, knowing that she is in the presence of the only other soul who knows what is best for her son. “He knows better now that his health is his wealth. He’s got a lot more riding on being well now. After all, it’s not just him he’s gotta be there for anymore.”

“Yeah, I mean I always tell him, he’s not 25 anymore. Or even 30. I’ll need you to back me up, he does anything you say. I’m his equal, you’re his Mom.”

You both laugh a little, hers warm and kind, while yours tinges with the remaining hopeful nerves of an army Captain’s wife. You don’t like not knowing about your Sy, especially since you spent all those years apart, not knowing if he was safe, or even alive. The waiting, in any capacity, is the hardest part.

You’re flipping through a random tabloid magazine, when the surgeon in charge walks through to the waiting room.

“Everything went really well with Captain Syverson. He’s coming to from the anaesthetic and asking for his Ma?”

Ma grins before sucking her teeth between her lips watching as your mouth drops. You both move from the waiting area to follow the surgeon towards where your husband is resting. You speak under your breath, only wanting Sy’s Ma to hear you; “I hope he still remembers how to grovel after this.”

Ma enters the room with you following her, arriving only a couple more corridors along from where you’d last seen him earlier that morning. He may not have asked for you but you were going to see Sy whether he wanted it or not. A grand push of the door allows it to swing open, and suddenly there he is. A little disoriented but has a large dopey smile plastered on his face as soon as he sees his Ma. His heavy head lolls to one side as he rests it on the plush hospital pillow.

“Hey Ma” he groans out as she bends over her large son to give his forehead a kiss, taking his hand in hers. He spends a moment just gazing at her for a while, the love he has for her evident on his face, as she tells him that everything went well, and that he can go home tomorrow.

It’s only after this tender mother and son moment, that he notices you.

“Ma.... why ya bringing a beautiful girl here when I’m like this...oh god I’m not wearing underwear Ma!”

His feeble attempt at trying to cover himself means that you actually end up seeing far more of him than you expected. Nothing you hadn’t seen before, but it definitely hasn't happened in front of his own mother before. The whole situation makes you blush and giggle a little as you try your best to avoid eye contact with Ma. You can only imagine the look on her face, and you don’t want to get any more involved with Sy’s naked form than you need to right now.

Rather than put you and your poor Sy through any further embarrassment, Ma speaks up.

“Oh darlin’, this is y/n. You remember her, right?”

And while he’s listening - or at least pretending to listen to his Ma fussing over him again - he’s just staring at you, gazing in awe as if you were the one to hang the stars in the sky.

“You are.... so pretty” he slurs, making you break out a genuine smile that he mirrors, glad that he was the one to make you look even more pretty.

“Well thanks handsome. How do you feel?” you perch on the edge of the bed and hold his hand. To him, the gesture feels warm and inviting - even if he doesn't know you, he recognises something about you in the comfort that you bring.

“Feel like shit. Oh fuck i said ‘shit’ in front of the lady” he whines again, scrunching his eyes closed as hangs his head in shame. It looks like he might even cry with the realisation that he’s made such a foolish impression of himself. It takes Ma shushing him and making him take a sip of juice from his bedside to calm down, dabbing his face with a cloth when his juice spills from his mouth.

“Oh Logan Daniel Syverson...what did they do to ya?” she lightly scolds as she helps clean up the mess he’s unknowingly created around him. That’s your Sy, a hurricane of mess that somehow fits into order just how he likes it.

You giggle a little more at his shameful expression, before he refocuses, giving you his undivided attention once more.

“How is it that ya know my Ma and we’ve never met? Or have we? ‘Cause I think i’d remember a face like yours”

“Well...” you start, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear to let him see your entire face, hoping it would jog his memory. As you do so, the ring on your fourth finger glints in the hospital light, and for the first time since you've entered the room, he’s noticed.

“Oh...man...knew a girl like you would be snatched up already. Whoever has the honour of being yours is a very lucky man.” He smiles softly, a wistful look in his eye, while makes you realise that you can’t wait for the drugs to leave his system, you have to remind him who you are and who he is, right this very moment.

“Sy honey... we’re married. You’re my husband, and I’m your wife. I think the drugs are making you more than a bit loopy.”

It’s his turn for his jaw to drop, his eyes are unblinking as he takes in what you’ve just said. He turns sharply - more than his doctor would have probably liked - to his Ma, and then back to you, and then his Ma again, waiting for one of you to burst out laughing at the prank you surely must be playing on him.

“Wha-? A wife? I have a wife?” you nod and he exhales a deep breath of air in amazement.

“YOU’RE my wife? Really?” you nod again and Ma smiles at you as she watches the scene of Logan meeting you all over again.

“Am I still in the army? I’m a Captain ya know”

“You left just a few months ago. You still work in the local camps, of course. You like it there, and you’re home every night and most weekends.”

“Does Ma like you?” You don’t even get a chance to finish as he turns to his mother “Do you like her? is she nice? Does she like your new kitchen? I built it y’know.”

You knew when you met, dated, and married him, that Sy was a Momma’s boy. He loves his mother so much, that her opinion will always mean the world to him.

Ma nods “You two are the sweetest couple. She’s the best addition to the family, gives you a run for your money alright. She’s my new favourite.” You get a soft hug from her as she says this, with her wrapping her arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. She’s always felt so grateful that her Logan found you, because my goodness did he love you ferociously, and he needed you in his life. You were the making of him, and the whole Syverson clan will forever be grateful to you for it.

"And where did we get married? If we really are married.” He continues his line of questioning.

“At the ranch, on your family’s land. it was such a special day. We had the reception there too. And we went to Italy for our honeymoon.”

Sy is basking in every word you say, praying it to be true, as if he could will it into existence if it hadn’t already happened, wanting badly to remember sunset kisses and italian food and beach days all spent with you. He perks up at the last thing you say, taken by complete surprise.

“Honeymoon?! Oh my god have we...ya know..?” A blush fades over Sy’s face, and even though you love his Ma, you really wish she wasn’t finding out so many details about your personal life today, like how your son rails you on the regular in many ways, and in many places. He must somehow remember or at least accurately imagine your past endeavours, as he grins like a little shit.

You smack his arm, lightly but with a firm hand.

“Be quiet, or the whole ward will know about our sex life” you threaten. “Yes we’ve had sex. i’d hope so given that we have a kid on the way.”

If Ma had had to deal with her son getting horny over his “new”wife, she was being fully compensated for it as she witnessed him fall head over heels in love with you, all over again.

“A kid?...Tell me ya not messing with me...are we really- I-” he swallows and his tears come even easier than before “We’re havin’ a baby?” With the sudden realisation, he turns to his Ma. “This beautiful woman right here’s havin’ my kid, Ma?” He looks between the two of you again, watching as you both nod and beam from ear to ear.

“You know you cried just as much when i told you for the first time too. i promise when the drugs are out your system it’ll all make sense again.”

Sy smiles, clutching your hand in his warm palm, almost scared to let go as the door is knocked and he feels you might be taken away. Instead, it’s a welcome visitor.

“Hey doc,” Sy greets the man who reenters the room, now freshly out of scrubs to visit his patient - who if anything is now simply love sick, no hernia to be found. “This is my wife, and she’s having a baby.” he looks back to you with a quirk of his eyebrow “My baby?” You roll your eyes and he confirms it; “my baby.”

“Oh, congratulations...again.”

The doctor’s evaluation and explanations don’t take long, and while Sy is being informed, you start rubbing your belly as a form of self-comfort. You will need to remind your child that while their father looks incredibly stern and impossibly large, he is silly and goofy and already loves them with his entire being. Over the course of the afternoon, Sy talks with you while the anaesthetic wears off. It turns out they had given him a pretty high dosage based on his height and muscle mass, so he would be out of action for a couple of hours at least.

“Oh, i have your ring” you pipe up before he starts getting too sleepy again, taking the thick gold band off of the necklace around your neck, placing it on his finger carefully.

“That feels better already” he sighs, as he begins to doze in and out of consciousness. Before he closes his eyes once more to rest peacefully, a small tear slides down his cheek, which you of course, notice. Sy has cried maybe 5 times in the time you’ve known him and three of those times have been in this very room.

“Honey what’s wrong? Are you in pain? i can call the doctor-”

“No i’m fine i’m fine i just-” he sniffs and tries to clear his throat from the sad, heavy pain he feels in his chest. “I’m gonna be real sad when I wake up from this dream. What if I can’t find you when I wake up?”

Oh your sweet, silly man.

“Bear it’s not a dream, I’ll be right here when you get up properly and we can go home and cuddle and I’ll heat up your favourite meal. I’ll be right there with you.”

“And the baby?” he asks, eyes wide. almost nervous to ask.

“Well they have to come too, they're with me. We can look at their pictures again so you can get reacquainted. And Aika will be so happy you’re back. We’ve been gone the whole day.”

“Aika!” your husband perks up, “Oh Aika, man....I love that dog..”

“I know you do bear, you just get some rest for now and then we can go home.”

Before you know it, he’s fallen back to sleep, his mouth wide open as he slumps against his pillow, completely out of it.

It’s dark outside when Sy opens his eyes again, watching as his Ma passes you a small herbal tea in the dimly lit hospital room. Technically visiting hours are over, but no one was going to argue with the Captain’s family. You smile, and he feels like he can finally relax, in your presence

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes” he growls lowly, and you look up at him from your phone, beaming in surprise, glad that your husband had woken up feeling a bit more like himself.

“Oh hello again” you smile and squeeze his hand, his slow blinking already indicating a much clearer mind, and that he knows exactly who you are.

“Again? What’d I miss?”

“The drugs” he stops you mid-sentence for a sweet kiss, acting as though a minute more without your lips would be the source of his downfall. “Mmmh, the drugs made you so loopy, it was the sweetest thing, Sy.” You grin as he pulls you up beside him on the bed.

He raises his eyebrows, clearly with no recollection of any of the past events. Yet still, he smiles.

“Yeah? How’s baby?” he holds you close to his side, wrapping an arm around your waist so he can cover your tummy with his palm.

“They’re great. Glad to have daddy back and sane.”

You swear that as you say that, he starts tearing up again, this time however he doesn’t let them fall. He was openly weeping earlier, but you won’t tell him that. Not yet.

“Damnit. Must be something in these drugs they got me on.”

“Mm-hmm sure bear.”

You stay close that evening, both curled up on a hospital bed that is already quite a tight fit for your husband alone. But as always, he makes it work. You’re half on top of him, both of you fast asleep, when the nurses come to do their rounds. Ma had left just after he had woken up, sneaking off into the night to let the rest of the family know how her most middle son is keeping after the operation. You’d cuddled and doted on each other until you’d fallen asleep, Sy following not long after as he bid goodnight to you and your precious cargo with a soft kiss to your lips, and protective rub of your stomach.

He counts himself more than lucky to have something so good, that it would pain him to forget. He was living the life that he’d been too scared to ever dream of, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

taglist: @ohmygoodie @michelehansel @la-cey @palaiasaurus64 @sassy-pelican @brandycranby

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fridayfirefly · 4 years ago

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Lost and Found [Part Eleven]

Masterlist | Ao3

Despite the fact that he didn't get to bed until 2 AM that morning, Damian still woke up at 6 AM with the sunrise. Sleep deprivation was the last worry on his mind when his Soulmate - beautiful, breathtaking Marinette - was sleeping just one hall down from him.

He met Alfred in the kitchen, already preparing for the meals of the day. The waffle batter was already mixed, coffee was already brewing, and butter was already softening on the counter. "Do you need any help preparing breakfast?"

Alfred shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, but I pride myself in my ability to keep this kitchen under control, no matter how many visitors we have. Besides, I'm sure you would rather spend your morning getting ready for your day with your Soulmate than in the kitchen with me."

Damian nodded. "I'll see you at breakfast, then."

"I look forward to meeting Miss Dupain-Cheng."

Damian left the kitchen and made his way to the gardens, thinking about the night before.

They had gotten back to the Manor at 1:30 AM, too late for the Parisian guests to meet the Wayne family. Damian walked Marinette to her room to let her get some rest, wishing all the while that they could stay up together until the sunrise. Rationally, he knew that Marinette needed her sleep, especially with the drastic time change, but his emotions refused to let her go so soon. However, logic won out in the end, and he kissed her cheek and wished her goodnight. As Damian walked Chloé to her room, taking over for Jason while his brother packed his bags back in his Gotham apartment, Damian asked Chloé for a favor. There was a certain plan he wanted to put into action, that he needed some assistance with. Chloé agreed to help him out and their plan was set: in the morning, Chloé would bring Marinette to her room so that the two girls could get ready together, while Damian brought to Marinette's room a vase of fresh-cut flowers and a handwritten letter asking to take her on a date.

Chloé called his plan "sickeningly romantic", but said it with the sort of wistful smile that made Damian send a text to Jason advising his brother to bring flowers for his own Soulmate. Maybe it was sickeningly romantic, Damian thought over the concept, but he knew that it wasn't a bad thing. Emotions had been difficult for him at first, growing up the way he did, but he now knew better than to try and hide that part of himself from Marinette.

Damian already picked out which flowers to cut days in advance, fragrant purple wisteria and delicate white roses, which he got from the garden before the morning dew had burned off of them. He placed them in the glass vase, arranging and re-arranging them the whole way up to Marinette's room. He knocked on the door, and when there was no reply, he nudged it open. A flash of red by the window caught his eyes, but by the time his eyes focused on the spot, nothing was there. Shrugging it off as a trick of the light, Damian placed the vase of flowers on her bedside table and set down the note beside it. The note, which despite its simplicity had taken several drafts to perfect, read: Dear Marinette, I hope you slept well last night. Breakfast will be served at 8:00 AM. With your permission, I would like to spend today showing you around the city. Once the wedding approaches, I'm certain that we will both be busier, so I would like to get as much time with you now as possible. Sincerely, your Soulmate, Damian

With his plan completed, Damian left the room to go get ready for his first day with Marinette. He quickly sent a text to Chloé, giving her the all-clear to let Marinette return to her room.

Damian had just gotten out of the shower when he saw a note sitting on his bathroom counter. In what was unmistakably Marinette's handwriting, Dear Damian, I would love to go on a date with you today. Sincerely, your Soulmate, Marinette.

Damian breathed out a sigh of relief as the lingering doubt that Marinette might have changed her mind in the last six hours faded away. It is a silly fear, one that Damian wasn't used to indulging in. However, Marinette seemed to bring out all the little human characteristics that the League of Shadows had trained out of him when he was young. A younger Damian would have hated Marinette for it, but in the present day, in the privacy of his room, Damian smiled and let the feeling of relief wash over him.

——————————————————————

Marinette, Chloé, and Nino were all at the dining room table with Jon when Damian entered the room. Marinette brightened up as soon as she saw him. "Damian!" If Damian thought that Marinette looked beautiful last night (which he did) with tangled hair and tired eyes from a seven-hour plane ride, she looked downright breathtaking that morning, in a pretty pale pink dress, with her hair done up in a bun, tendrils curling around her face.

"Good morning, Marinette. I hope you slept well."

"I slept great." A look of annoyance took over Marinette's face. "Even though someone woke me up early on someone else's orders." Marinette's expression shifted from indignation to a bright smile. "I did appreciate the flowers, though, so thank you for those."

"You're very welcome." Damian was pleased that she liked them. He was a little troubled by how intently he was watching her facial expression. "Concerning our date tonight-"

Damian was cut off by the sound of voices coming down the hallway. Richard walked in beside Babs in her wheelchair, the couple having a lively debate about what to do for their respective bachelor and bachelorette parties. "We have to hire one. How often in your life do you get the opportunity to hire a stripper?" argued Babs.

"Alright," conceded Richard, "We get one stripper, and we have him split time between both parties. Now onto decorations - I'm thinking we each pick the decorations for each other's parties, and then it's like a surprise when we get there. And I'm not only saying this because I found the best bachelorette decorations on eBay and I already placed a bid."

Chloé broke the silence that followed in the dining room, as a muffled laugh escaped the hand she had pressed over her mouth. "I'm sorry, but aren't you Waynes billionaires? Can't you afford to hire two strippers?"

"Not billionaires," Tim chimed in as he walked into the room with Connor. "Every time Bruce comes close to being a billionaire, he increases the wages of all Wayne Enterprise employees except for himself and donates a ton of money to charity."

"I suppose we could hire two strippers, but then what if one of them is better than the other. That wouldn't be fair," mused Barbara.

"We could have them switch halfway through, that way we each get the same experience," Richard added.

"How about, instead of arguing the logistics of strippers, you greet the Soulmates who just arrived last night?" asked Jon, with a tone of voice that very clearly demonstrated how absurd he felt their conversation was. Damian had spent too much time with Richard and Babs over the past few weeks of wedding planning - nothing that came out of their mouths phased him anymore.

"Oh, hello Soulmates of my brothers and Soulmate of my brother's Soulmate's brother. I'm Dick."

"Babs," said Babs with a wave.

"Tim."

"Conner."

Richard started pointing to each of the Parisians. "You must be Marinette, Damian's Soulmate. You're Nino, Jon's Soulmate. And you are..?"

"Chloé, my platonic Soulmate," said Jason as he walked into the room.

"I can introduce myself," snapped Chloé, glowering at Jason, who looked a bit sheepish as he sat down in the chair next to her.

Jason picked up his fork and waved it between Chloé and Marinette. "So you two know each other."

Marinette nodded. "We've all known each other since we were kids. Chloé, Nino, and I have been in the same class since maternelle - which you call kindergarten in America. We've been best friends for years now."

"Now that's a coincidence. Both sets of three Soulmates knew each other before they met up with their other halves." Richard nodded, looking the three Parisians up and down.

"Coincidence is putting it mildly. Statistically, it's incredibly improbable. I didn't run the numbers, but I'm sure if I did, it would be in the range of one in a trillion," Tim piped up.

"Good luck, I suppose," said Marinette with a shrug.

"Luck, coincidence, statistical improbability - call it whatever you want to call it. It's still mind-boggling that out of 7 billion people, you three - best friends who go to the same school - end up with Soulmates who are all family."

The conversation turned to other topics as the table waited for Bruce to arrive before they started breakfast. Richard got Marinette talking about her aspiring career as a designer, and it instantly brought Marinette out of her shell. Her passion and enthusiasm were contagious; Damian couldn't help but smile softly to himself as he watched her explain to Richard and Babs the inspiration behind her latest collection of dresses named The City of Lights, which incorporated elements of Parisian fashion throughout the ages, with a focus on finding innovative ways to incorporate light into the dresses. As Marinette was explaining in depth the pros and cons between tea candles and real candles (according to Marinette, an open flame near your hand-crafted creation is a very big con, but she felt so strongly against tea candle that she would rather her dress catch on fire than ruin the integrity of her design), Bruce walked in, wearing a bathrobe with the words World's Best Dad on the back, plaid flannel pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers. Overall, he looked nothing like the intimidating Batman and everything like a regular Dad on a Saturday morning. Damian had to admit, it was a good strategy for putting their new houseguests at ease, especially Marinette and Chloé, who were meeting their Soulmates' father for the very first time.

"Good morning everyone," said Bruce. He grabbed his coffee mug off the counter, filled it to the brim, chugged it all in one go, then refilled it and took it to the table. "What's for breakfast?"

"Pancakes," Alfred replied as he walked in with a platter stacked full of them. "Please don't spill any syrup on the tablecloth, it's a pain to get out. And before you ask, yes, I am talking to you, Richard."

"One time," Richard grumbled. "You spill an entire bottle of syrup on the tablecloth one time, and suddenly that's all anyone remembers."

Marinette laughed. "I take it I'm not the clumsiest person at the table, then."

"I'm not clumsy. I'm just sporadically situationally unaware," Richard defended.

"Clumsy," teased Babs, flicking Richard's nose and stealing the last bite of pancake off his plate. They were so effortlessly domestic, affectionate with each other all the time in a way Damian was beginning to envy. Damian kept his expression still as he sat in internal shock at the realization that he was jealous of what Richard and Babs had together. Damian was a naturally private person; he had assumed he would despise public displays of affection. However, with Marinette, he could see the appeal. Marinette had flipped his whole worldview on its head. Now he wanted romantic outings and for everyone to know that she was his. It was a strange and foreign feeling, but deep down it felt right.

——————————————————————

As breakfast winded down, Damian offered to show Marinette around the house. The first place he took her was to the gardens. Damian knew that Marinette didn't like surprises all that much, so he planned on explaining to her exactly what they would be doing for their date.

"The gardens are so pretty!" exclaimed Marinette. "Is this where the wedding will be held?"

"Yes. The ceremony will be at the gazebo in the center of the rose garden."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," said Marinette with a soft smile on her face.

"For our date today, I was hoping I could show you around some of my favorite spots in the city. If you would rather stay at the Manor, I understand but-"

Marinette cut him off. "I would love that. I might need to change my shoes though." She gestured to the three-inch heels on her feet."

"I would advise bringing along a pair of good walking shoes. I would hate for you to get hurt."

"It would be a shame to break my ankle on our very first date," agreed Marinette. "I'll just go grab a change of shoes and my purse, and then we can go."

Damian smiled at her. "I'll wait for you here."

Damian watched Marinette leave, thinking of all his favorite things he could finally show her, and all of her smiles he could finally see.

Taglist: @fanboy7794 @mikantsume @hetalia-lover-is-here @howtoshuckatlife @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @redscarlet95 @derpingrainbow @friedchickening @melicmusicmagic @beautym3 @kunstner1 @shizukiryuu @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @crazylittlemunchkin @black-streak @darkshadowguardian @mystery-5-5 @trubel43 @fandomfan315 @vincentvangoose @royalchaoticfangirl @mooshoon @drama-queen-supreme @kae690 @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @zoerayne2426 @littleredrobinhoodlum @lunar-wolf-warrior @dani-ari @sam-spectra @be-happy-every-day-please @xxmadamjinxx @interobanginyourmom @northernbluetongue @eliza-bich @romanoff-queen @scribblinggraveyard @dur55 @jeminiikrystal @sassakitty @miss-mysterys-blog @aegyobutpsycho2 @pirats-pizzacanninibles @chaosace @pepelachanel @sturchling @amayakans @athenalovesredsblog @boxercity1

#maribat #daminette #maridami #miraculous ladybug #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Damian Wayne #marinette x damian #lost and found #my work #fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic

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bechloeislegit · 4 years ago

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25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2020

Day 2 - Making Breakfast

Prompt from FanFiction User electroniszappa: The full prompt is noted at the end because I don't want to give anything away. NOTE: I didn't follow the prompt exactly, but I hope you like what I did with it.

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The Bellas were in the Bellas House when Chloe came in, talking on the phone.

"I don't know, mom," Chloe said. "I'll let you know as soon as I decide. I'll call you later."

Chloe ended the call and ran a hand through her hair. She let out a heavy sigh as she shoved her phone into her back pocket.

"Everything okay, Chloe?" Beca asked.

"No," Chloe said sadly.

"What's wrong?" Beca asked, getting up from her seat and walking over to the redhead.

"My parents are getting a divorce," Chloe said. "And they're both trying to get me to spend Christmas with them. They want me to choose between them. God, I hate this."

Beca, in an uncharacteristic move, pulled Chloe into a hug. "As a daughter of divorced parents, I know how you feel."

"Is it always like this?" Chloe asked, falling into the hug and pulling Beca closer.

"I would say it gets better as you get older," Beca said with a grin. "But you're already old, so I can't help you there."

"Beca!" Aubrey chastised.

Chloe pulled back from Beca and slapped her arm. "I'm not that old."

The other girls chuckled.

"You have to remember, I was only five when my folks divorced," Beca said. "And my dad didn't care about seeing me until I graduated from High School. At least your folks still want to be around you."

"What are you going to do, Chloe?" Stacie asked.

"I don't know," Chloe said. "My mom is going to my Aunt Sarah's in Savannah. I haven't seen her or my Uncle John in years. My dad is staying in Tampa and spending Christmas with my grandparents."

"Which one would you rather visit?" Beca asked.

"Neither, really," Chloe said. "My Aunt Sarah is very anti-LGBTQ and since my mom told her I was bi, she's given me the cold shoulder. My dad's parents are very conservative and would be worse. So, it wouldn't be any fun for me in either situation."

"You can hang out here with me and Beca," Stacie said. "My folks are doing their Doctors Without Borders work. And, my sister lives in L.A. and is spending Christmas with her in-laws. So, there's no one for me to spend Christmas with."

"And I can't afford a ticket to Oregon to see my mom," Beca said. "And my dad and Sheila will be going to the stepmonster's sister's house in New Orleans."

"Unbelievable!" CR practically yelled as she stomped down the stairs.

"What's up, CR?" Chloe asked when CR reached them.

"My family doesn't want me to come home for the break," CR said. "Apparently, my great-grandma is going to be there and they don't want to upset her by having their gay daughter around. She's ninety-seven, homophobic, and as mean as they come. So, I'm dodging a bullet if I don't go home; but it hurts that I won't get to see my family for Christmas."

"Jessica and I aren't going home either," Ashley added. "Like Beca, neither of us can afford it. And our folks don't have the money to help us."

"I have a great idea," Aubrey said. "You should all come with me. My folks are going on a cruise with both sets of my grandparents. So, I'm going to spend the holiday in our cabin in Upstate New York. If you all come I won't have to spend Christmas alone. It could be fun."

"Aubrey," Beca said. "We all just said we can't afford to go home. How are we going to afford to go to New York?"

"We can take the Bellas bus," Aubrey said. "That way we'll have room for everyone. I'll cancel my plane ticket and use that money to pay for the gas."

"Driving will take like fourteen to sixteen hours," Stacie said.

"We can take turns and share the driving," Aubrey said. "And we can save money by packing food and drinks for the drive, so we won't have to stop at restaurants to eat. I'll have the lodge's caretaker stock the refrigerator and pantry with plenty of food and drinks so none of us have to worry about spending much once we get there."

"I'm in," Chloe said enthusiastically.

"Me, too," Jessica said, nodding her head.

"Thanks, Aubrey," Stacie said. "Count me in, too."

"Me, too," Ashley said.

"I'll go," CR chimed in.

"What about you, Beca?" Chloe asked. "Are you coming with or staying here by yourself?"

Beca thought for a moment, looked at CR, and asked, "CR, didn't Denise say she wasn't going home either?"

"That's true," CR said. "I'll stay behind so Denise isn't alone."

"She's welcome to join us," Aubrey said. "We can ask her when she gets back from class."

"If Denise says yes," CR said. "I'll go, too. I just don't want to leave her here alone for Christmas."

"Same here," Beca said.

"That's sweet of you two," Chloe said, hugging Beca.

"Whatever," Beca mumbled.

"I really hope you go to New York with us," Chloe whispered to Beca before ending the hug.

~~ Day 2 of the 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2020 ~~

After some last-minute shopping for coats and warmer clothes, the girls were on their way. CR took the first driving shift. Each of the girls took a two-hour shift of driving ending with Aubrey, who took over just as it started snowing.

"We're here!" Aubrey called out as she pulled into a long driveway.

The tires made a crunching sound as the bus moved through the light covering of snow that had covered the drive.

"Wow!" Beca exclaimed as the cabin came into sight. "This place is awesome!"

The rest of the Bellas agreed and started gathering their belongings.

"Hopefully, it will snow again while we're here," Aubrey said, as she exited the bus. "It's even more impressive with snow all around."

"Brrr," Beca said as she stepped off the bus. "It's really cold."

"We're right on Lake Ontario," Aubrey said. "The northern winds coming down across the lake makes it feel colder. It's late. Let's get inside and figure out who's sleeping where. There are only four bedrooms so we'll have to share."

"I'll room with Beca," Chloe quickly called out, causing Beca to blush.

"Denise and I are roommates already," CR said. "So, it makes sense for us to share."

"Jessica and I can share," Ashley said. "If that's okay with her?"

"I'm good with that," Jessica said.

"Awesome!" Stacie exclaimed, winking at Aubrey. "That means I get to share with Aubrey."

Aubrey opened the door and ushered the Bellas inside.

"Wow!" The Bellas exclaimed as they entered.

Everyone looked around wide-eyed at the Christmas decorations.

"Ooo, a fireplace," Stacie said, winking at Aubrey. "How romantic. I can picture us now, snuggled up together with a cup of hot chocolate, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ear."

"Take it down a notch, Stacie," CR said. "I think you're embarrassing Aubrey."

"I, I'm not embarrassed," Aubrey said, her cheeks pink.

"Beca," Chloe said as she stood next to her. "Why don't we go pick out our room?"

"Why don't we all pick out our rooms?" Aubrey said. "Follow me."

The girls grabbed their bags and followed Aubrey upstairs.

~~ Day 2 of the 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2020 ~~

After the rooms were assigned, the girls were tired from the long road trip and decided to turn in. Chloe walked back into the room after using the bathroom and saw Beca standing in front of the window, staring out into the night.

"Whatcha thinking about so hard over there, Becs?"

Beca looked over her shoulder and said, "Not thinking, just watching the snow falling."

"It's snowing again?" Chloe squealed and ran to stand next to Beca. She stared out the window and whispered, "It's beautiful!"

Beca just looked at Chloe and smiled. "Yes, it is."

Next door, Aubrey and Stacie were laying in bed, quietly chatting. They heard Chloe's squeal and raised their heads to look at the wall separating the two rooms.

Stacie chuckled as she said, "I gather from that squeal either Beca finally told Chloe she likes her, or. . ."

"Chloe saw that it was snowing again," Aubrey finished the sentence with a laugh.

"It is?" Stacie asked, turning to look out their window.

"Yep," Aubrey said. "According to the latest weather report, we'll get several more inches by morning."

Across the hall, CR and Denise were also looking out the window at the snow.

"It's so quiet," Denise whispered.

"I love the snow," CR said. "Looks like we'll be having a White Christmas."

Next door to CR and Denise, Ashley and Jessica were snuggled up together, fast asleep.

"We should go to bed," Chloe finally said after watching the snow for a few minutes.

Beca nodded and turned toward their beds. She climbed under the covers and turned off the lamp on the nightstand between her bed and Chloe's.

"Goodnight, Chlo," Beca said.

"Goodnight, Becs," Chloe replied.

The two fell asleep within minutes.

Stacie and Aubrey continued talking about the snow and having a White Christmas.

"I always loved when we'd have a White Christmas," Stacie said. "Sledding down the hill by our house, snowball fights. One time my sister and I built a snow fort. We always had a blast together."

Hearing the wistfulness in Stacie's voice, Aubrey looked over at her.

"You miss her," Aubrey said.

"Yes, I do," Stacie said, snuggling into Aubrey. "She's five years older than I am and moved to California for college and made a life for herself there. I haven't seen her since she graduated. That was three years ago."

CR and Denise continued to watch the snowfall.

"I've never had a white Christmas," Denise said. "This will be my first."

"We'll definitely have to have a snowball fight," CR said with a big grin. "It's kind of the law when it snows."

"I can't wait," Denise said, causing CR to chuckle.

"I'm going to turn in," CR said as she made her way to her bed. "It's late and I have a feeling Aubrey will have us up at the crack of dawn."

Denise climbed into her bed and turned to face CR. "I have a feeling Stacie will keep her busy until a suitable hour."

"Stacie and Aubrey?" CR asked. "You really think there's something between them?"

"Yes," Denise said, covering a yawn with the back of her hand. "Don't you?"

"I really hadn't noticed anything," CR said. "They're not as obvious as Beca and Chloe."

"You mean as oblivious as Beca and Chloe," Denise responded with a light chuckle.

CR chuckled and settled under her blankets.

"Hey, Denise?" CR said a few minutes later. "Are you still awake?"

"Barely," Denise mumbled. "What's up?"

"I was wondering if, once we get back to Barden, you would maybe want to go out with me sometime?"

Denise sat up and switched on the bedside lamp; she looked over at CR.

"You're asking me out?" Denise asked, smiling.

"Um, yeah?" CR said. "It's just, I really like you and I'm hoping you might feel the same way."

"I do like you," Denise said. "And I would love to go out with you."

"Yes!" CR yelled.

"What the Hell?" Beca called out as she sat upright in her bed.

"That sounded like CR," Chloe said, reaching to turn on the lamp.

"Let's check on her," Beca said, climbing out of bed.

Chloe did the same and was surprised to see Stacie and Aubrey coming out of their room as well.

"Was that CR?" Aubrey asked.

"It sounded like her," Chloe said. "Do you think we should check on her?"

"I don't know," Stacie said. "We may walk into something we don't want to see."

"What do you mean?" Beca asked, furrowing her brow.

"CR and Denise may be hooking up," Stacie said, chuckling when Beca's face reddened.

"Really?" Aubrey asked.

"Yes, really," Chloe said. "Haven't you seen the way those two look at each other? I guess one of them finally said something."

The four Bellas heard moans through the door. Beca's eyes widened and she looked around at the other three. Chloe and Stacie were smirking and nodding their heads. Aubrey's face was flushed.

"I'm going back to bed," Beca said, throwing a thumb over her shoulder at her room.

"Me, too," Aubrey said, turning and going into her room.

Beca turned and entered her room; Chloe and Stacie looked at each other and laughed.

"Goodnight, Stacie," Chloe said as she went to her room.

"Goodnight, Chloe," Stacie said.

~~ Day 2 of the 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2020 ~~

"Good morning, sweetie," Jessica said, kissing Ashley awake.

"Mmm, good morning," Ashley said, stretching and leaning into the kisses.

After a brief make-out, Ashley pulled back and looked at Jessica.

"I want to tell the girls about us," she said. "I want to be able to kiss you and hold your hand in front of everyone."

"Okay," Jessica said. "I'd love for them to know about us."

"Let's go make breakfast for everyone," Ashley said, reluctantly letting go of Jessica so she could slide out of bed.

"That's a great idea," Jessica said. "Let's go."

The two girls left their room and quietly made their way downstairs.

An hour later, Stacie woke to the smell of bacon.

"Mmmm, someone's making breakfast," Stacie mumbled, reaching for Aubrey.

Aubrey was not in the bed. Stacie sat up and looked around to see Aubrey standing by the window. She got up and padded over to Aubrey, putting her arms around Aubrey's waist.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Are you regretting last night?"

"God, no," Aubrey answered quickly, turning to face Stacie. "It was one of the best nights of my life."

Stacie leaned in and kissed Aubrey; Aubrey quickly returned the kiss, pulling Stacie closer to deepen it. Stacie pulled back so their lips were barely touching.

"As much as I'd like to continue this," Stacie whispered against Aubrey's lips. "I smell bacon and I've worked up quite an appetite. Let's go eat."

Stacie reconnected their lips before Aubrey could say anything.

"Mmm," Aubrey whimpered, pulling back from the kiss. "Let's go see what's for breakfast."

Stacie sighed and took Aubrey's hand, leading her out of their room and downstairs. The couple walked into the kitchen to find Jessica and Ashley kissing.

Aubrey cleared her throat, causing the two to jump apart.

"Um, sorry," Ashley said. "We were just making breakfast."

"Yeah," Jessica said, blushing. "Breakfast. We were making breakfast."

"If that's what you're calling it," Stacie said with a smirk. "Then Brey and I made breakfast last night."

Jessica and Ashley's jaws dropped; Aubrey blushed; and Stacie looked very pleased with herself.

"You two?" Ashley asked, pointing between Stacie and Aubrey.

"Yep!" Stacie answered. "How long have you two been, um, making breakfast?"

"Since a month after we started rooming together in the Bellas house," Jessica said. "We both liked each other and, finally, one drunken night we confessed our feelings."

"Maybe we should get Beca drunk," Stacie said, looking at Aubrey. "And get her to confess to Chloe."

"Those two are so oblivious," Ashley said. "It may take more than getting Beca drunk."

"I have an idea," Aubrey said. "It's the perfect plan. By the time Christmas is over, those two will have what we all have."

"We're listening," Jessica and Ashley said and then giggled.

"Okay," Aubrey said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Here's what we're going to do."

Just then, CR and Denise entered the kitchen.

"We smelled something burning," CR said, causing the four girls to jump back.

"Oh, crap," Jessica said, grabbing the potholders. "The bacon."

She pulled two pans out of the oven and dropped them on top of the stove.

"It doesn't look too bad," Ashley said, looking over the pan of dark bacon.

"It's ruined," Jessica said, huffing out a breath.

"It's fine," Denise said. "I like it dark."

"When it comes to bacon," Stacie said. "Crispy is always better."

"They're right," Aubrey chimed in. "What else are you making?"

"We were planning on just bacon and scrambled eggs," Jessica said.

"And, toast," Ashley said. "Aubrey, where's your toaster?"

Aubrey didn't respond verbally, she walked over to the pantry and brought out a toaster.

"Here you go."

"Thanks!" Ashley said and set the toaster up.

CR handed Ashley a loaf of bread as Denise got butter from the refrigerator.

"Who wants coffee?" Stacie asked, holding up the coffee pot.

"I do," rang out from the five Bellas.

~~ Day 2 of the 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2020 ~~

"Chloe?" Beca mumbled as she woke with Chloe wrapped around her. "What are you doing?"

"I got cold," Chloe said.

"And you couldn't find the blanket that was at the foot of your bed?"

"Didn't even try," Chloe said, giving Beca a wink. "This was way warmer and more fun for me."

"You're ridiculous."

"You loved it," Chloe said. "You even sighed when I started spooning you."

"I did not!" Beca whispered-shouted as she sat up to look down at Chloe. She glanced up and shouted, "Oh, my God!"

"What?" Chloe asked, concerned.

"Look," Beca said, climbing over Chloe to get out of the bed.

Beca hurried over to the window and stood looking out at the snow. "There must be a good eight to ten inches of snow out there, and it's still coming down."

Chloe squealed as she stood next to Beca, and looked out the window at the snow.

"We have to get dressed so we can go out and build a snowman," Chloe said, pulling Beca back toward the bed.

"Why?" Beca whined.

"Because it snowed," Chloe said. "It's like a law or something."

"There's a law that says you have to build a snowman when it snows?"

"I'm sure there is a law about it somewhere."

"God, you're adorable," Beca said, and blushed as she added, "I can't believe I just said that out loud."

"Thanks!" Chloe said, smiling at Beca as she kissed her on the cheek.

"I smell burned bacon," Beca blurted out. "Let's go eat before we go outside."

Chloe laughed as her stomach made a growling sound. "I'm in."

The two left their room and could hear laughing and talking as they made their way to the kitchen.

"Coffee, please?" Beca said as soon as she stepped into the kitchen.

Stacie laughed and pointed over to the coffee pot. "I just made a fresh pot."

"Good morning, everyone," Chloe said, entering behind Beca. "How'd everyone sleep?"

The six girls said 'good morning' to Chloe as they sipped their coffees and looked at each other.

"We slept great!" Stacie said, smirking. "Making breakfast with Aubrey was a dream come true."

Aubrey blushed; Jessica nearly spits out her coffee; Ashley started laughing. CR and Denise looked confused.

"I thought Ashley and Jessica made breakfast," CR said.

"They did, too," Stacie said.

"What?" Beca asked, confused. "Wait, is that one of your euphemisms for sex? It's too early to hear about your sexploits, Stacie. I haven't even had my coffee for God's sake."

"It's not too early for me," Chloe said, winking at Stacie. "Spill!"

"Chloe!" Aubrey yelled, turning to glare at Stacie, she added, "Don't you dare!"

"Oh, my God," Beca said, laughing. "You two DID hook up last night. I guess hearing Denise and CR going at it, got you motor running, huh?"

"What?!" CR asked.

"Um, sorry," Beca said, flustered. "We, uh, heard you yell, and, um, got up to check to, uh, see if you were okay."

"And, then we heard moaning coming from your room," Stacie added. "Kudos to you both by the way."

"CR confessed she liked me and asked me out," Denise said. "I kissed her and one thing led to another and we, uh, made breakfast." She smiled and added, "Several times."

Stacie whooped and high-fived Denise. CR smiled and kissed Denise. "I guess the cat's out of the bag."

"Don't you mean the pu-"

"Do not finish that sentence!" Aubrey said, covering Stacie's mouth. "Okay, so a few of us hooked up last night. Is anyone really surprised?"

"I am," Beca said. "I always thought Jessica and Ashley were a thing. You and Stacie, and CR and Denise are more of a surprise. I did not see that coming."

"Chloe?" Stacie said, causing Chloe to look at her. "Got anything to confess?"

Chloe blushed and shook her head as she whispered, "No."

"What would she be confessing?" Beca asked. Her eyes went wide. "You think that we? That Chloe and I? Why would you think that we would do that?"

Chloe turned and ran out of the kitchen. It was a few seconds later when they heard a bedroom door slam.

Everyone turned to look at Beca. "What?"

"Way to go, Mitchell," Aubrey said, glaring at Beca. "I'm going to check on Chloe." She moved to follow after Chloe, stopping in front of Beca. "You'd better be prepared to grovel and beg Chloe for her forgiveness when I bring her back down here."

"What do I have to apologize for?" Beca asked.

"Think about it," Aubrey snapped. "I'm sure even someone as emotionally stunted as you can figure it out."

Aubrey left the kitchen, leaving the other girls staring at Beca, shaking their heads.

~~ Day 2 of the 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2020 ~~

The girls sat down to eat, saving a plate for Aubrey and Chloe. The two best friends were still upstairs forty-five minutes later when the others finished eating and cleaning the kitchen.

"Should we go check on them?" Beca asked, looking toward the stairs.

"Are you ready to apologize to Chloe?" Stacie asked.

"Why?" Beca asked. "What do I have to apologize for because I haven't got a clue."

"You hurt Chloe's feelings, Beca," Jessica explained.

"I did?" Beca asked surprised. "How?"

"Think about what you said when we were talking about everyone making breakfast," Ashley said.

"Yeah, Beca," Denise said. "You acted like being with Chloe was the worst thing that could happen. We all thought you liked her."

"She's my best friend," Beca said. "Of course, I like her."

"That's not what she means," Stacie said. "And you know it."

Beca let out a heavy sigh as she ran a hand through her hair. "Do you think Chloe wanted to, you know, make breakfast. . .with me?"

"YES!" All the girls shouted.

"Beca," Stacie said. "We've all seen the way you two look at each other."

"I don't look at Chloe in any particular way," Beca said quietly.

"Yes, you do," Stacie said. "And Chloe's seen you looking at her. You may be oblivious to Chloe looking at you, but you aren't very discreet in the way you look at her."

"How do I tell her?" Beca asked. "I don't want to chase her away. I like having her around."

"Just tell her, Beca," Denise said. "That's what CR did and look at us now. We're going to start dating."

"But, you two already, um, made breakfast together," Beca said. "I don't know if I can do that without dating Chloe first."

"Then date her first," Ashley said. "Making breakfast will come in your own time."

"Can we please stop calling it making breakfast?" Beca asked, causing the girls to laugh.

~~ Day 2 of the 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2020 ~~

It took quite a while before Chloe and Aubrey came downstairs, dressed to go outside.

"Where are you two going?" Denise asked.

"We're going to build a snowman before we start making dinner," Aubrey replied. "Anyone care to join us?"

The girls all agreed and ran upstairs to change. Everyone except for Beca was back downstairs about twenty minutes later.

"Where's Beca?" CR asked.

"I'll get her," Stacie said and ran back upstairs.

Stacie barged into Beca's room without knocking. Beca jumped and looked at Stacie in the doorway.

"Let's go, Beca," Stacie said. "Everyone's waiting for you."

"I'm not going," Beca said.

"Come on, Beca," Stacie implored. "It won't be the same without all of us out there."

"Could you ask Chloe to come up here?" Beca asked. "I'd like to talk to her so I can apologize for earlier."

"I'll send her up," Stacie said with a smile. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Beca said, smiling back at Stacie.

Chloe appeared in the doorway about ten minutes later.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes, please come sit over here," Beca said, patting the space next to her on the bed.

Chloe took off her coat and gloves and sat down next to Beca.

"So?"

"So, um, I wanted to apologize for how I reacted earlier," Beca said.

"And?"

"And, I hope you can forgive me?"

"What would be so wrong about you and me being together?" Chloe asked.

"Oh, you're going for the tough questions first," Beca said, wiping her hands up and down her thighs. "Um, okay."

"Well?"

"Um, nothing?" Beca said. Hearing Chloe scoff, Beca turned to face her, taking both of Chloe's hands in hers.

"Look," Beca said, staring into Chloe's eyes. "I know you want to know how I feel, but I'm not good with sharing my emotions, so bear with me, please?"

"Okay," Chloe said.

Beca nodded her head and cleared her throat. "I let you hug me and that's something I don't let just anybody do. I always bring an extra water bottle to practice because you forget yours. . . a lot. I watch movies with you even though we both know I don't really like them."

"What are you trying to say?" Chloe asked.

"I'm trying to tell you that I, um-" Beca said and stopped for a moment before continuing. "Let me try this. Some people can have feelings for someone, but never say it; some people can say it but don't feel it. Do you know what I mean?"

Chloe nodded her head. "I think I know what you're trying to say. But I want you to say it and mean it before you actually say it, okay?"

Beca opened her mouth but nothing came out. She tried again with the same result.

"Dammit," Beca muttered, dropping Chloe's hands. "I'm making this worse aren't I?"

"Take a breath, Becs," Chloe said, taking Beca's hands in hers. "And come find me when you're ready. I won't be hard to find. There's like a foot of snow outside."

"Okay," Beca said. She scrunched her face and looked at Chloe. "Are you mad?"

"No," Chloe said and sighed. "Let's go build a snowman. Then we can help with Christmas Eve dinner."

"Okay," Beca said.

~~ Day 2 of the 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases - 2020 ~~

The next morning, Beca woke and looked over at the other bed expecting to see Chloe; she wasn't there. Beca sat up and looked around.

"I wonder where she is?" Beca mumbled as she got out of bed. It was Christmas morning and by now she usually has Chloe hopping up and down on the bed waking her up.

Beca huffed and left the bedroom. She could hear the others downstairs so she made her way down. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she saw Denise sitting on CR's lap in the chair with their backs to Beca; Aubrey and Stacie were huddled together on one end of the sofa; Jessica and Ashley were sitting together on the floor in front of the fire. They were all sipping from cups; it was either coffee or, knowing Chloe, hot cocoa. She looked around the living room but didn't see Chloe anywhere.

"It's about time you woke up, Beca," Chloe's voice came from the kitchen door, causing Beca to jump. "We've been waiting for you so we could open presents."

"Why didn't you wake me like you usually do?"

"I heard you tossing and turning all night," Chloe said. "So, I thought I'd let you sleep in a bit. And, btw, me keeping everyone from bothering you is one of your presents. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Beca!" the other Bellas shouted out.

"Um, thanks," Beca said. "Merry Christmas."

She followed Chloe over to the sofa and sat next to her.

"Sorry, everyone," Beca said. "You could have started without me."

"We wanted to," Stacie said. "Chloe wouldn't let us."

"Thanks, Chlo," Beca said, smiling at Chloe.

"Let's get to the presents," Aubrey said. "My breakfast casserole should be ready in about forty-five minutes."

"Okay," Stacie said, sitting up. "Who's first?"

"Um, if you don't mind can I give Chloe one of my gifts first?" Beca asked. "I don't want to wait any longer to give it to her. She's waited long enough for it."

The girls looked at each other. Chloe looked at Beca with raised eyebrows.

"Go ahead, Beca," Stacie said, sitting back to cuddle Aubrey.

"Okay," Beca said, clearing her throat. "Chloe, I love you!"

The girls and Chloe gasp; shocked that Beca would just blurt it out like that.

"I love you and I have for a while now," Beca continued. "I want you to know I'm not just saying it, I mean it, too!"

A big smile came to Chloe's face as she jumped up and crashed her lips against Beca's. The girls started cheering and clapping.

"I love you, too, Beca," Chloe said as the cheering died down. "Merry Christmas to me!"

"Merry Christmas to us," Beca said, leaning in for another kiss.

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Full prompt from FanFiction User electroniszappa: Hey, I don't know if you're planning to do a 25 Days of BeChloe Christmas or anything like it this year, if you are, while it's on my mind, want to send in the prompt that crossed my mind. It's nothing too complex, was thinking during their first year, the Bellas get snowed in at Aubrey's Family's cabin over the holiday break, and it serves to get the couples (BeChloe, Staubrey, Jessica/Ashley, and CR/Denise) together in time for Christmas.

#bechloe fanfiction #beca mitchell #chloe beale #Christmas 2020

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alittleoptimistic · 4 years ago

Text

The Number Six and Other Curses

A Gravity Falls fan fic (a reincarnation AU)

Summary: Though no one knew it, Dipper Pines was born at the exact moment Ford Pines died somewhere in the multi-verse. Twelve years later, Dipper and Mabel’s summer trip to Gravity Falls sparks a flurry of intense nightmares and memories Dipper could not possibly have. Surely, it’s all a coincidence.

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Chapter One: Dreams and Premonitions

Stanley Pines put little stock in religion or fate or all that jazz. He knew a few too many con artists and watched the wheels of injustice and felt lonely maybe a few too many times to believe in God, but he, with the sort of sad wistfulness that colored much of Stanley, sometimes he wished he did. August 31st, 1999, was one of those nights when he was weak.

He pounded up crumbling, damp dirt, a horrid terror gripping his chest like a tentacled beast. He slipped and clawed toward a gleaming red light. A book poked at his ribs and he considered opening it one last time if only to feel okay for a second longer, but the dirt poured thicker, faster, and he couldn’t risk stopping. Heart pounding, he struggled ever upward toward the gleaming red light veiled in mist, but it was too much and he was too tired and they were going to catch up to him! To think, after all this time, this got him. The dirt stuck to his thighs, up to his chest. He clawed upward, desperate to touch the red light, and the dirt clogged his throat, his nostrils, his lungs, with the wretched stench of wet earth. He screamed as it forced him to shut his eyes. It wasn’t fair! He wasn’t done! The weight of it all squeezed him, an ungodly weight, the pain beyond imagination.

Then Stanley was looking down at himself. No, not himself. He flew into the sky, away from wet, grey dirt in all directions, and into the red light, brighter and brighter. The dirt settled, leaving no sign of disturbance. That wasn't quite true. A six-fingered hand reached up out of the earth like a stripped sapling.

No. Nononono! A high-pitched ring rushed through Stanley.

At exactly six AM, Stanley Pines leaped up from the threadbare armchair in his cabin in the woods, scrambling, coughing, choking for breath, and if he was crying, he didn’t notice. “It’s a nightmare,” he heaved. “Jus’ a messed up dream.” He’d had many nightmares like it before. Well, never as vivid or as doomed as that one, but… it happened, sure. Dear lord, he could still feel the weight of that awful dirt on his chest. He could taste it. And then, because he couldn’t stop himself and he was alone, Stan slid to the mat covering the wooden floors and stayed there, eyes blank. The TV blared a M*A*S*H* rerun. It cast green and brown light over the furniture, a wall-mounted rabbit/skunk he glued himself, and Stan’s tightly clenched fists. He breathed in and scrubbed his eyes with the bases of his palms. “Good grief,” he muttered.

It was then that he registered the ringing phone in the kitchen. He considered letting it go. It was six AM, after all. Who the heck was calling him in the night (morning?) anyway? Why did Stan even have a phone? Who had the number? Why six am? Why did this have to happen? What was he forgetting? If he answered the phone and someone told him they had a very special deal for him, he was going to tear the dang thing out of the wall.

Stan struggled to his feet, cracked his back, shuttered, and shuffled in his slippers to the kitchen.

“Stan Pines here, whaddaya want?”

“Uncle Stan! It- it’s happened! Oh my goodness, I can’t even think!”

Stan pulled the phone from his ear. “David? Is that you?” It all came rushing back. Oh! Right! That’s why Stan fell asleep down here in the first place! David’s girlfriend was in labor! “Ey! Congratulations, kid! What’re you gonna name it?”

“Them, rather!” David sounded a little shell-shocked. Giddy, but definitely glazed.

“‘M sorry?”

“Twins, Stan. A girl and a boy!”

Stan blinked. A rather horrible feeling washed over him, a horrible, unfair, selfish feeling. “T-twins? You weren’t expecting twins!”

“No, the doctors are baffled! I’m just- I mean, I’m completely overwhelmed, don’t get me wrong, we did not prepare for two babies! We only have stuff for our little Mabel and now there’s a boy too! But it’s like, the more the merrier, right? “ He laughed, breathless, “Two kids, Stan! Oh my gosh, how on earth am I supposed to take care of… you know what, I’ll think about that later.”

Stan cleared his throat. “That’s fantastic, Dave!” and he was earnest, really. He couldn’t be happier for his nephew. Even if he and his girlfriend were… quite young. She was older, he believed. Nineteen, maybe?

“Guess twins must run in the family, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“Say, I just got off the phone with Dad. He’s comin’ in with Carrie tomorrow. I know you said you were busy with the Mystery Shack and all…”

The request went unsaid, but Stan knew what David wanted to say. He rubbed the back of his neck. He avoided his family. It was bad enough taking Stanford’s name. He’d rather impersonate him as little as he had too. Luckily for his nephew, David had never known the original Stanford, so it was easier to just be himself around him. He’d planned on sitting this out. He didn’t even know David’s girlfriend- couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. But… the idea of staying in this cabin alone for a minute longer made his head spin. The dream was like a vulture circling around him, and Stan knew, deep in his gut, something he never allowed himself to truly consider. If he ever got that damn portal to work, he would rescue something to lie to rest. His thumb shook on his lip as he pushed the feeling down.

“... I can spare a few days.”

“I don’t want to pressure you-”

“You ain’t pressuring me! I’m coming and you can’t stop me! Twins! Ha! I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? ! Don’t do anything rash, Stan! You don’t have to-”

Stan cackled. “See ya, kid! Rest while you can!”

“... Alright, Uncle Stan. ”

Stan slammed the phone onto the receiver and swallowed. He caught his fussy reflection in the dark kitchen window. He forced a grin, more of a grimace, and patted his disheveled hair. He refused to- No, He didn’t know for certain. “Twins, Ford,” he whispered. “Can you believe it?” His reflection’s eyes grew misty.

Yeah. It was time to get out of this cabin.

________________________________________________________________

David hated working late, but it happened more and more often. Joe needed help, and he was the only mechanic who was actually half good at his job (if he said so himself) and David needed the money. He’d been right to go to trade school as soon as he found out his girlfriend was pregnant. He was sixteen and a half and that was… well, it sucked, but it was sort of ‘par with the course for the Pine’s family.’ That’s what his dad’s wife said, anyway. He learned later his dad didn’t talk to her for three days after that comment. He did not blame him in the slightest. He didn’t hate Carrie or anything, she just wasn’t his mom and, as such, would... never measure up. She was also an incredible pain in the neck, but that's beside the point. It was a running joke that his dad had snagged a cougar for her money, which had been hilarious until Carrie shrugged airily at the suggestion and his dad turned beet red at the kitchen table, and David suddenly had the thought that oh gosh maybe the joke was- nope. Not going there. He had other things to focus on.

Like his kids and his hot wife and their tiny apartment that she’d turned into something homey and good. It smelled like tacos today. His keys rattled as he set them on the counter and hung up his jacket.

“DADDY!!” came a shrill shriek from the other room, followed by a pitter-patter of feet. A ball of pink giggled madly. He threw her in the air. “Wook, Dad!” She held up a paper… reindeer? Was that what it was supposed to be? “It’s for the chee!”

“For the tree?”

“Yes!! Cissmas chee!”

“You make that in school? I… like all the eyeballs, baby. That’s a lot of eyeballs.”

The kitchen was smoking, and he could hear Anna banging pans. “Mason, four forks! We’re setting the table, remember? Buddy, you can’t carry the- oh dear.”

Mabel balancing on his feet, David walked through the little living room and into an even smaller kitchen. We’re going to need a bigger house, eventually.

“Hey, honey.”

Anna turned around, Mason halfway picked up, a bundle of cups and forks somehow grasped in the other hand. She pushed a strand of loose brown hair behind her ear with the back of her hand. She was in her scrubs. “You’re home! Dave, it’s almost seven thirty!” Mason squirmed out of her hands and quietly took the cups and forks. He struggled for a moment before sticking the forks into the cups, and then, problem solved, lit up and set the cups and forks on the table. As usual, David was… not getting even a hello from his son.

“Joe had me stay late.”

Anna scoffed, throwing taco meat onto plates and stuffing a taco into her mouth. “e’ can kiss my ah’” She swallowed. “Mabel, we’re going to sit down. It’s tacos!”

“Tacos!” Mabel squealed. “I LOVE tacos!”

“I know, baby. Come on, come on.” She ushered her to the table where Mason was already sitting on his booster seat, attempting to pour himself a cup of grape juice. David joined them, swinging Mabel up into her seat.

“Hey!” Anna yelped, grabbing the bottle of grape juice as it wavered above Mason’s cup. “I said you have to ask!”

“I can pour it myself, Mom!”

“You really can’t, bud,” David volunteered. He got himself a taco and took a bite while scooping meat into Mabel’s tortilla. “‘member what happened in the car seat?”

Mason scowled. But he took the poured cup of juice and accepted the kiss on his forehead by his mother. Mabel hugged her mom around the neck, gushing a very enthused, “Good job for at school, mommy.”

“Thank you, baby.” Anna finally caught David’s eye. Her shoulders relaxed, just slightly, and she gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Love you, babe.” And then into his ear. “Wait up for me.” She squeezed his arm.

Oh, David would.

“And... I’m-” She glimpsed the kitchen clock. Her eyes went wide. “I’m late! I’m late!” She scrambled away. “I love you all! David, don’t forget to load and start the dishwasher! Mason can help!”

“Got it!”

The door opened.

“And their homework! They have… why do they give preschoolers homework- They have homework! Mabel still has to finish-”

“I’ve got it!” David called after her. He leaned forward in the chair to see her through the kitchen. “We’re good! Go!”

She smiled, hastily. And… just like that, she left.

For all of three seconds, the house was silent.

Mabel made a popping noise with her spoon and Mason blinked at her before picking up his own spoon and considering it.

“Okay, okay, let’s not- let’s use the silverware for food, guys.”

Mabel set down the spoon and stabbed the taco. “I’m using my fork for my food!” Mabel said with a grin that revealed the gap in her two front teeth.

“Thank you, I see that.”

“I always use my fork,” came Mason’s inevitable, irritable reply. This was rather typical. He’d probably need to have another talk with him soon. Sometimes they took it for granted that Mason was more… competent than his sister. Not unusually so. He was still a four-year-old. But he could read and he spoke clearer, and he just picked up on more than Mabel did. Maybe it was because he was quiet. He was definitely the microphone to Mabel’s loudspeaker. The two of them were fascinating to watch, if David was honest. It blew his mind sometimes. They were growing into their own little people with their own personalities and quirks. Wild.

Dinner went like it usually did, with Mabel finishing everything and Mason picking through his taco like he was checking it for poison. They cleaned up, and Mason showed David very seriously how his mom liked the dishes in the dishwasher. “No, Dad. You gotta line up the bowls. Like this , see?” David humored him because it made the kid happy.

After dinner, they decided that coloring was a good idea. Mabel needed to finish her homework, and it got finished eventually, though it was a little sparkly.

Mason determinedly drew in the ‘blank coloring book’ (as Mabel said) that he liked. He was an anxious kid, and they’d discovered early on it was easier for him to draw pictures than say out loud what was bothering him. David didn’t have any reason to think they upset Mason, but he had a blue crayon in his fist and his tongue out the edge of his mouth, and he was going at it. Maybe he’d just draw something nice for once.

David almost didn’t want to ask. He doodled a puppy for Mabel, who gasped out loud and took the crayon from him to add “Lots an’ lots of puppies fends.”

Clearing his throat, David dove in. “Whatcha drawing there, bud?”

Mason looked up. His eyes were bright. He shuffled the book around and David’s heart sank a little. It’s okay. He’s got an active imagination.

“This is ‘achnimorph. Like a people spider.”

That was… indeed, what the drawing looked like. Mason was probably going to be rather talented at art when he was older. His dexterity wasn’t great now, of course, but it was clear what he’d drawn. A many-eyed person with eight legs and a massive spider lower half- all drawn in blue crayon.

“Where d'you see that, Massey?”

“I just thought it.”

“You just thought it?”

Mason nodded, unperturbed. He flipped a page. He was leaning halfway across the table in his eagerness to show him. “This is a fairy. They’re mean. This is a cowl.”

“A… cowl?”

“A cow and an owl,” he said, like this was obvious. “They lay eggs with milk in them.”

“Oh.” David didn’t dislike Mason’s… inventions. They were just strange and neither Anna nor David could figure out where on earth he was getting the ideas? Both of the kids got nightmares easily, especially Mason, so they watched little tv, and their teachers assured them they provided nothing that would inspire these sorts of drawings. At least today wasn’t so bad. Anna had called him in a panic when Mason drew a ‘skin couch’ one afternoon, complete with bloody stitching in red marker.

“... it makes the cosmic sand go all,” Mason threw his hands in the air. “And this is my other daddy, and this-”

David straightened. Did he hear him right? He flipped back the page. “What do you mean?”

On the other side of the table, Mabel sighed dramatically and melted down in the chair. She would have to wait.

“Mason?”

Something shifted in Mason’s face. There was a timidity there. He was nervous. “You won’t like it, daddy.”

“I’m not going to be mad. I’m just confused.”

Mason considered this and then pointed at two stick figures. One a broad-shouldered man with a terrifying scowl and square eyes, and the other a stick thin woman. “This is my other mom and dad.”

“Your… other- Mason, you don’t have another mom and dad. You just have me and momma.”

Mason shook his head, “No, before I lived here. In the upstairs house.”

David was… at a loss. They hadn’t moved since Mason and Mabel were born. They’d lived nowhere but here. He must be confused. Was he thinking of somewhere they visited? David took another look at the stick figures, tapping a finger on the table. Suddenly it clicked, and David chuckled. “Mason, that wasn’t your other mom and dad. That’s grandma Caryn and Filbrick. We visited them last summer for Filbrick’s funeral. Caryn’s your great-grandma, not your momma, silly.” Mason didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked like, if David pressed it, he might burst into tears. David pushed bangs out of Mason’s eyes, running a thumb over the six-star constellation on his forehead with a light hand. It was a good thing that Mabel chose that moment to knock a bottle of glitter to the floor.

David pushed the instance into the back of his mind, and he didn’t even think to mention it when Anna finally got home to a (moderately) clean house. Mason filled up the little journal, and it ended up at the bottom of his toy chest, and then in a box at the top of the closet. As time went on, Mason stopped with the drawings, mostly anyway. David would find them, sometimes, in the margins of his books, little, idle doodles; eyes with bat wings, faces with too many teeth, that illuminati triangle, bearded ghosts. None of that was worth worrying about. As long as they weren’t bloody- his mother made that rule- Mason could draw what he liked. But even those doodles faded. School was more time-consuming. They moved into a new house (a house they owned!) and if some of Mason’s many journals got mixed up and lost, no one knew about it. If Mason started turning to Mabel instead of his parents after one of his near-weekly nightmares, well, that was just part of growing up, wasn’t it? He was nearly thirteen, after all.

“What was it this time?” Mabel slurred. She was still mostly asleep, her hair spread across her pillow and a wrinkled mark on her cheek. Her plump grey cat was flexing his claws into the blanket beside her head.

Dipper closed the door, shutting off the gold stripe on the carpet. He sat back down on his bed across the room and sipped a glass of milk. It was his go-to for nightmares. His skin was sticky and cold with sweat. He swiped his eyes and gulped down the rest of the glass. “Just the getting-crushed one again. I think. It’s hard to remember.”

Mabel groaned. “You always say that… need some variety.”

“Tell me about it.” Dipper sat in silence, the glass warming in his hand. He wasn’t sure he was ready to lie down again. He didn’t want to blink too slow, in case he saw it , whatever it had been, that scared him so badly. The least his mind could do was let him know what he was so scared of, but apparently that was too much to ask for.

Dipper looked down at the sound of shuffling sheets. Mabel turned to face him. She rubbed an eye with her fist and yawned. “I was dreaming ‘bout summer. We went to Grandpa Shermie’s again, and he gave me caramel but it got stuck in my braces and I couldn’t talk and I wanted to ride the motorcycle with him, but I couldn’t say anything cause… cause a’ the carmel...” Her eyes drooped.

Dipper smiled. He shifted down on his bed, eyes on Mabel, and tucked his blanket up to his cheek. Time ticked past, and before he knew it, the sun was rising. It was the first day of summer vacation.

To be continued...

#gravity falls #fan fiction #reincarnation #au #dipper pines #ford pines #character death #sort of?#in which i talk too much #i got excited about a new thing okay #and i know we're all sad i made ford dead #but its gonna be good and were still gonna see him #pinky swears #gf fanfiction #figured i post this here bc why not #ill probably include a link to the ao3 in the notes

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omgkalyppso · 4 years ago

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Honeyed Words

How many fics have this title? Probably a million. I wrote something featuring @esaari‘s tes breton oc Philip, and my imperial oc Oretia. Enjoy!

The grass was cold and wet from vestiges of the midnight frost puddling under the weight of the midday sun. Summer at Winterhold. The worst possible time to be a tome, or scroll, or a visitor. Inside the College, papers were kept magically dry and well kept, but as soon as you stepped one foot into the city, everything wilted with the humidity, including the people.

The citizenry was more amenable to the mages and their initiates since the reconstruction, after the civil war, but that did not forestall all of their prejudices, Philip had noticed. They phrased their suspicions of foreigners, of which he was no longer considered, as warnings of unstable mountaintops, roads that were thin with ice and awaiting unwary travelers, and beasts that roamed beyond their hibernal caves, but he heard the truth behind every bitter courtesy. ‘You are as unwelcome by the land as by our hospitality,’ they cried.

It was why they still lacked a dedicated blacksmith, a tanner, a wheelwright, fishermen — and Nine help that poor dentist who’d tried to move in four months past.

There were new bodies to fill the houses that had been built — carpenters and farmhands, tailors and midwives, but it was no wonder they still had to rely so heavily on the summer caravans.

The largest of the year was present now, the one that circled from Windhelm to Whiterun and Dawnstar, leaving Winterhold with both the last selection from Windhelm and the benefit of what the caravan had collected on its journey, just before they finished their circle and headed back home. The gamut of their venture was nearly complete, and so Philip felt triply insulted by the price being demanded of him to carry scroll and missive — which included a painstaking transcription of an extremely valuable book — to the new astrologer in Windhelm.

“Thirty gold is more than fair,” he insisted. “Twenty would cover a gold a day for the service, and fourteen was the cost last year.”

“Thirty might be fair,” replied the nord man, who was clearly dealing with other problems — but none of them were Philip’s, “but eighty is the cost.”

“Set by you, unreasonably.”

“Are you calling me unreasonable, my lord?” The title had been wrong, but Philip’s choice of words had been fumbling. He needed this, it was important.

“I misspoke. Surely, you are a man who knows his worth and his services, and so, you must know, that it is not up to the College to champion the losses of your caravan. You are headed to Windhelm anyway. I will offer forty, far more than you’d require.”

The nord nodded to someone standing outside of Philip’s periphery, and his shoulders tensed. The temptation to invoke others to grant weight to his title and his person was present, for he was on good terms with his Thane and his Jarl, and Skyrim’s champion of the war; but so too was he Archmage now, and whatever his personal insecurities, knew that he demanded his own respect. He shrugged his elbow towards the person who approached from his side, striking them, if lightly.

“I am not some common miscreant. Do not look to demean me. There are other couriers.”

“Then find one,” replied the nord.

Philip looked to the imperial woman at his side as she spoke and frowned in surprise. She was hobbling a little, unsteady on her feet, and not the manner of muscle he’d expected the nord to be summoning.

“And I wasn’t hired to help with customer service, Herknir. This doesn’t look like a case of banditry.” Her accent was thick and southern, and Philip flinched to look at her more directly as despite her words she still laid a hand upon him — but it was gentle, so much so that he couldn’t even feel it through his robes, on his upper arm, a signal to wait and not a reprimand. Philip took a step away from her anyway, disinterested in her reassurance.

“Take the illustrious Archmage for a walk, Oretia. I can smell the enchantments on him, and I won’t risk the safety of our men to the whims of secret, magical documents without collateral.” Philip blanched, he hadn’t expected Herknir to be thinking of anything beyond what he could get with the money. Herknir pointed a finger at him, to further cement his point, “If it were a message from one of your initiates back to their parents or their sweetheart in Windhelm, then that is one service; but you should know that your time is worth more, and you should be prepared to pay more in the future. Cool your head. Try Tilly’s honey-pops, and come back to me when you’re willing to talk business.”

“Sorry about him,” Oretia sounded exasperated, and Philip had to wonder if she had felt suitably chastised by Herknir over the course of her time with the man, as he did now, sent for a walkabout like a petulant child — though one who had been flirting with the crackle of magic on the edge of his fingers. “And me, I had assumed you were a nobleman. I should not have placed my hand upon you.”

“It is nothing,” Philip assured her, dismissing the perceived insult with a smile — tickled by the idea that she would more readily lay her hands on a Thane. They wove their way through a crowd, where the locals parted naturally by his presence. There was nowhere for Oretia to hide her stumbling.

“But perhaps I owe you an apology? Did I set you so off-balance?”

“Oh!” she laughed. “No, I— My legs are sore. I’d spent the last four days climbing up and down your mountains.”

Philip snorted, infected by his companion’s good humor. “Whatever for?”

She sighed, smiling, wistful. “To see my sister. It had been a few years and she’s settled up there. I thought that, seeing her would make it easier to accept, but now I’m less sure than ever about leaving; but you don’t need to hear about that. What was Herknir so upset about? Do you really have secret, magical documents?”

The way she exaggerated the word was light, teasing, and free of ill-will Herknir had managed to fit into the word.

“I—” Philip scoffed, “I suppose I do. The documents themselves aren’t magical, but few things that leave the College can be described otherwise.”

“Secretive?” Oretia prompted.

“For certain,” Philip assured her.

She seemed to take a measure of him then, a once over with suspicious eyes. Philip wondered what she saw.

“I could leave you now,” she suggested, tilting her head. “I rather doubt you need my company.”

Philip thought of the trader and patrons, and wondered whether for the moment she might need his. He wondered if she was asking for the freedom of privacy or to socialize with a friend from the caravan, but outside the College and inside Winterhold, his friends felt ever fewer, and Oretia had been friendly enough as to prove distracting from his other worries.

“There are a great many things I don’t need, but enjoy regardless. Of course, you’re free to go, and I’ll make my way back to Herknir in due time, but if you’d like to point me towards those honey-pops…?”

Philip felt any lingering stress melt off his shoulders when Oretia brightened.

“They’re very sweet, but delicious,” she insisted, directing them now with purpose. “There are some with raspberries caked in which are wonderful in tea, but they’re just as fine as a little delight.”

Philip bought ten for a gold piece, a strange assortment of things to pocket, even wrapped in wax paper as they were, but Oretia was right, they were good, as the two of them found a bench shielded by the cold of the sea, but still hidden by the warmth of the sun, as they each enjoyed one of the candies for a few silent seconds.

There was something about the way others seemed to have more time for trysts, and he wondered whether another person might take this time to proposition their companion. The pair of them with lips flush and spit slick from their choice in dessert, people might even think they had done something elicit when they returned to the main road. The air was thick and the blossoms were sweet, and Philip wondered whether he’d simply been surrounded by familiar faces for too long, that the blush upon a stranger’s cheeks would send his mind so far from his original intentions. He pat himself down, confirming the location of his missives, before plucking the honey-pop from his lips and assuring Oretia, “Thought I’d dropped something.”

He sighed, resting his hands on his knees. “Tell me about your sister? Might I know her?”

“No,” Oretia answered quickly. “Wylla Cosmotius — err, Wylla Ienith now, I suppose. She might have spent some time here, but wouldn’t have made a name for herself. Found the Shrine of Azura by accident, and then spent a few years “adventuring,” or whatever you might call it, with the priestess, to whom she’s now married.”

“Cosmotius?” Philip echoed. “‘Of the stars?’”

“Mm,” Oretia hummed in agreement. “A name I imagine Wylla was glad to be rid of. Pretentious ancestors. Not that the title of Archmage is any less assuming.”

“I?” Philip hesitated. “I didn’t choose that. And it’s practical, the position is what the title says, I oversee other mages, and am one myself.”

“I didn’t say it was wrong, I said—”

“You implied it was pretentious.”

“And you became defensive,” Oretia observed, amused. “Is my good opinion so important?”

“As important as any other,” Philip said, dismissive, shrugging. “There are a lot of things said about The Archmage, meaning both myself and my predecessors. I do my best to improve those rounds of gossip.”

“I apologize, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know.”

Oretia bumped a knee against him. She went on, “My sister went through a lot, as a mercenary and … well as an imperial in Skyrim during the civil war. When I was a child I would think of how one day marriage might separate us, but I hadn’t expected to be lost to her when she needed me before that. To be treated as a guest, and not as family, when I would see her again. I worry that she could die on that mountain, and if I were to be in Windhelm, I should never know.”

“And so you’re thinking of staying?” Philip remembered. “Do you ply a craft? There are still incentives to settle in Winterhold.”

“The city is known for surviving winters without me. I don’t know how useful I could be, or how interested people would be in buying leathers, or how abundant the game is year round for the purpose of gathering supplies. I feel I don’t know much of anything lately.”

“If it’s any consolation I find that to be more true with each passing year.”

“Even for the Archmage?”

“Especially for the Archmage,” Philip groaned. “There’s much to learn and more to discover. That’s why I need to see my post sent to Windhelm.”

“I could take it,” Oretia suggested.

“As a reason not to stay?” Philip inquired, furrowing his brow.

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t just stay all at once. I have employment and friends and possessions. But I might come back. Settle. It wouldn’t hurt to be owed a favor by the Archmage.”

He hesitated, surprised and unsure. Philip wondered whether he could get her in trouble with Herknir, and whether she was even trustworthy to begin with.

“I couldn’t make a pact like that,” he said quickly, in regret.

“I’ll take the fourteen gold?” Oretia offered. “And no favor.”

“Thirty then,” Philip suggested. “And maybe dinner, if you return?”

#tes #skyrim #oc tag: oretia #long post #my writing #i made this #the fanfiction i mean #bless esaari's approval and excellent oc's #i'll probably write more of these two sometime #<3333333 #esaari's oc: philip

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bulletballetarchive1 · 4 years ago

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💍 Rings 💍

SO, this started off as something I wrote in third person. Then, because I was showing it to English Professors I rewrote it in 1st person. Which was my first time writing anything in this narrative. The only other thing I want to point out is that rather than New York, I placed The Littlejohn Family in the Midwest because I hoped the locality would better resonate with the audience. And with that said here we go!!

. . . . . . . . . . . . I have found that with my increasing age, those around me expect me to be a walking contradiction. Of course, they would never say this out loud, but I have watched as young women wait with bated breath anticipating for words of wisdom to emerge from my lips. I have also watched as some of these very same women then expressed surprise - astonishment even, that I am capable of recalling years long behind me.

The ability to recall my days spent within the walls of Julienne have brought on many gazes of wonder. But nothing brings forth an abundance of questions more than the fact that I can recall my grandfather with the same clarity.

Even as I keep to myself, the sight of menthol cigarettes neatly packaged and placed atop shelves reminds me of billowing smoke drifting through his dining room. A place I spent much of my childhood studying in.

Then, there are times when my heart swells with warmth when I see men like my husband conceal his silver locks with a flat, rounded cap. Unless Granddaddy was working in the barbershop or, if he was within the sanctity of his own home, a hat would always stay perched on his head. Yes, it was his trademark.

But, even among the woolen flat caps, the menthols, and the strong Southern twang revealing his Alabama roots, one of the things that I will always closely associate with my grandfather would be his rings. Grandaddy possessed so many rings, but I was not given permission to do anything except look on. Once, great admiration had been tied to my yearnful gazes. However when Ms. Bedel moved in, my days of secretly caressing thick, metallic gold ended. Like granddaddy, she too, is a person I will never forget.

In our early days together, my grandfather’s lover told me that she was not my mother and in that very same breath, her eyes narrowed as she further asserted she would never be my mother. Despite this, she fulfilled the needs my seven year old counterpart required when it came to maternal care.

Ms. Bedel, in my eyes, was a woman who was never truly appreciated by those around her. I know that she certainly wouldn't have been by today’s standards, either. Because even in my time as a child in 1961, there were whispers of how she was too strict. Too reflective of the period that cultivated her.

Her full name was “Lucille Tallulah Masters-Bedel.” At the time, I did not know how a person could have two last names, but later I would find that ‘Bedel’ came from her deceased husband. This was not necessary for me to know at the age of seven.

During my adolescence, a child was to stay in a child’s place: seen, not heard. Boundaries that children manage to cross today were intolerable in my time.

Being the ever obedient child I was, I never thought of doing anything other than what I was told. Appreciation factored into my blind ignorance and how could it not? Ms. Bedel was the one who bathed me at the end of each day. De-tangled my hair. Ensured I clasped my hands together and told God of my utmost gratitude each night. But even with this said, I have no doubt in my mind that each day I spent with Ms. Bedel, the more she came to love me.

My belief would be silently proven in how she provided me with the loveliest dresses. She made sure Granddaddy would use his hard-earned money so that I remained a well-groomed girl, decent for both neighbors and distant cousins to lay their eyes upon if they happened to see me run errands. I can even remember believing Ms. Bedel once purchased me the dress of my dreams.

It was all white with a delicately laced-collar. Lilac flowers in bloom decorated the fabric gorgeously. With my anklet socks and patent leather shoes, the pious women of the community would coo over me, sweetening my self-image by calling me names such as baby doll.

There came a point in which I had the honor of being among Ms. Bedel’s jewelry. That evening I was almost trembling in her lap. Watching intently as Ms. Bedel clutched onto a small key and inserted it into the jewelry box slot I could feel my heart pounding. With a turn the box was open and treasures were revealed right before my eyes.

As I had mentioned, I was an obedient child. If someone said, “don’t do that,” I would not engage in whatever was before me. If somebody said, “don’t speak,” I would never open my mouth. So being given permission to trace rings and necklaces and earrings with my little fingertips filled me with the utmost delight.

While basking in this privilege, I realized there existed differences between a man’s ring and a woman’s.

Granddaddy’s rings were thick accessories of solid colors, more often than not the dimmest shades of silver and gold. It was almost as if they were old decorations that lost what could once make them shine. There were a few bumps and prongs, but frankly, there is nothing else I can say that compares them to the mesmerizing jewels in Ms. Bedel’s prized jewelry box.

“Where do these come from?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Child, everything you see before you has a story.” I thought I would learn about the source of the beautiful little rocks in Ms. Bedel’s necklace, or where on earth the little diamonds in her rings came from. I was too ignorant to recognize the wistfulness that hung in my elder’s voice. “During the Harlem Renaissance, I held a man named Aliki Eliopoulos in the palm of my hand. He was bronze, Greek, and we thought we could make it through the odds.” The brief huff that blew from Ms. Bedel’s nostrils was strong: “one night, he found me after the curtains closed and he presented this. This necklace is dear to me…I suppose because I never quite knew where Aliki went.” Pointing out another piece of jewelry was not needed as Ms. Bedel rose whatever called to her the most.

“This engagement ring - not a wedding ring - engagement, was given to me by my first husband. To accept it would mean I would make a vow for him. He knew of my past, and knew that even if I couldn’t right my wrongs, I could try to start over with his name.”

Again, she expanded her chest with her second mighty huff. During that moment I wondered, how can this woman seem so disillusioned yet keep each belonging? Belongings that provide her with such unpleasant memories? Where does the hatred end and the sentiment begin?

“True love is a concept,” Ms. Bedel said, the resentment never leaving her tongue. “The idea of that sort of thing existing is new, too. People don’t realize that...but Delores.”

“Ma’am?” I replied. For no particular reason, I was stricken with fear in how she said my name. All I had known was that she said it with such sharpness that surely my own faults were on the verge of being mentioned - whatever those faults may have been.

“Do not follow in my footsteps.”

I believe Ms. Bedel was sixty-six at this time. The same age I am now. Ironically

enough, I feel I can understand her without even having the full pieces of her story. My grandfather was a lover of women who were respectable and clean. Women who would not taint his image by being well-known throughout the city for scandalous tales.

I will never say that Ms. Bedel was not a woman who presented herself with high caliber. She sang opera long before becoming involved with my grandfather. She possessed clothes in her closet that continued bearing their tags. Perhaps it was loneliness that brought my grandfather to her, but that I do not know for certain. All I know is that at the end of the day, Granddaddy felt Ms. Bedel would be the most appropriate woman to guide me through my adolescence.

Still, to think back on the many statements - the way her eyes fixed on me, lets me know she was not a pinnacle of virtuous deeds throughout her life.

However, at that particular moment as a child, all I knew was that I disliked the heavy silence her statement brought. It became my intention to steer away from talk of vows and purity so as I refocused on the piled riches, I noticed an emerald glistening among gold and rubies. The longer I stared into it, the more I noticed that it had lighter streaks. Appearing and disappearing depending on my movement. It was like thunder and lightning had been coursing within it. “Ms. Bedel...where did that ring come from?” I asked. “This -” she lifted it, studied it. “This belonged to my mother.” “Did her husband give it to her, too?”

“My mother was never married.” With that unpleasant remark came another pause that I felt lasted forever. When Ms. Bedel spoke again: it was clear and amazingly without strain, “she hailed from a place in the South that was so unimportant that it can’t even be defined by a name.” She paused, asking me: “Do you know what slave labor is?”

Even in my discomfort, I nodded. “What is it then?” Ms. Bedel did not believe I had a wealth of knowledge. I knew it just from the strength of her gaze. Timid, my fingers slid against the hardwood of her dresser. Not knowing any better, I began recalling how at the age of five Granddaddy decided it was time I learn how Africans - not even colored people, but Africans - were chained like dogs and brought to America. After that, they were bound to pick cotton all day under the sun. That was slave labor, my young mind decided.

“What Africans had to do...” I answered, just barely connecting my gaze with her own. “No.” My idea was correct, but wrong. “My mother may not have been picking cotton, but she did live under those horrid conditions. After I was born, my mother bundled me up and took me with her as she journeyed North. Of course, being a colored woman, she didn’t have the luxury of driving or possessing a fortune to get her there in an instant. She worked as a maid here and there until she reached New York...and there was one woman before that.” She paused, “We were in Kentucky…” Ms. Bedel refrained from speaking yet again, hissing: “I hate Kentucky...and I will never forget that woman as long as I live...she,” Ms. Bedel’s lips were curling, “she was downright nasty. “That woman sat so high on her horse, that she had my mother feeding her baby through her teat.” My face was surely pulling in disgust. I did not understand what was said just the right amount to be puzzled, but I understood enough to be both bewildered and uncomfortable. “From time to time, my mother would take little things from her house. Sugar, flour. Things that wouldn’t be missed. But before we left Kentucky and never looked back, my mother thought she deserved something more in return, and this ring was it. And after my mother passed on, this has been with me ever since…” Suddenly Ms. Bedel took on a soft and tender tone, it was as if she placed her past behind her. “Try it on.” Not only was I soothed by a far more preferable tone, but I was also elated. Yes, it felt as though I was ascending to new heights. My high emotions would soon leave as the ring was placed on my finger, limp. “Oh…” Ms. Bedel’s lips pushed out, sympathetic. “It’s too big for you…” “My fingers are too little…” I felt like I was an infant, helpless and insignificant. “Maybe.” Ms. Bedel took my hand into her own, covering it in love. “One day you’ll grow into it.” It was not shortly after this, but in gradual due time that when preparing me for an outing, Ms. Bedel would retrieve one of the necklaces from her sacred box and fasten it around my neck. In some cases, it was to enhance my church dress, or to simply show I was a colored girl of high esteem as she and I walked to a show downtown. Each time this was to occur Granddaddy would part his lips, sneering that Ms. Bedel was making me into a ‘fast’ girl. Originally, his disdain was ignorable. As the sole man in the house, if Ms. Bedel disagreed - and I, as a result, found a voice to also disagree: I could exit the house, beautiful.

Unfortunately, the days of the feminine rule Ms. Bedel and I shared left when cousin

Winston moved in. Although Winston and Granddaddy were separated by generations, their “masculinity” gave them a higher sort of power. If Granddaddy thought I was fast and if Winston thought I was fast, then it was so. From that point on, shiny gems would never again be around my neck.

I did not like this change. Prior to my aunt placing Winston in Granddaddy’s custody, I would receive comments from adults of how “lonesome” I must have been as an only child. I never thought I could be lonely, not when I had Granddaddy and Ms. Bedel’s company. In addition, I was also quite aware of the luck I possessed, because never did there come a time when I argued about what belonged to who. While the alterations that occurred in my childhood home were minimal at best with Winston’s arrival, they were quite jarring all the same. Breakfast was smaller, lunch and dinner too. I also had to be tolerant - patient - when Winston sat by my side, giving his own outlandish variations to the personalities of my beloved dolls. His rough housing even led to the tearing of Marilyn! And even though tears fell on my pillow that night by sunrise, I forgave him. One of the most noticeable changes was in how Ms. Bedel began to seldom speak to me. I thought it would be wise if I did not speak to her, as I acknowledged not just her body language but the dryness of her voice. The change that occurred was not my fault. Ms. Bedel simply detested my cousin.

In her eyes however, I was different. Different in the sense that when she met my grandfather, she met me too, and therefore knew what would come if she decided to move in. Winston was unlike me, not just due to gender or behavior, but because she never agreed to provide for him. Still, I did not know this. Instead, there were many days where I wondered if I had done something to evoke her coldness, but in truth I just didn't know of the hostile conversations taking place between the adults of the household. Some of my days were better than others, but the moment I made my greatest mistake came from one of my worst. I returned home with low spirits after school. It did not matter that it was Friday as the memory of Lucinda Carter’s wrongdoing remained fresh in my heart and mind. I will admit that in my childhood I more often than not felt an intense desire to be accepted by my peers. I was well-aware I had been viewed as the perfect, ideal child by my elders, but to those in my classroom I was thought of as little more than an old woman, masquerading as a child. During the occasional moments they were willing to overlook my small, shifting eyes and unusual silence, I was filled with jubilance. With the little friends I had, I joyously followed to play Duck, Duck, Goose. With Lucinda circling us, I could feel the tension build. Each moment was thrilling. No one knew who the Goose would be, and I even speculated that it may be Thomas or Claude who would chase us around the courtyard. I did not expect Lucinda’s palm to fling into my face as she declared I was the wild goose. And what a fool I was, trying to rationalize the assault. I understood it was a part of the game. But I knew that with the way Lucinda usually treated me, it could not have been a giddy mistake. Still, I did not say anything to the teachers. Tears no longer slid down my cheeks by the time I climbed the concrete steps of my home. At that point, I began to think of the things that made me happy, and in that moment it occurred to me the last time I felt at peace was when I was among Ms. Bedel’s treasures. This is what brought me to her side, rather than confiding to my grandfather of the humiliation that occurred to me on this day. “Ms. Bedel,” I began meek and soft, “can I see your diamonds?" My first crime of that day was not realizing how Winston was among her. I was not aware Winston’s eye size doubled at the sound of diamonds. “Yes you may.” All I knew was that Ms. Bedel looked greatly unhappy that I approached her, “but put everything back as found. Do you hear me? Everything, Delores." “Yes ma’am.” And with that, I was on my way, embarking on my second sin. After retrieving the jewelry box I navigated to the private sanctuary of my bedroom, shutting the door. Any other time I would not have done this, but it felt relieving to know that I was keeping to myself. Alone. Laid out on my wooden panels, I observed every pearl, opal, and amber gem. In this solace, I could not wait until I had my own collection of jewels to possess when womanhood approached, for surely everyday would be spent in happiness. “Delores!” The sound of Ms. Bedel’s voice ripped me from my adult fantasies. Before I could rise to my feet and ask ‘ma’am?’ she opened my door, scolding me once more: “you better keep this door open, young lady. I don’t know who you think you are, secluding yourself away from the world! You are seven years old!” She did not have to curse at me as I hear some mothers do their children. She did not have to strike me as a reminder that she and my grandfather’s words were the law. I already felt the harsh sting of shame and humiliation coursing through me, and so although she did not keep watch on me with a critical gaze after ensuring I kept my door open: when she told me to put everything back, I did so - with the belief I had gathered everything. It was my fear of further disappointing her that ruined my judgment.

Saturday was fine, Sunday was as well as we attended church like a prim and proper family. It is horrible to reflect on the change that came a mere few hours after our worship.

“Ever since you took that boy in he’s been nothin’ but trouble! He wasn’t even sick on Tuesday, he was connin’ you!” This was not an argument that could be ignored. It was clear as the siren of an ambulance: both Winston and I could hear the clashing of our guardians echo through the walls. Ms. Bedel’s fury summoned Winston to crouch outside our elder’s bedroom. I was tempted to steer him away and convince him to mind his business until all was calm, but I was also taken by the enragement. “I didn’t know you was a doctor!” “I was with him that entire day!” Ms. Bedel shouted, “I could see him running and jumping and just actin’ a fool! Maybe if you weren’t trying to keep up with these young men out here-” “Woman!” I jumped at Granddaddy’s raised voice, “You don’t know a THING you talkin’ ‘bout!”

Hearing the heavy thud of Ms. Bedel’s feet, I wondered what if the door swung open and the nosiness of Winston and I would be displayed before her eyes. Surely we could never live it down.

“Look -- damn you Amos, look!” However, she did not open the door. Ms. Bedel was elsewhere in the bedroom, and I could only assume she took a stance by the dresser. “My ring is gone! I know that he took it and he sold it to some...some-”

“Some what?” Grandaddy snapped.

“Some hustler!”

My knowledge of the streets were limited, but I knew the title she used for Winston was not right. “You should have seen him - the way he was looking when Didi had mentioned I had diamonds. I could just about read his mind!”

“He’s nine years old, who does he know? If he took it, he prolly gave it to some lil’ girl!”

“Amos! Why are you defending that heathenistic-”

“Shut up!”

“No good-”

“Dammit woman, I said shut your mouth!”

“Ungodly grandson of yours!”

There came a sharp sound. The sound of skin hitting skin. It was stronger than how Lucinda hit me, that I knew.

However, this was not a new sound for Winston. In contrast to his excited face, I was cringing as if I personally witnessed Granddaddy’s powerful strike.

“You hard headed woman.” He hissed, “y’ain’t gonna keep standing here and keep callin’ my grandson outta his name. Y’got one more time t’do that and I’ma drag you outta here. Keep on talkin’ about some itty bitty ring. Keep on.”

“It was my mother’s.” “Your mama was the thief you’re makin’ my grandson out to be. Your mama wasn’t nobody.”

At that point, Winston was stretching his legs and placing his palm against the door knob. I decided that if Winston would get himself in trouble for getting into the adult’s business, so be it, but I personally would have no part in it. But the truth of the matter is, by not prying I spared myself from the sight of my grandfather - a man who was more commonly stern whilst simultaneously doting, in a state far different than what I was accustomed to. I knew he was in the wrong - he was terrifying me, just to overhear him in this private moment. But what would I do if I looked at him? Caught him in whatever dominant position he stood in? Then, I heard Ms. Bedel weep.

“I hate you.” As she continued to weep, my heart broke. “You old bastard - what makes you think that I have to be with you? I don’t have to be with you. I accepted your granddaughter, willingly, I never had to do that for you. Then you put that grandson on me, and...and I’m too damn old to be going through burdens like you! Get away from me! Go on!” Don’t go… I can recall thinking, I can recall wanting to act out: to cry and scream, but instead I was biting at my bottom lip, thinking: Don’t go. I felt shame at that point, too. Incredibly small, irrelevant. A burden. Now, I was willing to peep through the door like Winston, treated to the sight of Ms. Bedel moving faster than I had ever seen her. Apathetic and rough, she tossed the jewelry box on the bed, grasped at her coats, blouses, and furs.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Granddaddy had the audacity to ask, as if he had not personally told her to remove herself.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?!” I did not know where the ring of Ms. Bedel’s mother had been. Truly, I thought it was in the box as it needed to be. The truth of the matter was that it was under my bed, somehow knocked there by my little feet as I spent my Friday evening admiring it all. But never would I have stolen from a woman I respected. At this moment, I did not think of my own potential mistakes, but I did think about letting my tears fall and what it would have been like if I rushed into Granddaddy’s bedroom, asking him if she could stay. “Move, move!” My surely disastrous idea never came to be as Winston grabbed my shoulders the same time Ms. Bedel’s feet came our way. Before I knew it, we were scurrying like small, brown mice to my bedroom. It was very likely Ms. Bedel saw it, but hadn’t possessed enough care to say anything.

“When y’find that damn thing,” Granddaddy followed her, not caring about our wide eyes. “You can’t never come back here. Never!”

“I don’t plan on it, Amos!”

Ms. Bedel would only return to Granddaddy in the pursuit of her fine china. Shortly afterwards, I believe she left Dayton to return to New York.

This would be the first memory that brought me pain and discomfort: something I could not dwell on because it was too harsh. At some point, my grandfather realized that the woman he loved was forever gone, because he would issue cold gazes to Winston. Asserting that if he took her ring, he should speak up. Each time, Winston claimed innocence.

As the months came and went, so did the severity of the emotional wounds of that day. Never would we forget the disaster, but we had to shoulder it and proceed on with our life. Though, one day, I would find something shiny below my bed. Like a calling, the light green streaks requested for my attention in an abyss of darkness. As I cupped it and brought it to light: that fateful day would hit me all over again.

Needless to say, as a teenager I spent many of my days wishing to turn back time. I wished that I could have considered that maybe it was I who made a mistake. Then, I would run to my bedroom, I would search up and down until I found that emerald ring and both of my guardians would enter a state of calmness. This was my fantasy. But silent, I would keep this ring. Though I would never wear it. Not even as eleven became thirteen. Or thirteen became sixteen. Or sixteen became eighteen.

Always, this ring was to be hidden. Forever my secret.

Even now, it is in my own jewelry box. And though Ms. Bedel’s mother stole it - and I in a way inherited this ring through the tradition of ‘stealing’ it, have never worn it. It has always felt taboo. Instead, what I do is keep it safe.

I am blessed to remember things as well as I do, yet precise memory can be a curse.

#long post tw #stories.#memories.

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sympathyfortheblinderdevil · 5 years ago

Text

All is Fair: Ch 11

Hi, Y’all! Thank you for being so patient and not giving up on this fic even though I have been egregiously late with updates. At best, my life is erratically populated with periods of leisure time and periods of hectic, soul-crushing work. I, like many of you, am in the midst of a forced period of leisure time, so you will probably see more frequent updates. I appreciate those of you who are willing to stick around to see what happens next, and I hope you are in good health. Tell me what you think! x

Discovery and Dissolution

Polly Gray sat in her Bentley, wrapped in fur. Through her dark glasses, she watched the scene on the street where Lia worked. The bitter north wind cut straight down the sidewalk in front of the library and sent patrons scurrying for shelter within. A cluster of people shuffled through the arched brass doors, and Lia stepped out. She was a vision in a blue cashmere long coat, a mink collar clutched around her neck. The wind caused her coat to flap and play peek-a-boo with leather boots that stretched up to her knees. Both items were gifts from Tommy, Polly surmised. She noticed that Lia still wore an older pair of wool gloves. Guess he couldn’t think of everything.

Despite the cold, Lia wore a little smile as she walked along. She’d been hard at work referencing and cross-referencing research with a professor of Art History at the University of Birmingham, and he was pleased with the help she’d given him. He had mentioned working with her again in the near future. Lia had come a long way from shelving books. She was beginning to realize the kind of life she had only dreamed was possible when she first came to Birmingham. As she neared the corner, though, she was pulled out of her thoughts when she noticed familiar-looking woman in a posh car was watching her.

Polly lowered her window and called out, “Lia, Lia Montrose!”

Lia slowed down and warily approached the car. Polly extended a sumptuously gloved hand, looked over her sunglasses at Lia, and introduced herself, “Polly Gray…Tommy’s Aunt Polly.”

Lia visibly relaxed and took her hand at those words, “Mrs. Gray…I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Get in, it’s time we got acquainted.”

In a matter of minutes, Lia found herself sitting in the kitchen at No. 6 Watery Lane while Polly found two cups and put the kettle on. She then reached into the cupboard where she found a tin of tea. Upon opening it and sniffing the contents, she decided that it would do. Decked head to toe in Parisian tailor-made garments, she looked odd moving around the kitchen with such familiarity.

While they waited for the kettle to boil, she offered Lia a cigarette and lit one of her own. They’d spoken hardly a word since they entered the house. Lia was loathe to break the silence with small talk, so she waited for Polly to say what was on her mind. They sat, smoking and soaking in the dusty quiet of the dimly lit room.

Only when Polly poured the tea did she finally speak. “I brought you here so that you could see where Tommy lived...where we all lived before the money came.”

Lia looked all around the room and smiled, “So this is where Tommy began.”

Polly waved her hand with a flourish and laughed, “Who knows where Tommy began. If I hadn’t witnessed his birth I’d swear that he was flung out of heaven and barred from hell.”

Lia smiled knowingly, “Well, Lucifer was a fallen angel.”

“Exactly.” Polly raised an eyebrow and leaned back in the rickety chair. “I want you to understand why Tommy is,” she searched for the right words and finding none she continued, “the way he is.”

Memories flooded Polly’s mind as she looked all around herself, gesturing here and there with the hand that held her cigarette. “Look around you, Lia. This is where we moved when things got better. You don’t want to know where we lived before when things were worse.”

Lia swallowed hard and held her cup with both hands as if to draw every bit of heat out of it. She was suddenly cold. She had not grown up with much, but she was certainly comfortable. Her home had a lightness about it. The room where she sat with Polly was cozy, homey even, but the air was laced with soot and traces of despair.

“Does that explain why he is so driven?” Lia wondered aloud.

“Partly,” Polly mused. Then she looked at Lia with soft brown eyes, almost like she sympathized with her. She felt sorry for anyone who loved Tommy, even herself. “He has always been different. Clever and driven since the night he was born.” Then she looked away, “But he did have a big heart.”

Did.

It wasn’t Polly’s intention to make Lia uncomfortable or uncertain of her place in Tommy’s life, but Lia couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated. Lia’s chair creaked as she shifted her weight and sat her teacup on the table, and Polly saw in her eyes a vulnerability that hadn’t been there before.

“We all had to make sacrifices to get where we are today, but Tommy has sacrificed the most. Business comes first. Always. Ada says that Tommy likes you, he may even grow to care for you, but there are certain things you will have to accept if you want to be with him...”

“So he has said,” Lia broke in. She immediately regretted cutting Tommy’s aunt off, though Polly showed no sign of being offended. She just sipped her tea and smiled.

“Has he said what he plans on doing with you when he returns to London, Dear?”

Lia winced a bit at the question. “No.”

There was silence between them again. A clock ticked out the seconds from the next room and the sounds of people shouting to each other in the street filtered through the walls. Having finished her tea, Polly lit another cigarette and let the quiet grow around them. She believed that you could learn a lot about a person by how they chose to deal with spaces in conversation, so she waited and watched.

Lia ruminated on Polly’s last question as long as she could, then stood and looked toward the parlor, silently asking permission to go in. Polly rose and accompanied her. Dusty furniture and photographs sat frozen in time as if they were waiting for Polly to run the sweeper or Ada to polish the tabletops. The fireplace sat waiting to be lit. But she couldn’t see Tommy until she looked up the shadowy stairwell. It was narrow, and she could barely see the top stair in the darkness, but something in the woodsy smell that drifted down reminded her of him. Polly caught the wistful expression on Lia’s face and placed her hand on Lia’s back.

“His room was up there,” Polly nodded.

Polly peered into the darkness and flipped a switch, then nodded in the direction of the stairs, inviting Lia to climb them.

***

The sleek grey Bentley rolled along Cannon Lane and splashed slush in its wake. Lia sat in back with a heavy woolen blanket wrapped around her legs. She made small talk with Rodney, the Blinder up front. Already, she knew that he had a fiancé and that they were to be married in June. His mum and dad were from Coventry, and they were both deceased. Also, Tommy had taken him under his wing as a boy of thirteen. Tommy kept him from starving and from, as Rodney put it, “…falling in with the worst sort of criminal element.” It seemed like everywhere she turned there was another person with a story about what Tommy had done to help them.

Rodney delivered her to her door, and eager to get out of the cold, Lia darted inside.

“Jenny, are you here?”

A few snowflakes floated to the floor while she hung up her coat and unbuttoned her mink lined gloves. She noticed that the kettle was on, and so she called out again.

“Jenny!”

Her cousin bounded down the stairs, pulling her arms through the sleeves of a cardigan as she came.

“Jesus, Lia!” she laughed. “Is the bloody house on fire?”

“I have news,” Lia beamed.

Jenny nodded her head and set about fixing tea, “Go on then. Tell me your news.”

“WE have the use of a car.”

Jenny froze and her heart sank. “Come again…”

“A car, Jenny! Tommy doesn’t like the idea of my riding the bus and walking to work, so he is sending a car ‘round for us every morning and afternoon. One of his men will drive us to and from work,” she enthused.

Jenny stood blinking at her for a moment then responded in a monotone voice. “A Blinder, Lia. ‘One of his men’ means a Blinder. I’d rather walk in the rain and snow.”

She turned her back to Lia and got out the plates, careful not to take her simmering mood out on the crockery. She tried her best to keep her distrust of Tommy out of her relationship with her cousin, but it was hard to keep things light when every other word out of Lia’s mouth was “Tommy”.

Jenny had taken quite a bit of flack at work because of Lia’s connection with Tommy Shelby. She’d had her fill with entering rooms full of chatter only to have them go silent, and she had dodged several sideways comments about her recent promotion. She hated to kill the mood, but someone had to be the voice of reason. Rolling up to work chauffeured by a flat cap wearing thug was more than she could tolerate.

Lia balled her fists and tried to modulate her voice as she asked, “Why do you hate him so much? Hmm? He is good to me and he wants to help you too.”

“Help? Is that what he calls it?” Jenny turned back around and eyed Lia’s obviously new and obviously bought by Tommy clothes. “If you want to play house with him and let him dress you up as his little doll that’s your business, but I won’t be ferried around town in a car that was paid for with blood money.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it. Our family weren’t always saints. Granddad was the first one in the queue to spunk away his wages on the horses and the last one out of the pub at night.”

“Right, and it was people like the Shelbys who were more than happy to take his wages off of him while Nan and our dads went shoeless.”

She had a point. Lia hated the fact that she had a point. Damn Jenny for always knowing how to snatch the stars from her eyes. Lia sat down and put her head in her hands to hide her tears. It was so easy to let Tommy do little things for her, to buy a scarf here and some gloves there, to make life easier for her in a thousand little ways. He never made her feel like it was payment for services rendered. How could Jenny take all of Tommy’s kindness and turn it into something dirty, something tainted and wrong? The gifts and the thoughtful things he did for her were not part of a transaction, they were just part of the way he liked to take care of her. She wished that for once Jenny could see the goodness in Tommy.

Since Aunt Polly had shown her the house and the betting shop where Tommy had launched his empire, she had a deeper understanding of him. Since she’d stood in his tiny bedroom where he had wrestled with the echoes of the tunnels and sweated through nightmares of poverty and war, she saw him through different eyes. She had grown to tolerate his last-minute cancellations and welcome him without pouting when he’d kept her waiting half the night.

Polly had opened her eyes to the man behind the façade in a way that he could never do himself. With that understanding, she opened herself up to the possibility of a life with Tommy. No, nothing about what happened between them was mercenary. Tommy just took care of people in his life. She was used to Jenny acting like an older sister and alerting her to pitfalls she had overlooked, but this was too much. The tears of frustration and despair that she had hidden behind her hands were becoming tears of rage. Over and over Jenny had proven that she wouldn’t ever approve of her relationship with Tommy, and Lia was finished with seeking her cousin’s approval.

She wiped her eyes and spoke through gritted teeth, “You know, Tommy has offered to let me stay in one of his properties near the library. Maybe it’s time to take him up on that offer. I’d hate for my reputation as the Shelby whore to rub off on you.”

Jenny put down the knife she’d been using to slice the bread. “Calm down. I didn’t say that…”

“But that is what you meant.” Her words came out clipped and cold. “I don’t want my reputation for sleeping with the Gangster of Parliament to ruin your chances with some nice mid-level clerk, so I’ll just move out.”

“No…don’t! I’m just worried about you. You are like my little sister and I’m afraid you’re riding for a fall. What happens when this is over?”

Lia abruptly stood and lashed out at Jenny, “Over?” Lia growled.

The word struck a chord of fear in Lia that made her dizzy. In an instant, all of her nights with Tommy, the taste of his sweat, the feel of his mouth, the smell of his sheets, flashed through her mind. She turned that fear into rage and took a step toward Jenny as she shouted, “I love him! That’s enough for me! Why can’t it enough for you?”

It was true. She loved him so much that it hurt. Her face was red and blotchy and her chest heaved with every breath. She was tired of fighting Jenny at every turn, and at that moment all she wanted was Tommy’s arms around her. She needed him so badly that she felt like she would fly into a million pieces without him holding her together.

Jenny took a step backward and bumped into the kitchen counter. Lia looked truly deranged. A realization came over Jenny like a wave. Lia was a different person now— a person who turned a blind eye to the ugly side of her man and made excuses for his shortcomings. It had been happening gradually over the last few months; the absent-minded dreamer that she had grown up with had disappeared. Back then, no matter how far out Lia got Jenny was always the voice of reason who could reel her back in, but Lia wasn’t listening to her anymore. This was different.

There seemed to be no turning back. Jenny knew that she had already said too much, but couldn’t resist a parting shot as she headed for the stairs. “Love? How can you love him when the only things you have in common are each other?”

Even as Jenny said it, she wondered if it was true.

***

Tommy and Arthur were sitting opposite each other at Tommy’s desk in their shirtsleeves talking about horses. Arthur had put too many logs on the fire and the room was like an oven. It was past the close of business and they should have been heading home, but they had lately taken to staying for drinks a couple of nights a week. Arthur would tell stories about Billy and the chickens, and Tommy had even opened up a bit about Lia. Arthur was cursing the heat and rolling up his sleeves when they heard someone pounding at the door.

“You expecting company?” Arthur asked in his rough, whiskey soaked Brum.

Tommy ran the tip of his tongue along his teeth and shook his head, “No.”

They stood and Arthur made his way toward the door, his hand on his pistol.

“Who’s there?” he boomed.

A muffled voice called, “Lia Montrose. I need to see Tom…Mr. Shelby.”

Arthur turned in his brother’s direction and feigned seriousness. ”Shall we let her in, Tommy?”

Tommy rolled his eyes and huffed, “Open the fookin’ door; it’s freezing out there.”

Lia entered the building shaking snow from her disheveled hair and stamping the slush from her boots. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her eyes were a bit watery from the wind. She imagined that she looked a fright, but Arthur thought she looked like an angel.

Arthur stood there looking her up and down while she tried not to gawp at the pistol hanging loosely under his arm until Tommy cleared his throat and began to make introductions.

“Lia, this is my brother Arthur. Arthur, Lia Montrose.”

Arthur straightened up and offered to take her coat. As he hung it on the rack, he smiled a bit too broadly and said, “Tommy has told me a lot of nice things about you.”

Tommy knew that something was wrong because he and Lia hadn’t planned on seeing each other until the weekend. After a few pleasantries, Tommy stared at Arthur until he made his excuses and left.

Chills shook her body; she was shaking like a leaf, so Tommy took her by the hand and led her into his office where a fire roared and two glasses of whiskey were already waiting. He sat her down on his desk and took a seat in front of her, all the while rubbing the warmth back into her arms and hands. She looked down into his crystalline eyes and tried to find the words to say what she’d come for. At that moment, she was ever so grateful that Tommy knew how to take his time with her. He would wait until she was ready to talk.

She finished her first glass of whiskey and leaned into him. She breathed deeply and sighed, feeling better already simply for having him there to hold her.

“I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled into his collar.

“About…” he prompted her while stroking her head.

She sat back up and his hands went to her thighs rubbing slow, soothing circles over her skirt. She watched his hands and thought about what Jenny had said. She didn’t know very much about him, other than what they did together. Hell, she only just met his brother. His business dealings were a mystery and she had learned more about him from the papers than from his own words. So what if she became breathless around him? So what if her tummy fluttered every time he entered the room? Surely there was more to love than the helpless infatuation she felt for him.

Tommy lay his head in her lap and wrapped his arms around her hips thinking that maybe she would be able to tell him what was wrong if his eyes weren’t watching her. She ran her fingers through his hair and took a deep breath.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

“Is that right?” Tommy whispered.

Lulled by the sensation of her fingernails on his scalp, he could feel the knots in his shoulders loosen. He was trying his best to be attentive to her needs, but his mind drifted to what he’d like to do with her on his desk.

“Jenny and I had an awful row… the worst one we’ve ever had,” she swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and went on, “I can’t live with her anymore.”

That got his full attention.

#Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fiction #Tommy Shelby #peaky blinders fic #tommy shelby x oc #peaky blinders fanfiction #all is fair

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hajiiwa · 4 years ago

Note

Are you still taking up prompt requests ? I would like to request setsunai with iwaoi & matsuhana

setsunai // 切ない (japanese, n) - the feeling between bittersweet, painful, and wistful

***

The extent of a king’s power, Oikawa Tooru figures, must truly be boundless.

Growing up he watched his father conquer, expand, delegate-- he surveyed the kingdom change around him, and with every day there were new faces, new businesses, new opportunities that cropped up seemingly wherever he looked for them. An advisor to the throne remarried and took in a son, one with limbs as gangly as Oikawa’s and strangely-colored hair, with whom he would occasionally share a tutor or a trainer. An impromptu trip into the city brought them face-to-face with two boys, one short and snappy and the other tall and calm, and suddenly, Oikawa’s already frivolous life exploded into full bloom.

Between the brutal preparations for his eventual kingship there were festivals, trips down to the massive lake, dances and rehearsals and theatrics. There was tripping over huge branches in the woods, or sneaking a girl behind the armory, or-- a night Oikawa remembers quite clearly despite the mead that had made his head spin-- taking the hands of Iwaizumi Hajime in his own and kissing him, over and over, until the tan of his skin was ruddy with blush.

But some decisions are out of their control, and when Matsukawa Issei’s house goes up in flames on a humid July night, it’s with sinking shoulders and white knuckles that he shows up to their usual haunt.

For a blissful second, Oikawa doesn’t even hear what he says. The tavern behind them is bustling and lively and some of the sound pollutes into their space but the four of them, squished into two benches and under the shade of towering trees, are just far enough removed that for a moment, he can pretend.

It’s Hanamaki who shatters the silence. “You’re leaving?” he says, and his tone of voice suggests that he’s echoing Matsukawa, who averts his eyes in shame.

“We lost everything,” he says, “and there’s no one else in our family here who can help. We have to go back.”

Back. Matsukawa had moved to the heart of the kingdom with his parents and little sister when he was seven years old, leaving behind the support net of his extended family as a way to start anew. “That’s bull,” Iwaizumi snarls from beside him, “you-- there’s no one you can turn to here?

Slowly, Matsukawa shakes his head. “No. And we don’t have enough money to find a new place to live.”

“You could live with me, with-- with my family.” Hanamaki reaches out, then, and pulls one of Matsukawa’s hands in close to his chest. “We’d take you in, I swear.”

“My entire family?” Matsukawa responds with a bitter chuckle.

“Well--” he falters. “You’re an adult now, maybe you could...”

“I can’t leave them like that.” Matsukawa pulls his hand away and Oikawa looks down, noticing the nervous sort of way that his nails dig into his palm. “It’s... it wouldn’t be the right thing to do.”

Beside him, Iwaizumi grows rigid. “Oi,” he says rather suddenly, “Oikawa, could you bail them out?”

Oikawa glances over. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the prince. Surely you can talk to your family and find them a new place to live?”

“I...” Oikawa, his heart clenched tight in his chest, just shakes his head. “We can’t bail out on personal favors like that. It’s not our place.”

“Not your place?”

“Can we not fight about this?” Matsukawa interrupts, his voice straining and tired. “It’s not the end of the world. Maybe I can come back once everyone’s settled in.”

“How long will that be?” Iwaizumi asks, mouth twisted into a pout. “Who knows if we’ll even still be here by that point.”

A pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?” demands Oikawa, and he doesn’t miss the way three pairs of eyes are quick to swivel away from him.

Again, it’s Hanamaki who speaks up. “My folks want me to join national service,” he says. “Training’s out by the coast.”

“And you didn’t tell me this why?”

“You get tetchy.”

“Tetchy?”

“Oikawa, shut up.” Iwaizumi cuffs him on the shoulder. “You’re just proving his point.”

“Well, I’m upset! I just learned that some of my closest friends are up and leaving, am I not entitled to a shred of emotion?”

Another awkward silence falls over them. Oikawa’s stomach is uncomfortably knotted and he crosses his arms, making great efforts to avoid the prying attention of his friends. “Our time at the inn runs out after tomorrow,” says Matsukawa rather lamely, “if you guys want to... say goodbye.”

***

Bad news, apparently, tends to coalesce into a short period of time. Oikawa has a brief conversation with Hanamaki who confirms his intent to enroll in national service, and before he can fully comprehend what all that meant for them, it was the day of Matsukawa’s departure.

What few belongings the family had salvaged from the fire are thrown into the back of the horse-drawn carriage and Matsukawa, his jaw tight, stands before the three of them. “So... I’m sorry,” he begins, as if it were his fault in any way, “but I promise I’ll be back.”

Iwaizumi pulls him into a tight hug and Oikawa grasps onto his arm, feeling Matsukawa’s hard pulse beneath his skin before doing the same. They step back and Hanamaki takes their place, his cheeks red and his fists tightly clenched. “I love you,” he says, “you know?”

Oikawa forces his eyes away when he sees the look that crawls over Matsukawa’s face, though tentatively glances back when Hanamaki crushes him into the circle of his arms. “Love you too,” he hears Matsukawa mumble, trying and failing to hide the wetness on his cheeks into Hanamaki’s tunic.

They break apart and Matsukawa, quick to wipe at his face, gives them a brief nod. “I’ll see you all again, okay?” he says, though his voice breaks halfway through the declaration. He turns and hauls himself up into the carriage, and Oikawa watches until the rumbling cart takes a turn and vanishes from his sight.

***

The walk back up to the castle later that night is... quiet. Hanamaki had gone ahead to be by himself and now it’s just the two of them, with Oikawa’s eyes cast off to the side. “I really can’t do anything,” he says, “can I?”

“You could have,” Iwaizumi mutters, though there’s a sort of defeat to the way he says it. “You could have tried.”

Oikawa looks up. “Maybe when I’m king?” he wonders, and it takes him a second to notice that Iwaizumi had stopped walking. “Iwa-chan?”

“What’s going to happen to us?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you’re king.” Iwaizumi’s chin lifts just a little. “When we can’t do this anymore.”

Oikawa’s not entirely certain if he meant sneaking out to say goodbye to their friend or this this, their hands finding each other in a dark room as Iwaizumi presses kisses down his chest, his stomach. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly, that sort of sick feeling returning to his gut. “Are you gonna leave me too, Hajime? Or stick around to find out?”

This time, it’s Iwaizumi’s gaze that flicks away from his own. “I don’t know,” he echoes.

***

[send me a word & a pairing!]

#i hope u like anon!#branching out into AUs helps me keep motivation up so fingers crossed that you don't mind hahah #my writing #iwaoi #oiiwa #matsuhana #hanamatsu #iwaizumi hajime #oikawa tooru #matsukawa issei #hanamaki takahiro #haikyuu fanfiction

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flamehairedwritings · 5 years ago

Text

Lost In Hawkins

FOR HALLOWE’EN 2019

Characters: Chief Jim Hopper x Female Reader

Words: 9,719, phew

Rating: M, 16+ ONLY

A/N: This story is inspired by the wonderful ITV series ‘Lost In Austen’, an idea I’ve had for a while and my own fantasies, tbh. Crack? AU? Angst? All of them? What is genre?

Tags include: Swearing, lots of it, and mentions of a drink being drugged.

Summary: Your Hallowe’en night takes an unexpected turn.

Masterlist

Please don’t copy, steal or repost my work; credit does not count.

“Get the fuck away from me, you shitting shit-bag.”

“Jesus, Meg—”

“No, I am not having a heart-attack tonight.”

You purse your lips slightly in an effort to stop a smile as she all but bares her teeth at the poor teenager dressed as a clown, decidedly less scarier than when he’d jumped out at you both with his now stunned expression.

Nearly growling, she pushes through plastic sheets and you follow after her, secretly delighted when she finds the nearest exit and you step out into fresh, open air.

“God, don’t people know what personal space is anymore?”

Manoeuvring past a group of smokers, Meg blows out a long breath as you adjust your corset, stepping towards the only nearest free space on the worn grass.

You hum in agreement as you join her. “I think a space capacity code is being violated here.”

“You can say that again.”

The cool air of the night feels wonderful, the Fun House having been stifling with sweat, paint and something you don’t want to know having filled the air. Pulling the white blouse off your shoulders from where it has ridden up, you turn to her with a nostalgic sigh.

“Remember when we used to just throw sheets on, walk around the block to get free candy and then be in bed by 8?”

“Yeah. Those were the days,” Meg also sighs, folding her arms with a wistful smile. “But, hey, this is what happens when you get peer pressured by colleagues.”

“Well, I was ready and raring for this two hours ago and now I’m just... tired.”

“I think we’re old now, darling.”

“I’m ready to accept it.”

“Me, too.” Huffing out another breath, she casts her gaze around. “I only really wanted to come because Elvira’s here.”

You arch an eyebrow. “That’s not been confirmed.”

“It has.”

“By who?”

“Aaron.”

“Aaron Watkins? He once told me moose aren’t real.”

“He said that when we were sixteen.”

“Far too old an age to be saying things like that.”

“He was joking... I hope.”

“He certainly wasn’t joking.” Clearing your throat, you shiver lightly and rub your arms, the once welcomed cool air now just cold. “Anyway, I think I’m gonna head home.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I think the week’s caught up with me.”

“All right, how are you gonna get home?”

“Well, I can’t afford a taxi so I’ll get the bus.”

“Do you want to die?” Meg gapes at you incredulously.

“If I die on Hallowe’en, don’t I get to walk the Earth on this day every year? How fun.”

“I’d rather you walked it 365 days a year. I will give you money for a cab.”

“No, Meg, c’mon,” you protest, shaking your head as she reaches for her purse. “It’s going to cost too much, it’s too far. I’ll get the bus, there’ll be other people on it, it’s a busy night, and I’ll text you every five minutes, I promise.”

“Fine. but text me discreetly,” she orders as she pulls you in for a hug. “I don’t want people seeing you with your phone out and then wanting to steal it. And call me when you get off the bus and you’re walking home, I mean it.”

“I will, I will. Love you.” You beam at her as she finally releases you.

“Love you, too. Please don’t die.”

Thankfully, the bus stop was only a little further up the road from the entrance to the carnival grounds. Other people seemed to have had the same idea as you, too, the stop somewhat crowded with families, the kids already asleep, teenagers chattering excitedly about their next destination, and some exceedingly tired people your age, muffling yawns and chewing sweets.

When your bus had arrived it was already half-full but you managed to find a seat on the ground level at the back, sitting beside a teenager who doesn’t look at you, their hood up, headphones on.

Perfect. No possible way of someone initiating a conversation here.

The bus had trundled along slowly, stopping at seemingly every stop known to man, and people had trickled off until now, when it’s just you, an older lady near the front on the ground floor and possibly people on the upper floor.

The bus slows to a halt on a well-lit road, and you know you’re only a few stops away from your own, relief filling you.

I’m going for you, pyjamas.

The older lady shuffles off the bus and you hear someone descending from the top of the stairs, instinctive curiosity making you lift your gaze to see who it is.

It’s Barb from Stranger Things.

Except it’s not because she doesn’t exist, but the teenager looks exactly like her, complete with the perfect hair-style, glasses and outfit. They catch your eye and you smile. They smile back but it seems more out of reflex than genuine want to.

Stop staring, you look like a weirdo.

Once they’re off the bus, the doors close and the bus moves on. As it pulls away from the curb, you just can’t stop yourself from looking at ‘Barb’. They stand on the pavement, facing the road, waiting for the bus to pass, their hands in their pockets.

Just amazing. Absolutely uncanny.

You feel slightly bad that you didn’t compliment the person on their work, they obviously worked hard, but then again, you’re at the back of the bus and they probably wouldn’t have appreciated you yelling out to them, even if it was out of the goodness of your heart. They looked a little... sad, though, so maybe it would have cheered them up.

Facing the front again, you glance down at your phone and press the button to unlock it, wanting to tell Meg.

The screen remains blank.

You frown and press it again.

Nothing.

You definitely know it was at 78% when you last—

The screen lights up, pure white for a moment, then your lock-screen appears, complete with picture, the correct time, and the notifications you’d been ignoring.

Huh. Weird.

You don’t think too much on it, your phone does tend to glitch occasionally.

The light above you flickers, then so do the others, and your gaze darts up to watch them. In a line, one after the other, they go out, then shine brightly once more after a second.

... Right.

The bus slows, the last one before your own and, again, relief washes over you.

Not long now, so close—

“Last stop, lady.”

Your eyes snap to the bus driver, who’s leaning out of his seat to look at you.

“What? No, this isn’t the end of the line.”

There’s an edge to your tone, one you wouldn’t usually have with a public services worker if it wasn’t pitch-black outside and some lights flickering hadn’t just freaked you out a bit more than you’d like to admit.

He shrugs. “Sorry, I’m gonna run out of fuel.”

Ah, so that might explain the lights, then. That’s how it works... maybe.

“Is there another bus coming to finish the route?”

“At this time of night? Hell no.”

Oh my God.

You stare at him. “... What am I supposed to do, then?”

He shrugs again. “It isn’t that far to the end of the line.”

You can hear how desperate you are. “Couldn’t you take me some of the way?”

“Nah, station’s the other direction, I’d break down.”

Right, so this is a me problem.

Huffing and knowing you’re not going to win at all, you grab your bag and march down to the front of the bus, wrestling with your conscience that you can’t yell at him because it’s not his fault and you hate when customers yell at you when something isn’t your fault but also this is kind of his fault maybe in some way but it also isn’t and—

“Fine. Fine,” you mutter as you step off the bus before quickly turning to him. “I’m not the kind of person to do this, but I’m going to send the company a rather shitty email in the morning.”

“All right, miss.” Not one ounce of sympathy or care on his expression.

Clenching your jaw, you step back as the doors close and he pulls away, making you realise you were the only person left on the bus.

Right. No one else to rant with or pair up with and be safe with.

Okay, you know where you are, it’s not that far to home, you have perfume in your bag you can use as a kind of pepper spray, and you can call Meg. Scanning the area and pulling your phone out, you unlock it and type out a message to Meg.

Just my luck, bus running out of gas so had to get off and now walking. *skull emoji*. Isn’t this how horror films start?

Sending it, you glance up again to check for anyone before quickly typing and sending:

Can I call you?

Lifting your head, you’re about to lock your phone when it vibrates. Looking down at the screen, you frown.

‘Message unable to send. Try again.’ it reads next to ‘Can I call you?’

You tap ‘Try again’.

The message reappears a moment later.

‘Message unable to send. Try again.’

What the—

You look at the signal bars and—

No signal.

What the hell?

The first message was able to send and you haven’t even moved so how the hell hasn’t the second? You’ve never not had signal in this area.

Exhaling a frustrated breath, the cold night air helps you decide you can ruminate on it later. Heading down the path next to the woods that leads home, you blow out another, quiet breath and shove your phone into your bag.

Maybe in a few steps it’ll be okay.

You glance to the side, eyeing the woods.

Do not think about ghosts and ghouls, do not freak yourself out, do not be a bitch to yourself.

You quicken your pace, staring ahead.

It’s quiet. Quieter than usual. Usually there’s crickets chirping or an owl hooting or cars passing but... nothing.

The street lights are out, too, and you contemplate using your phone’s torch.

No. Don’t signal your whereabouts to... anyone.

like...

murderers...

... shit ...

... Just like the white winged dove, Sings a song, Sounds like she's singing, Who, who, who

Singing loudly in your head always helped to calm you. Keeping your gaze directly ahead, you continue, reminding yourself you’re only ten minutes from home.

Just like the white winged dove, Sings a song, Sounds like she's singing, Oh baby oh said oh ,

Ten minutes until you’re home. Then you can get out of this costume, have something to eat and go to sleep.

And the days go by Like a strand in the wind In the web that is my own

I begin again

Said to my friend, baby Nothin' else mattered

Maybe you’ll watch a few episodes of something you don’t have to think too hard about.

He was no more than a baby then Well he seemed broken hearted Something within him

Or maybe a bath, ooh, a bath sounds great, why did you wear these shoes, well, you didn’t think you’d be walking ages in them.

But the moment that I first laid Eyes on him—

The sound of a dull, muffled explosion echoes across the forest.

You cry out in fright as you freeze, your head whipping to the side instinctively to find the source.

Oh my God... what the fuck was that...

Your gaze darts about, and a breeze suddenly washes over you, as if pushed in your direction but that’s impossible because there’s been no wind all night and there’s none now, it’s just gone—

An orange light flickers amongst the trees, not too far away.

It’s just a flash light.

It’s just some kids playing around.

You stare at it.

It’s not moving.

It’s just kids playing about.

They’re probably setting off fireworks and one went wrong.

Then how come I can’t hear voices.

Shit, are they hurt?

Concern takes over from fear as you narrow your eyes, trying to look for any signs of movement at all. Nothing.

Check.

Go and look.

People could be hurt.

Reaching your hand into your bag, you pull your phone out and glance down.

One bar.

Fuck, yes.

Dialling the emergency services, you find that one tiny bar has given you confidence, and you stride towards the light.

It’s not until you’re a few feet away that you realise it’s not a flash light.

It’s not until you’re a few feet away that you realise your phone is still dialling and hasn’t connected, a crackling sound taking over.

It’s not until it’s too late that you realise the light is drawing you in and you can’t look away from it, can’t stop walking.

It’s not until it’s too late that you realise you can’t hear or see anything.

It’s not until you’re walking through the light that you realise you’re going to die.

The last thought you have is:

Oh my God, I’m going to fucking die in a shitty pirate costume.

You’re falling.

How is that possible?

Wait, you can’t see anything and your stomach isn’t dropping like it should do when you fall and— Holy fucking shit, yes it is, now it is, holy fuck, you’re going to be sick, what the fuck—

You land face down on something damp with a grunted ‘oof’’. Groaning, your head spinning, your hands move out slowly and you feel you’re on something solid. Squishy, but solid. Pushing yourself up, your arms shake slightly as you lift your head, blinking several times.

Glancing around, you find you’re still in the woods.

What the hell...

I must have tripped.

What the hell did I trip on?

Looking over your shoulder, you just see leaves on the ground.

Was there a rock hidden under all that? Yeah, that’s what it must have been.

Pushing yourself up with a groan, you brush the leaves and twigs from you, tutting at the streaks of mud across your costume.

I hope this bloody comes out or— Hang on a fucking second.

Turning quickly, you freeze.

Where the hell is that light?

You scan the area, still frozen.

... You must have imagined it. Or knocked it over. Or...

Just go home.

Turning, you start striding off.

Am I going in the right direction? I don’t care. Just get away from this area. No, get your phone out and Google Map it to see where—

There’s a road. Just up ahead. The trees thinning out.

Right. We’re back on track, this is where I was before, didn’t realise I was so close but hey, ho...

Striding towards it, you emerge out of the woods and stop abruptly.

Where’s the pavement?

You look one way, then the other.

... Is this a new road? Has it always been here?

It’s been a while since you walked through the woods but surely you’d have noticed if they’d been doing road works to create a new one... Unless...

Oh my God, am I concussed? This is the last thing I need.

You start walking before you realise it. Heading left down the road. You’re near to your neighbourhood. It has to be this way.

Google Maps.

Fumbling with your bag, you open it and pull your phone out, pressing the button to unlock the screen. Nothing.

Oh, not again, please...

You press it again, then again, then again, then again.

Still... nothing.

Right, don’t get upset, you’ll be fine, one way or another you’ll end up in your neighbourhood of the next one over, so at least you’ll know where you are.

You shove your phone back in to your bag and fold your arms tightly. It’s so damn cold. Why didn’t you just stay at home tonight.

You stare down the road. You don’t recognise a thing.

Everything looks different at night. You’ll be okay.

Bright headlights suddenly appear at your feet, growing larger as you hear a vehicle approach.

It slows as it nears.

Right, I’m either going to be murdered or get directions.

Steeling yourself, you also slow as it nears.

Here we go.

Turning, you’re blinded for a moment as the headlights hit your eyes. Squinting and shielding them, the vehicle, a car, pulls to a stop beside you.

Oh. Not just any car. A police car, apparently.

The window rolls down and a man pops his head out.

“You okay there, ma’am?”

“Yep. I’m fine, thank you.”

You’re not, but it’s an automatic response. He seems to know you’re not, casting a glance over you... and as he sizes you up, you size him up.

You recognise him.

You don’t know how, you’ve never had a conversation with a police officer before. Not knowingly, anyway. Maybe he’s a regular customer, or you’ve just seen him around.

“Where are you heading, ma’am?”

“Home.”

Why am I being questioned.

“And where’s home?”

“Hanover Street.”

He stares at you.

“Hanover Street?”

“Yeah.”

He’s still staring.

“Whereabouts is that, ma’am?”

God, you’re a rubbish cop.

“Just around the corner from The Lion and The Unicorn.”

“Right.” He looks you over again, frowning. “Have you been out this evening, ma’am?”

You frown in return, unease starting to creep up. “Yes.”

“Right.” Meeting your gaze, he then opens the car door and steps out, and your stomach drops. “Ma’am, if you’d just like to get in the car...”

Oh my God, this is the last thing I need.

You open your mouth, then close it because you are not about to argue with a police officer right now. Stifling an irritated sigh, you climb into the car as he opens the door behind his.

On the bright side, I might get a ride home.

You do not get a ride home.

The officer is silent as he drives, occasionally glancing in the rear-view mirror to look at you. You pretend not to notice, your own gaze darting down to your concealed phone every now and then. Still no signal.

I can’t wait until I find this hilarious.

The ride only takes a couple of minutes before you realise you’ve reached his destination. The police station.

You don’t recognise it, but then again you’ve never had a reason to go to the station.

You didn’t know the station was so close, though.

Once the officer parks up, he opens the door for you and waits for you to step out before gently instructing you to follow him. You obey.

The station is busy, phones ringing and people walking up and down.

Well, it is Hallowe’en.

Slightly overwhelmed and tired and maybe perhaps a little frightened, you do as you’re told, sitting at a desk the officer points at. You hold your bag on your lap, your shoulders slightly hunched.

You only have to wait a few moments before another officer takes a seat opposite you, not looking at you as he greets you with a weary ‘Good evening’.

Hang on. You recognise this officer, too. Maybe he’s also a customer. Not important right now.

“Right...” he slaps a notepad down in front of him and takes a pen from his shirt pocket before finally looking at you. “... What were you doing walking down a dark road on your own, miss?”

“Uh...” Just tell the truth, you haven’t done anything wrong. “I was walking home.”

“Nobody wanted to give you a ride?”

He’s making notes and you can’t help but stare at his pen moving.

“Uh, no, well, there was no one to give me a ride, I got the bus but then I had to get off ‘cause it was running out of fuel, but it’s not far to my home so it’s not too far a walk.”

“And home is Hanover Street?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

The fact he’s conversed with the other officer makes you nervous.

Please don’t obsess about what they might have said.

“Around the corner from The Lion and The Unicorn?”

“Yeah.”

Too late, you’re obsessing.

“And what is that, miss?”

You can’t stop yourself from frowning.

“It’s the pub, it’s only probably about five minutes away from here.”

“Right.”

The way he says it makes you feel like you’re wrong, but you can’t be, you’ve been to that pub a thousand times before. You might not have recognised the road you were on, but as it was in your woods you know the pub is close by.

“And why were you by the woods, miss? Seems a bit dangerous for this time of night.”

“Oh, well...”

Do you tell the truth? Oh, yes, deflect from whatever it is you seem to have done wrong.

You sit up a little straighter, slightly more confident now because you have vital information. “... I heard an explosion in the woods.”

His pen pauses as his gaze snaps up to you. “An explosion?”

“Yeah. It sounded quite quiet.”

Gazing at you, his eyes then lift to something behind you. “Hey, Flo, we heard anything tonight about an explosion?”

A woman wearing large glasses passes by the desk. “No, honey, just drunks and people calling about the poor boy.”

“All right.” The officer raises his eyebrows slightly, then looks to you. Then he frowns. “Hey, you all right?”

You’re staring at the woman’s back, frozen.

Oh my God. Oh my God... Flo.

“Miss—”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Your tone and suddenly sharp gaze takes him aback slightly, but he recovers swiftly.

“Excuse me?”

You stare at Flo again, then back to him.

“What is going on here?”

“Miss, how much have you had to drink tonight?”

You would have been offended by the question if your mind wasn’t racing. Your racing mind also doesn’t give you a chance to really think about what to say in return.

“Not a lot. Four cocktails.”

“Four?”

“2-4-1, all day, every day.” You’re practically trying to stare him down now, trying to make him crack. “What is going on?”

He changes tact, clasping his hands together on the desk. “You’re being questioned because you were found wandering alone on the side of the road, and you seem somewhat disorientated.”

Yes, I’m fucking disorientated.

You place your finger on the desk. “This is, this is Hawkins Police Station.”

He doesn’t react. “Yes.”

“From Stranger Things.”

Now he reacts, his eyebrows raising a fraction.

“... Miss, have you taken any narcotics this evening?”

“No.” You can’t stop yourself from lowering your voice. “Am I being pranked right now?”

His voice is suddenly gentler. “Do you have someone we could call?”

You just stare at him, trying to find an inkling of something on his features.

The joke should have ended by now, surely.

Your anger starts to turn to agitation. “May I go?”

He’s looking at you sympathetically which isn’t good at all. “Do you have someone we could call to come and pick you up?”

Your eyes dart about the station.

Everything is exactly like it is on the show. There’s no way this is a set up. How could it all have been set up? You fell in the forest and suddenly there was a road that had never been there before, an entire sound-stage and the exact actors?

Nausea washes over you as you swallow hard.

“Can I have some water, please?”

“Yeah, sure.” He rises, his gaze lingering on you, before he walks around you.

Exhaling a long breath, you stare down at your bag.

I think I just need to sober up. Probably more drunk than I realised I was. Or I’m concussed.

You close your eyes.

Shit, shit, shit, think. How can I think when I don’t know what the fuck is going on? How is this possible, what the fuck is going on, oh, God, don’t faint, don’t faint—

Your eyes open as you hear him return and a glass of water appears before you. You instantly grab it, taking a long sip. Your hand shakes slightly as you set it back down.

He sits down again, a troubled expression on his features as he watches you. “Sure you’re all right?”

Oh, no.

Don’t do it.

“Uhm...”

Don’t you do it.

“... I think...”

Don’t you dare.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Oh, shit—”

You make it just in time. Turning your head, your body lurches forward as you bend at the waist and throw up in to the waste bin by his desk. You close your eyes tightly as you vomit again, hearing people around you.

“Oh, Jesus, Flo, can we have some paper towels, please?”

“Someone’s havin’ a rough night, huh?”

Oh, no.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, no, this isn’t possible.

Lifting your head as you inhale a shaking breath, not thinking to wipe your mouth, you look up and meet the gaze of Chief Jim Hopper.

His frown is the last thing you see before you pass out.

Ah, unconsciousness.

Oh, no, not unconsciousness because you’re having a thought. A thought that unconsciousness is nice. Uncomplicated.

There’s a weight on your shoulder, a gentle weight. Slowly opening your eyes, you gaze up at the faces of three people.

Oh, fuck off.

Flo, the officer, Powell, you remember his name now, and... and Hopper.

David Harbour. Hopper.

I hope I pass out again.

You don’t, forcing you to realise you were only unconscious for probably a minute or so as you’re still on the floor.

Oh, God, it’s still happening.

“Hey, you okay?”

You look to David/Hopper.

I hate this.

I’ve masturbated thinking about you.

Oh my God, stop it.

“Yeah... yeah... Can you... Can you back off, please?”

“Uh, yeah.”

All three of them move away and stand as you push yourself up, wincing slightly. Nobody apparently caught you because there’s a dull ache at the back of your head.

Brilliant. Concussion on top of concussion, probably.

You know you won’t be sick again but you feel so overwhelmed, like you can’t breathe.

“I need some air.”

Powell, thankfully, speaks this time. “You wanna take a walk?”

“Yeah, on my own. I’ll be fine.” You’re already walking towards the exit.

Then, David/Hopper is at your side, pushing the door open for you. “Nah, can’t let you do that on you’re own.”

You take extra care to not be one inch closer to him than you need to be as you pass through the door. Stepping out, once again, into the welcome, cold night air, you inhale a deep breath. You can’t look at him.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, we’re just concerned.”

The parking lot is quiet, half empty, small. You start to pace, still unable to look at him.

“I’m fine.”

“Is there anyone who could come and get you?”

I’d love it if everyone would stop asking me that.

“I—” Just play along, don’t look at him, don’t do it. “No.”

“Where do you live?”

“i, uhm, I don’t live here, I’m just visiting a friend.” Nice cover.

“Do you know the address?”

Oh, shit.

“No.”

“Do—”

“Hop, come on, we gotta go, there’s a fight at McCorley’s.”

You lift your head to see Powell, calling out to Hopper/David, heading for a truck.

You can’t stop yourself from glancing at Hopper.

God.

Season 1 Hopper.

You’ve missed the stubble.

Stop it.

“Shit. Hang on,” Hopper/David answers before turning back to you, a frown returning to his features. “Do you know the neighbourhood where your friend lives?”

“No.”

“Right.” ‘Real helpful’, you can practically hear him thinking. He raises his eyebrows and holds his hand out in a stay put gesture. “Stay here until we get back, all right?”

You nod, still unable to meet his gaze, swinging your arms slightly. “Yep, okay.”

He watches you for a moment, then nods, turning and striding away to his Blazer.

You stand still, watching as he gets in, starts the engine, then reverses and drives away. As soon as he’s out of sight, you’re moving. Where, you have absolutely no idea.

This isn’t real. This cannot be real.

You can feel the ground beneath your feet as you head down the main road and a light breeze on your face but it can’t be real.

Unless...

That was it.

Someone’s drugged my drink. I don’t know when or how, I bought all my own drinks and didn’t put them down once, but someone has, that’s the only explanation. I’m having a very, very, very vivid hallucination and I’m actually walking around my house right now.

You suddenly come to an abrupt halt.

What am I supposed to do, then.

Like anything, you suppose; sleep it off.

But where?

Are you even in your house? You could be in the forest, that’s when you’d seen that damn light and that’s probably when the drugs had hit. Rubbing at your forehead, you blow out a breath and close your eyes. You’re starting to get a headache and you have no idea what’s going on and you just—

Stop it, take a breath.

Inhaling and exhaling three long, slow breaths, you lift your head and open your eyes.

Yep. still here.

But, there, a short walk away, you see the centre of Hawkins, lights shining brightly in the darkness.

Sleep it off.

Motel. There has to be one.

Moving forward, you’re striding now.

Play along with the hallucination, just play it out. This could all just be in your head.

Oh, God, I hope this is all in my head.

What the hell am I doing.

Coming to a halt, you groan as you bend over, your hands on your knees, your eyes closed.

Please don’t be sick again.

Or do, it’ll give me something to do.

“Excuse me, dear?”

Oh, God, what now...

Straightening up, you lift your head and find Flo, the actual Flo, standing a few feet behind you, her hands clasped together. She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“Uh... I was just... going.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yep.” Why am I crumbling under her gaze.

“Chief let you go did he?”

“Yep.” Oh, God, this is a criminal offence. She definitely knows I’m lying.

“Where are you goin’ to? Remember where your friend lives?”

“Uh, no, I was just... I was going to find a motel.”

“Like hell you are in your state.” She drops her arms and gestures for you to return. “Come on. I got a spare room.”

“Uh...” You stare at her, not really knowing what to do. “... I could be a serial killer, you know.”

She eyes you. “Nah, you ain’t.”

Then, she turns and starts walking back to the station.

... Right.

You follow after her.

Because what the hell else is there to do.

Flo had said if you needed anything, to let her know.

Oh, Flo. Oh, Flo, even you can’t help with this.

Holding the blankets up against your chest, you stare up at the ceiling.

This is mad. This is bizarre. But it’s real.

That much you’ve come to terms with.

You’ve seen enough TV shows and films to have some sort of an inkling of what’s going on.

You’ve gone through some sort of a dimension.

That, or you’re part of a prank show you’ve never heard of.

The former seems more likely than the latter, though. Your friends would never put you up for a prank show because they know you’d hate it. and you’re not aware of having an arch-enemy. So, you’ve passed into another dimension. A dimension that houses the land of your favourite TV show.

Right. So. What’s the plan, then.

Sleep, get up in the morning, rifle through the bags of clothes Flo said you could, find something to wear, then go back to the woods and find the portal back.

A snort escapes you.

I can’t believe I’m actually thinking about portals and dimensions and how to get back to my own world. And now i’m laughing about it. I’m delirious. Maybe I will just wake up and this will all be something other than real. That would be amazing.

Closing your eyes, you pull the blankets up a little higher.

This is the weirdest night of my life. And possibly the comfiest bed I’ve ever slept in. Silver linings.

You’d followed after Flo, dutifully, like a good law-abiding citizen, even if you are in a different world, and gotten into her car.

She’d asked you a few basic questions as she drove; your name, if you were hungry, how you were feeling. You answered truthfully, still absolutely baffled by the bizarreness of the situation.

Once at her home, you’d not had much of a chance to look at where the actual Flo lives as she’d led you straight to the guest room, having told her you weren’t hungry but tired.

Add overwhelmed and incredibly confused to that.

That’s where you now find yourself.

Closing your eyes, you want to make a plan but you also don’t want to think too much about what is happening right now because you think your brain might actually explode.

Just sleep.

Just sleep, maybe this is all actually a dream.

That would be amazing.

You’re awoken what feels like only three seconds later by the bedroom door opening and knocking against the chest of drawers beside it.

Your eyes snap open and your head shoots up.

Flo stands in the doorway, already dressed, smiling at you warmly.

“Good morning, sweetie. Up you get, I’ve got breakfast ready.”

Your head drops back down as she, leaving the door open, heads back to the kitchen, your arms covering your eyes.

Oh, God. This is still real.

Rolling out of bed, you shuffle over to the bin bags in the corner, untying and rifling through them for an outfit. A dress and leggings come out in your size so you quickly tug them on, pull your boots back on, and shove your costume and bag into a tote bag you came across.

Breakfast with Flo is... interesting.

She asks essentially what you’d been asked the night before, why you are in town, who you’re staying with, what their number is, if you’d like to call any family or friends.

You manage to deflect each one, saying you’ll be fine, you can’t remember your friend’s number or where they live, your family don’t know your friends number so it wouldn’t help.

Taking your empty plate away once you’re done, Flo places them in the sink and claps her hands together. “Well, come on, then I’ll take you back to the station.”

You nearly choke on your mouthful of water. “What?”

She looks faintly surprised. “Maybe your friend’s come looking for you or made a call. Either way, I think it’s the best place for you.”

“Yeah, you’re right, sorry, bit of a restless night,” you answer quickly with a small smile.

She nods sympathetically before grabbing her car keys.

Shit. No, don’t worry. The station is close to where the portal is. Just give them the slip when you get there, run for it, get back home.

Perfect. An excellent plan.

You’re ready.

You’re so ready to do it.

You’ve psyched yourself up throughout the whole journey.

You can do this.

You’ll be home within the hour.

You’re full of hope, you’re stepping out of the car, you’re getting ready to run, you’re—

The Station door slams open.

“Flo, what the hell?”

Oh, no.

You and Flo turn, you swiftly, guiltily, Flo slowly, arching an eyebrow.

Hopper strides out of the Station, stopping only a couple of feet from you both, his hands on his hips.

“You can’t just take a person of interest out of the Station without tellin’ anyone!”

Hang on, ‘person of interest’?

Flo folds her arms. “Well, I wasn’t gonna let her sleep here, where would she? In a cell? She’s not under arrest, Hopper.”

Hopper sighs, rather exasperatedly. “Flo, you’re not responsible for her.”

She bristles at that, her back straightening. “Well, then who the damn hell else is?”

Bizarrely, her protective display warms you but you still keep your eyes on Flo, unable to look at him. She looks at you then, smiling.

“Come on, honey, let’s get some more coffee and see what we can—”

“Actually, Flo, I’d like to talk to her.”

You don’t catch yourself in time. You look at him. His mouth is set in a thin line. He’s so handsome. You hate everything that’s happening right now.

“’Her’? She has a name,” Flo huffs.

I feel like a kid with my divorced parents.

He gives another exasperated sigh. “Well, if I was given the chance to talk to her, then I would know that.”

“Powell already spoke to her, Hop, so—”

“She’s a potential suspect, Flo.”

“Excuse me?”

You both say it together, but Hopper looks at you instead of Flo, perhaps out of sheepishness at speaking about you rather than at you, or because it’s the first time you’ve spoken.

“You’re a potential suspect in a missing persons case, miss.”

Flo inhales sharply. “You can’t mean Will’s case. Hop, look at her, she couldn’t have—”

“Flo.” His voice is quiet but firm.

She presses her lips together, then looks to you.

You’re still staring at Hopper, your heart pounding.

Shit.

Oh my God.

I’m about to talk one-on-one, completely alone, with Chief Jim Hopper.

And I’m a suspect in the Will Byers case.

That can’t be right, though, because from your somewhat extensive knowledge of Stranger Things Will doesn’t go missing until the night of the 6th November...

Don’t ask, you’ll look crazy, just...

Your gaze darts about his desk as he closes the door to his office and you take a seat.

Desk calendar, yes.

It’s November 8th.

You’ve not only come through a portal to another world, you came to it on a completely different day.

The night after Will Byers went missing.

Oh, God, why is this happening?

“So...” He rounds the desk and sits behind it, taking a few pages from the stack beside him and glancing over it. “... I read Powell’s report. You were walkin’ alone by the woods.” He then looks to you. “Why?”

We’re getting straight to it, then.

Thankfully, strangely, your anxiety at the fact you’re being tied to a crime has taken the edge off the fact you’re talking to Jim Hopper.

You lick your lips. “As I said last night, I was walking home.”

“From where?”

A fair would be too risky to say, as you have no idea if there’s one in the area, so... “A friend’s house.”

“You there for a fancy dress party?” He gestures at you. “You were dressed as a pirate if I remember rightly.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. We were celebrating a birthday.”

“Right.” He glances down at the notes before him, then sits back. “Why were you alone, though? Powell wrote you got the bus but then it was running out of gas so you were made to get off and walk.”

As silence continues after a moment, you raise your eyebrows slightly. “Yes, that’s correct.”

His features give nothing away. “There’s no bus that passes through that route at that time of night, though.”

You have to react quickly. “Well, I was on a bus, so.”

He’s silent again, and you’ve seen enough cop shows to guess this is a tactic. You remain silent, too.

Hopper inhales a breath, then folds his arms. “Powell also wrote that you said you had four cocktails last night. Would you consider yourself a ‘light-weight’?”

The question sends a flash of irritation through you. “No. I wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re implying. I’d had those cocktails a few hours before I got the bus.”

“You also said you heard an explosion in the woods.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Where?”

“Close to where I was. I was going to investigate it but I was too afraid.” I wish I had been.

Hopper runs his hand down his mouth. “You don’t think it was just a firework?”

You press your lips together, trying to control your irritation. “I know what a firework looks like, nothing lit up the sky and it didn’t sound as loud as one. It just sounded like it was muffled. I did see a light shining in the trees so I thought there were people there, maybe kids playing.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No, I didn’t see anything but the light.”

“You didn’t see anyone at all, though? You didn’t pass anyone on the road, there was no one else on the bus?”

That’s when you realise.

Shit. I have no alibi. Just the truth, which will see me locked up for insanity in a different world.

Clearing your throat, you can’t help the edge of resignation that laces your tone. “No, I didn’t see anyone else. Two people got off the stop before where I had to get off at, though.”

Two people who don’t even exist in this world. Fake-Barb and an old lady.

Hopper is silent for a few moments, watching you. Then, he clasps his hands together on the desk. “Look, we don’t have any reports of an explosion, but we do have a missing kid to find so how about you—”

Raised voices break out outside the office.

Both your heads whip to the side out of reflex, but the blinds are down, blocking your view. Hopper stands and you turn in your seat as the voices near the door.

It bursts opens.

Flo is the first person your eyes land on, her eyebrows raised.

“Chief, I’m sorry, I couldn’t—”

“Hop, I think I—”

Joyce Byer’s, her eyes wide, her hands in mid-air, freezes as she stares at you.

“You...”

Oh, no...

You already hate what you don’t know is coming.

She exhales a heavy breath. “... I dreamt about you.”

“Joyce...” Hopper’s voice is so gentle behind you as he moves to her, but you can’t take your eyes off of her.

You’re torn between the fact this is Joyce Byers, and that you want to comfort her because she’s so distressed.

She doesn’t stop looking at you either. “I did, Hop, I did. You. you had a phone in your hand but it was so small, and you, you were—”

Hopper stops only a step or two away from her, his voice still gentle. “Joyce, do you know this woman?”

She shakes her head. “No, no, I’ve never met you, have I?”

The way she says it is so... aware, somehow.

You find your voice after a moment. “Ah, no.”

“Then how did I dream about you.” She says it so quietly, her eyes shining with tears.

You know it’s a show. You know it’s not real. They’re not real.

But now, with Joyce standing before you, heavy, dark circles under her eyes, her hands shaking, tears beginning to fall, it feels so real. You feel your throat closing slightly with emotion.

“I’m, I’m so sorry about your son.”

She just nods faintly, still staring at you.

From the corner of your eye, you see Flo nod in Hopper’s direction, and gently takes Joyce by the arms. “Come on, honey. I need a glass of water. Let’s get one for you, too.”

Joyce allows herself to be led away, finally tearing her gaze from you as her features crumble.

Swallowing hard, you have to prevent your own from doing the same.

As the door closes behind them, you sniff and turn back in your seat to face the desk. Hopper returns to his chair and you feel his eyes on you. You don’t meet his gaze until he’s seated.

Exhaling a long breath, he then looks down at his hands.

“You’re new in town, you were walkin’ alone on a road with no bus route the night after Will Byers goes missing, you don’t come up on any of our systems, you’re convinced you heard an explosion, Joyce Byers believes she saw you in her dreams...” He looks up at you. ”... How about you start tellin’ me somethin’ that makes sense.”

You open your mouth, then close it.

Oh, fuck it.

What is there to lose. Well, you could still make a run for it. You’re not a fast runner but you could give it your damn best.

The door bursts open for the second time, making both of you jump, your head whipping round to find the source.

Officer Callahan, slightly out of breath, points at you both. “Wait, wait, wait, hang on a minute, Chief—”

“Callahan, where the hell have you been?!”

The officer waves his hand slightly, trying to draw breath. “Hang on, Chief, she... she’s tellin’ the truth...”

Both of you stare at him.

What now.

Inhaling a deep breath, Callahan continues. “I was drivin’ by the woods, patrollin’ for any signs of the kid, last night, and I saw this flash of light and this sound like somethin’ blew up, I thought it was some kids dickin’ about so I went to see but it wasn’t, there was this...”

“What, Callahan?” Hopper demands as Callahan pauses to take a breath.

“... it was this...”

You can’t stop yourself, half-hopeful, half-desperate.

“... Portal?” you murmur.

Callahan snaps his fingers and points at you. “Yes, yes, that’s it. A portal. All circular and wavy and weird.”

You realise you’re smiling, relief flooding over you.

I’ve got my fucking alibi.

Of sorts.

We must have just missed each other.

You realise, after a moment, that Hopper hasn’t said anything. Turning in your chair, you look at him. His eyebrows are raised, his mouth is open slightly and his jaw is tight.

“Well,” he suddenly says in a bright tone, as if you’re his two, overzealous children that he has to entertain. ”Let’s go see this portal, shall we?”

You’re surprisingly grateful that Callahan talks for the entirety of the ride.

He switches his gaze from the road to Hopper in the passenger seat, then to you in the rear-view mirror.

“... I ain’t ever seen anything like this in my life, Chief, I thought I was goin’ mad until Powell told me just now about this lady that had come in and she’d heard an explosion and she didn’t seem to be from around here and I knew we’d see the same thing...”

Hopper doesn’t say a word.

Each word Callahan says, though, gives you a new spark of hope.

I’m going to go home.

It’s not long before Callahan pulls up by the side of the road. It has to be the road you walked down, though it looks so different in the daylight. Stepping out of the car, shouldering your tote bag, you gaze across to the woods. It’s less frightening, even inviting—

Behind two trees, partially hidden, shines a light.

You feel the two men pause in the same moment you do.

“What the hell...” Hopper crosses the road first, his hand instinctively going to his gun.

You glance at Callahan who glances at you. You follow behind him.

Your heart is pounding. Well, you don’t think it’s been at its normal rate for 24 hours, but now it accelerates that bit more.

You’re not mad. This is real.

Don’t think about that too much or you might actually go mad.

As you approach, you hear a faint, low humming coming from the... You and Callahan had both settled on calling it a portal but now you actually get a look at it it seems more like a...

Wait, I didn’t actually see it when I came through.

You’d looked around, having thought you’d tripped on something but you’d seen... nothing.

Why the hell didn’t I?

It’s more like a mirror, shimmering and reflecting the forest.

Maybe because it was dark, that’s why I didn’t.

Hopper’s low scoff pulls you from your thoughts. He’s staring at it, his hand still on his gun. He takes a step towards it and—

You all make some sort of a sound as the portal shrinks. Hopper automatically takes a step back, and it widens to its normal size.

The silence between you all stretches on.

You’re about to announce that, well, this was great but you’re heading home, when Hopper turns sharply and locks his eyes on you.

“Tell me the truth, now.”

Slightly taken aback by A) the force of his gaze and B) trying to figure out exactly what to say, your mouth drops open slightly.

“Uhm...”

You glance at Callahan, maybe hoping he’ll just start talking and give you time, but Hopper seems to interpret the look differently.

Looking to his officer, he drops his hand from his gun and starts to stride back towards the road.

“Radio in to Powell to help you get this place cordoned off, don’t talk to anyone else, we don’t need a panic. You,” he directs at you, “Come with me.”

Before either of you can question him, he’s already at the road, crossing it to the car.

Clearing your throat, you give Callahan a light smile before you’re once again following after Hopper.

Callahan lifts his hands, then drops them.

“Right, I’ll just be... here.”

I’ve imagined this a thousand times.

But in definitely sexier circumstances.

You’re at Hopper’s trailer.

Hopper’s trailer.

You’re still hovering by the door so you let your gaze sweep the room. It’s as messy as it had been portrayed on the show. The coffee table is surprisingly clear, though, save for a local newsletter which you have to stop yourself from picking up and reading. A blanket lies draped across one of the couches.

That’s where he sleeps when he’s too drunk to get to bed.

It’s incredibly strange; knowing so much about someone you’re supposed to regard as a stranger. It feels... intrusive.

You’d both been silent for the ride here, but now you have a hundred questions. You decide to settle on the most sensible one, though

“Uh, why are we here and not at the station?”

Not that I’m complaining.

“I thought you maybe didn’t want to say what you’re gonna say in front of Callahan.”

He emerges from behind the refrigerator door, closing it with one hand, his other one holding a beer bottle. He doesn’t offer you one. Uncapping the top, he tosses it into the sink then moves across the room and sits in the nearest armchair. He gestures for you to sit, too.

You do as you’re bade, sitting on the couch next to you, the tote bag at your feet, your hands in your lap.

“Explain,” is all he says.

And, after a pause, you do.

You hardly pause to take a breath, not daring to in case he takes the chance to laugh or call you crazy. To his credit, though, he doesn’t react once throughout.

You start with what year you’re from, how you were out on Hallowe’en night and retell the story of the bus debacle more truthfully. You tell him about your phone losing its signal, how you heard what sounded like an explosion and went to investigate it, then how you felt like you couldn’t turn or look away from it, how it pulled you in. You continue on, recounting truthfully up until the moment you met him.

The only thing you leave out is that, to your world, his isn’t real. For some reason, it doesn’t feel right to tell him.

When you finish, he looks at you, silent. The beer bottle is balanced on his thigh, his hand tight around it, his features expressionless.

You shift slightly, playing with your hands.

“Well, I—”

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

It’s your turn to look at him, your mouth open. He scoffs, raising his eyebrows.

“You’re tellin’ me the truth?”

“Yep, it’s all true.”

For some reason you’re... annoyed.

He scoffs again. “You’re tellin’ me I’m supposed to believe you’ve, what, time-travelled here?”

“Yes, actually.” Your back’s straighter now, your lips pressed together.

“Is this a fuckin’ joke?”

“A joke? You saw it with your own damn eyes, Chief.”

If he’s surprised by the bite to your tone he doesn’t show it, and, thankfully, he doesn’t scoff again either.

“How, then? How did this all happen?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a fucking scientist.”

“So, I’m just supposed to believe you, huh?”

“Yes.”

Your sure, rapid response makes his lips twitch slightly, and you can’t believe he might actually want to smile.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe?” you continue, your voice having risen slightly, “You saw it with your own eyes.”

“I don’t know what I saw,” he counters in a way that has you realising he’s wrestling with the facts and the impossibility of them.

Well, then.

If he doesn’t believe this, then how is he going to believe Joyce about anything.

You don’t know where that thought comes from.

"I’ll go back through, I’ll prove it to you,” you announce as you rise to your feet, lifting your bag.

“What?” He’s full-on smiling now in disbelief, staring at you.

“Take me back there, I’ll show you.”

He regards you, your arms folded, your eyebrow arched, your features determined. Sighing heavily, he sets the bottle down on a table beside him and pushes himself up.

“All right, but then afterwards we’re goin’ to the Station and we’re gonna find your friends.”

“... This is a fuckin’ waste of time...” Hopper grumbles behind you as you trudge through the dry, fallen leaves.

I’ll show you.

Callahan leaning against a nearby tree, raises his eyebrows at the sight of you both.

“Gee, that was quick.” He glances from Hopper to you. “He doesn’t believe whatever you told him, does he?”

“Nope.”

You stride past him, heading straight for the portal. Powell stands on the other side of it, finishing tying some tape to a tree to cordon the area off. You wish you had the time to get his opinion on it. You duck under the tape before you and turn to Hopper.

He stays behind the tape, his arms folded. Glancing at the portal then to you, he shakes his head wearily.

“Well, if this miraculously works and you don’t come back, it was nice knowin’ you, sweetheart.”

You hate the sarcasm dripping from his tone.

I’ll show you, you bastard. This isn’t even gonna be the weirdest thing you’ll see this month.

“Yeah, you, too.”

You turn to the portal.

You turn back after a split second to add before you can think, “You’re such a pain the ass, even bigger than I would have thought.”

“What did you just say?”

His words, however, are drowned out by the growing humming of the portal. You’ve turned back and your gaze is locked onto it now and you can feel the familiar pull and tug of it.

You can’t look away.

You can’t stop yourself from moving towards it.

You can’t hear Hopper as he tries to get closer to you, calling to you.

It’s night time.

You’re staring up at the stars in the sky.

There’s so many of them.

There’s something digging into my back.

Pushing yourself up with a groan, your hands pressing into mud and leaves, you get to your feet. Looking down, you find the source of your discomfort is your bag. Lifting it and brushing leaves off of it, you look around.

Trees. Lots and lots of trees, and...

No portal.

You can’t stop a wide smile from spreading across your lips.

There, see, you disbelieving dick, I was right, now I’m...

Home.

You’re home. You’re still grinning, looking beyond the trees. Yes, there’s the road you had walked on before this whole mess, now you can go home and...

Your smile starts to fall.

You’d been in Hawkins.

You’d spoken with Powell, Callahan, Flo, Joyce and... Hopper.

You’d actually been there, in their world.

There were so many missed opportunities. There was so much more you could have done, could have said, could have asked.

You could have...

Stop it, you’re home now, that’s what you wanted. That wasn’t real. That was... That was...

Your phone buzzes in your bag.

Looking down at it, you open it after a moment and pull it out.

You have a message.

From Meg.

UGH nightmare, that’s why I hate public transport. CALL ME!!

You release a sound, half of disbelief, half of relief.

No time has passed at all.

Your thumb moves quickly, and you lift your phone to your ear.

“I cannot believe this has happened, it is such an outrage, I am going to spam the bus company’s Twitter until you get some kind of compensation, how dare they, the absolute fucking bastards...”

As Meg rants on, a smile returns to your lips and you start to walk.

It only takes you five minutes to get home, and Meg talks the whole way, only drawing breath when you close your front door.

“... ugh, anyway, I’ll help you write up an email. Are you all right, anyway?”

You pause, placing your bag on your couch. You think back over the lost 24 hours, everything you hadn’t had time to feel. You can’t stop your eyes from filling.

“Hey, why are you crying?” Meg asks with a great deal of concern as you sniff, wiping at your eyes

“I just...” You exhale a long breath. “... It was a bit scary, that’s all.”

“O, babe, oh please don’t cry. You’re fine now, you’re back home. But the TV on and get into your pyjamas. How about I come over in the morning, we have pancakes and watch whatever’s on?”

You crack a smile even though she can’t see it. “That sounds amazing.”

“Duh, I’m going to be there, of course it will be.”

You laugh, grateful for the release it brings you.

Forget about everything. Write it off as a weird day. Never tell anyone. It wasn’t real.

Shoving everything, everything from your mind, you lose yourself in making plans with Meg, crossing the room and entering your bedroom as you laugh again.

Behind you, unseen, the lamps flicker. Slowly, then rapidly. The TV turns on, the screen flashes white.

Then, they cease.

The lights shine warmly.

All is as it should be.

The End... ?

Reblogs, comments and likes make my day in a way I can’t describe.

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Apologies to those Tumblr won’t let me tag!

#jim hopper x reader #chief jim hopper x reader #jim hopper #halloween #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #my writing #flamehairedwritings #david harbour #chief jim hopper #not my best but hey

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joylee56 · 5 years ago

Text

Getting Above Himself

For Fluffaplooza 2020

I prompted a variation on this for #Worryinglyinnocent ‘s Super Fluffy Smutty Sunday. (Her’s is better. Check it out at https://worryinglyinnocent.tumblr.com/post/190606882004/fic-the-measure-of-a-man It’s got Moe as Mrs. Bennet.) But was so taken with the idea that I wrote my own Edwardian version.

Summary: The toffs were interested in Gold for his money. And he had enough of it that they were willing to invite him to dine and even an occasional party. He never expected to be accepted for more than that.

>>>>>>.

The ballroom glittered as couples swirled in complex patterns. Standing off to the side of the room, Gold calculated that between the candles and the flowers Lady Blanchard had spent enough to feed a family of four for a year.

Or pay for one of his suits. He was really in no position to be judgmental.

Mostly he was bored. Conversation was impractical over the music. Assuming he could find someone who wanted to discuss something other than the latest gossip. Lord Blanchard had done himself no favors by inviting him to this ball. If he wanted to convince Gold to back his new son-in-law in the upcoming parliamentary elections, he should have considered that a ball hardly constituted entertainment for a lame man who did not gamble. (Well, not with cards or dice at any rate.) If he had not been interested in learning what the government was planning to propose in its next budget he would have left long since.

Sighing he headed back to the refreshment room. With any luck there would be some decent wine.

The refreshment room was nearly empty. A couple of boys, barely old enough to be out on the town, with laden plates were eating like they had not seen food in a week. Gold had to smile. Bae still picked at his dinner, but would no doubt soon be eating like those two.

The only other occupants were an older lady dozing over a half finished glass of wine and her younger charge who appeared to be deeply interested in a book.

Presented a choice of Champaign or mediocre sherry, Gold opted for tea instead. From the tea table he was able to get a better look at the young lady and realized it was Lady Belle. He had been paired with her a week ago at dinner when Lord Blanchard introduced him to his son-in-law. Gold, while hardly expert on the subtleties of high society, knew enough to know that assigning an attractive, young peeress as his dinner partner meant that she must be a very poor relation of the Blanchards indeed. One whose marriage prospects were so lacking as not to be worth pairing her with any of the more eligible men at the table.

Not to mention that the son of two seamstresses could spot a twice turned gown even by the poor lighting of the Blanchard’s formal dining room.

She had been an intelligent and witty conversationalist though. Gold had enjoyed that dinner more than any society event he had ever been invited to. All those young men with political aspirations were missing a jewel by ignoring her in favor of the better dowered young ladies. A smart wife would get them farther than any amount of money.

As he contemplated whether that dinner was sufficient introduction to approach her now, and whether she would even want to have her reading interrupted, she looked up from her book and smiled at him.

It would be rude not to respond. He approached the table. “Good evening, Lady Belle.”

“Mr. Gold.” She nodded. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

“Uhm…” He knew what he was supposed to say to that, but she had seemed to enjoy forthright conversation. He hedged. “It’s not really to my taste. And you, my lady, you do not dance?”

She sighed. “When given the opportunity I enjoy dancing, but there are more young ladies than gentlemen who dance to partner them so I retired here to read rather than requiring our host to stretch the partners even thinner.”

“By your own choice or on a hint from Lady Blanchard?”

Pursing her lips did not quite hide her smile. “Her sister actually. Although being cognizant of my indebtedness to Lady Blanchard, I would have withdrawn in any event.”

Gold made a mental note to make discreet inquiries as to what that ‘indebtedness’ involved. But it would not do to embarrass her by asking outright. “Since I am one of the gentlemen distorting the numbers and keeping you from the dance floor, may I at least bring you some refreshment?”

“Thank you that would be most kind.”

A small tip to one of the waiters for the delivery of a wide selection of both sweet and savory items solved the problem of how to manage both dishes and his cane. She opted for tea rather than wine even though he assured her that his own choice was based on the quality of the available beverages rather than any moral censure.

“If a gentleman of good tastes finds the wine lacking I see no reason to doubt his assessment.” She had responded.

“I’m not sure I’m strictly entitled to either accolade, my lady.”

“Your good taste is evident from your reading habits and wardrobe, and your manners proclaim you a gentleman.” She shook her head. “Having fended off the advances of more than one drunken young officer whose birth should proclaim him better than that, I have come to be something of an expert on the subject.”

He would have thought her title would be sufficient to keep young men in line. Then again drunken louts were a problem regardless of their social standing.

Over their ices they fell into a discussion of promoting education of the working class. The book she was reading advocating it as a means to improve the morals of the poor.

“I don’t know about morals,” Gold told her, “But an educated workforce is a boon to any employer. And gives the brighter lads a way to improve themselves generally. I bless my aunts for making sure I was able to attend Grammar school.”

“Mama gave me my lessons.” She looked wistful. “We had hoped I would be able to go away to school when the time came, but we lost her before that. At least I was able to share Mary Margaret’s tutors after I came to live with the Blanchards.”

It seemed wise to make the conversation less personal after that. Although it did give him a starting point for his inquiries. A question about what else she had recently read led to an enthusiastic description of a new author she was taken with. He was a ‘futurist’ and had written an exciting adventure entitled The Time Machine. Gold found the whole idea a bit far-fetched, but the delight with which she described it had him resolving to buy a copy to read on the train back to Glasgow.

They had just discovered a shared preference for Thomas Hardy, when Lord Blanchard appeared. “Ah, Gold, this is where you’ve got to. The Chancellor has arrived and he wants to meet you.”

Wants to meet his wallet more like, but this was the chance Gold had been waiting for so he regretfully excused himself. “Forgive me, Lady Belle, I’m sorry to leave such an interesting conversation.”

“I too have greatly enjoyed our talk.” She bit her lip, a gesture Gold found oddly charming. Then hesitantly said, “We are at home on Thursdays. Perhaps, if you are not otherwise engaged, we could continue this conversation then?”

She wanted him to call? Gold was left speechless for a moment. Then he rallied. Blanchard wanted his support badly enough that he doubted even Lady Blanchard would object to his calling. “I look forward to it, my lady.”

Blanchard eyed him like a prize ram at market as they left the refreshment room. Clearly coming to a decision, he suddenly grinned. “I’ll let Regina know to expect you on Thursday.”

Which Gold interpreted to mean Blanchard would be directing his lady to be gracious to the jumped up tradesman. Blanchard slapped his shoulder and continued. “Lovely girl Lady Belle. Bit of a bluestocking but lovely. My cousin’s daughter you know. Fine family if a bit down on their luck. Now let's find the Chancellor.”

Gold did not extract as much information from the Chancellor as he had hoped. He was too dumbfounded at the prospect that Lord Blanchard appeared to be actively promoting a match between himself and Lady Belle. He did not have enough money to be regarded as even remotely suitable to court an actual Lady.

Did he?

A vision of Lady Belle’s blue eyes danced before him. If he did not he could make more. Making money was easy. Finding a woman like Lady Belle was not.

#fluffapalooza #fluffapalooza 2020 #joylee56 fanfic #Rumbelle fic #Getting Above Himself

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raywritesthings · 5 years ago

Note

Mamihlapinatapei\Lauriver

Thanks for the prompt, and I hope you enjoy this!

Should Have Been Her

Summary: In light of an early breakup between Oliver and Felicity, Alex can’t help reflecting on his boss’ choices in regards to relationships... especially when he can see the obvious.*Can also be read on my AO3 or FFN, links are in bio*

This job was going to be the death of him, Alex thought tohimself. “What do you mean Felicity won’t do it?”

“We had a fight about, uh, an old boyfriend of hers… andalso about her mom, I guess, last week,” Oliver said, looking undeniably wornout. He had to wonder how many nights the man had been sleeping on the couch.

“It’s not going to look great if you show up to a lunch withprospective endorsers without your own plus one.”

“I’ll just take Thea with me.”

“Thea’s booked for an interview with Williams in the samehour block, can’t do it,” Alex reminded him. He held his hand out for his boss’phone. “Look, I’ll call Felicity if you want.”

“She’s really not going to want that.”

Oh, so this was a serious possible break-up type situation.Just great. He hadn’t exactly been impressed with the candidate’s girlfriend;her inability to show up for meetings and the casualness with which she seemedto throw the campaign money had always struck him as flighty and poorlymanaged. But people liked a pretty, smiling face, and not having one on his armmight make people sour on Oliver. At least they weren’t engaged; that wouldmake things easier to spin.

Alex’s thoughts were so preoccupied with the work he wasgoing to have to do that he nearly missed Oliver’s next suggestion.

“Laurel might be free.”

“Laurel?” Alex wasn’t quite able to keep the strain out ofhis voice.

Oliver fixed him with a look. “She’s a part of the team, andshe honestly knows the ins and outs of this kind of stuff better than I do.I’ll give her a call.”

Despite Alex hoping and praying that the DA’s office beincredibly swamped with work that afternoon, Laurel was able to give them herlunch hour. So she was coming to meet with the union bosses.

Although, if he’d given more than a thought to her familybackground, he might have realized that could prove a boon.

“Laurel, how are you?” Boomed Larry Carmine, the Presidentof Star City’s Police Guild. He went in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek,which Laurel accepted with a smile. “Quentin says things are running prettynicely between the offices.”

“We try to keep communication channels open. Best way tokeep the system running. How’s Abby?”

“She’s just fine. Finished pre-med last semester.” Carmineturned to Oliver and shook his hand next. “Oliver Queen. Full of surprises,aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.” The group all sat down, Oliver pulling outLaurel’s chair for her. She smiled up at him, and he returned it before takinghis own seat.

Alex motioned to the waiter hovering at the edge of theirprivate room to bring out the pre-ordered food. These were busy people afterall, so they hadn’t wanted to keep them waiting.

“I have to say, I should have expected you two to getinvolved in politics,” President Raynes of the Local 27 said after they’d allmade significant progress on their meals. The former fire chief had onlyretired from active duty last spring and made the transition to union work.“You made a pretty good team figuring all that out with Garfield. Still a shamewhat happened to him, but I wouldn’t be here without you. Makes me prettyinclined to listen, Mr. Queen.”

Oliver nodded all the while Alex made a mental note to askjust when in the hell his boss had been planning to tell him he’d saved thefirefighter union chief’s life. “I’m hoping you like what you hear. My campaignis committed to supporting those who need it most, and that includes our firstresponders, our firefighters, all those out on the front lines. Alex here hassome of the numbers we’ve been talking about.”

“These are preliminary plans we’re hoping to have your inputon,” Alex said, taking his cue to pass out the portfolios he had compiled.Laurel looked off of the one Oliver had laid out in front of them, their headsbent closer together than Alex really thought they needed to be.

Raynes was nodding along as he read, but Alex was moreinterested in Carmine, who leaned to his right to ask Laurel, “So you reallybelieve in this one, huh?”

“I do.”

“But I still remember your old man cursing his name!”Carmine and his Vice President burst into laughter.

Alex winced and held his breath, but Laurel only laughedlightly herself and said, “And he would be the first to tell you just what achanged man Oliver is. Believe me, I used to think we’d never see the dayeither.”

“Laurel and her family have been good enough to give me asecond chance,” Oliver added right off her statement. It was almost startling.In these previous sessions with endorsers they’d been attempting to woo, Oliverhad seemed content to allow Felicity to ramble on about this or that and waitfor her signal to speak. But now he seemed to know instinctively when to comein.

“I’m hoping that the citizens of Star can be willing to takea second chance as well. Not just on me, but on our home,” Oliver continued.The others had all gone quiet as they listened, none more closely than Laurel,who seemed to be hanging on his every word. “I know that we’ve struggled a lotthe last few years and that a lot of people are giving up or asking why webother? But I think with patience and with determination in equal measure, wecan help turn this city into the best it can be. The same way Laurel’s alwaysseen the best I can be and stood by me.”

“Well, thank you for proving me a good judge of characterafter all,” Laurel said, and they shared a smirk that was so fond it wasinfuriating. Alex coughed, and they both blinked and looked away from theother.

“I consider myself a good judge, too,” Carmine said, “and Ican tell you right now, Mr. Queen, so long as you have this lovely lady’ssupport that goes a long way in my book.”

Oliver looked at Laurel rather than Carmine as he answered,“I’ll keep it under advisement.”

Laurel headed back to City Hall on her own while Alex andOliver rode to the campaign office. Once alone with him, his boss seemed toretreat back into his thoughts, frowning out the window. Alex wondered what wason his mind.

“This may be the one time you hear this, but I might havebeen wrong,” Alex finally admitted, if only to try and draw the other man backinto the present. “About Laurel.”

Oliver’s eyes drifted in his direction, a half-smilecrossing his face. “Only might?”

Alex grimaced. He wasn’t really good at the whole admitting faultthing. “She’s good with those guys from the Locals. Probably grew up surroundedby them, didn’t she?” Oliver nodded in confirmation, and he supposed it madesense that the other man would know. “And I have to say even I was surprised athow well she made you look when they asked about your history. I actuallybelieved her.”

“That’s because she believes it, too.”

“Yeah. Makes you wonder…”

“What?” Oliver shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter.

Alex paused. It wasn’t really his place, nor was he reallyhoping to get that deeply involved in the candidate’s personal life. So heshrugged. “Nothing. Chief Raynes was right, though, you two make a good team.”

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed after a moment. He went back tostaring out the window, though this time his expression was far more wistful.

The more Alex thought about it, the more maddening itbecame. They were too good, made only more obvious when Laurel stopped by thecampaign office to pick up Thea for dinner.

“You could join us,” Thea told her brother.

“Only if you’re not needed here,” Laurel added quickly witha slightly guilty glance in Alex’s direction. She refocused on Oliver whiletucking her hair back behind one ear.

Oliver held her gaze for a moment before dropping it to thedesk. “I should probably put in another hour. You two go ahead.”

“We’ll see you later,” Laurel promised, and Alex watchedOliver watch them leave with a smile. Like he was watching his family. Which hebasically was.

Except that wasn’t his girlfriend. At least, not the mostrecent one. Not the one Alex had spent the last few weeks building the campaignaround; their little office romance or whatever it had been. It all sounded soshallow in his head in retrospect.

Whatever it was Oliver and Laurel had was strong, strongenough to survive time and scandal and the metaphorical equivalent of agasoline fire. They were still working together and for a common good. It was apolitical power couple the likes of which someone like him could only hope towitness.

And yet, they couldn’t really be together. Not without itcausing a stir in the campaign. And they both seemed to know it.

He knew it was deeply ironic to be disappointednow when before he’d been begging Oliver to put some distance between himselfand Laurel. But that had been before he’d realized: it should have been her.

#lauriver #laurel lance #oliver queen #arrow #laurel x oliver #alex davis #green arrow #black canary #my writing #okoriwadsworth

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holinessanddesire · 4 years ago

Text

Excerpt: ‘What’s Wrong with a World Run by Desire?’

In his 2016 album Darkness and Light John Legend wondered aloud how his baby daughter would fare growing up into the world he knows, a world ‘run by desire’.

The vitality of desire is not humankind’s main problem. Quite the reverse, actually. I don’t think that our spiritual energies should be engaged upon the lifelong, doomed task of evading, banishing, neutralising or – failing all else – finding ways to slip out temporarily from under its power. We, good stoics, would lose in our achieved indifference…all this: longing, wanting, lacking, yearning, wishing, hoping, burning, hungering, thirsting, calling, praying, reaching, remembering, mourning. Without these the only thing left to want is death.

‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp’, wrote Robert Browning, ‘Or what’s a heaven for?’ The question acknowledges that the idea of heaven may be powerful, even necessary, but might not be true. It could be a fantasy, constructed only to keep longing alive. In the context of the poem, it sounds almost like a counsel of despair.

But Browning’s lines escaped their context and became an inspirational aphorism. Taken on their own, the lines keep God at a controllable distance, allowing for a human-centred vision into which optional homeopathic doses of the divine can be dripped as a brightener. They fit quite neatly into the family of inspirational tropes and vaguely spiritualised mission statements.

Modern culture is in the business of narrowing the distance between ‘reach’ and ‘grasp’, to make heaven unnecessary. (Or at least to make it so that heaven really is a place on earth, as in the Belinda Carlisle song from the 1980s.) Rhetoric about the ambition of the human spirit is built into commerce, into civic rhetoric, into education. When ‘reach’ and ‘grasp’ are treated as synonyms, possibility and fulfilment can be made to melt improbably into each other. The promise of fulfilment is everywhere, from the can-do HSBC adverts which line the walls of airport jet bridges to the words of the secular primary school song ‘Believe’, which carelessly loads onto every child the burden of compulsory success:

I can do anything at all,

I can climb the highest mountain,

I can feel the ocean calling wild and free.

I can be anything I want,

with this hope to drive me onward,

if I can just believe in me.

This is great positioning for advertising. Adverts exploit the gap between hope and fulfilment by implying that the one will become the other. Adverts also need them not to, because fulfilment doesn’t sell things. In watching an advert we are watching a fantasy from which our sophisticated distance is assumed. They are constructed to exert influence rather than to command assent, though the less sophisticated rollover which assent delivers is always welcome.

Yet the gap between hope and fulfilment which adverts pretend to bridge is a gap we need.

Fulfilment that extinguishes hope renders its own benefits invisible. The gap is where we live, the place of desire. And when the gap is only acknowledged with success as a pre-condition (‘with this hope to drive me onward’) desire is dangerously harnessed. For those many - those most; those all - who discover that the mountains are, after all, too high, the ocean too dangerously wild and wet and deep, failure and shame attend an astonished disappointment. Nothing to wish for except the thing we failed at, nothing to hope for except the thing we thought was already our due. Nothing acknowledged to be beyond the human grasp. Success might even be worse - no bounds, no checks, no perspective. If the whole universe is imagined to be smaller than a single human will, then that single human will is a giant adrift in a wilderness of nowhere. But we are not giants. We are small people tricking ourselves. We are confined in ways that the songs and the adverts simply will not admit.

You can only sing ‘imagine there’s no heaven’ with real enthusiasm if you truly believe that there’s an easily closable gap between reach and grasp. The lyrics of John Lennon’s song are millenarian, eschatological. The perfect time when humankind sings in harmony and lives in peace is here - or just around the corner, anyway. But it wasn’t. It isn’t. In the end, the longing of a song like ‘Imagine’ is exactly the same as the longing for heaven in Browning’s poem - it points to a wonderful elsewhere that cannot be touched. As I was growing up, across the 1970s and 80s, people seemed uncertain about whether it couldn’t be touched because it had already happened (the 1960s being so decisively over, so enviable) or whether it was on its way somehow and still unfolding.

The headmaster of my primary school preached to us almost weekly about the imminent coming of the end-times, newspaper in hand to match current events up to the relevant passages from Revelation. We would all sing ‘God is working his purpose out’ accompanied by wailing recorders. And the earth shall be filled with the glory of God as the waters cover the sea. I became wary of apocalyptic sunsets. I prayed that Christ would not come in my lifetime, or my children’s, or my children’s children’s, on and on as far as I could imagine my intercessory intervention running. I wasn’t sure it was going to work.

Once John Lennon was shot, in 1980, it became clear that heaven was not round the corner at all: it had been and gone. The world was back to its sordid business-as-usual. The boyfriends I went out with (some of them) yelled along to Crass’s anti-nuclear blast: ‘They’ve got a bomb’. Personally, I was bored and alienated by punk, so loud, local and masculine. (Hersham was four stops away, its boys a nuisance at parties.) I took refuge in the last gasps of romantic, space-age eschatology, buying my stairways to heaven with (Tim) Blake’s New Jerusalem, King Crimson’s Islands with its astonishing cover of stars, Led Zeppelin’s ‘Battle of Evermore’ or even the more terrestrial wistfulness of ‘Going to California’. I tried not to notice the ways they were absurd or downright repulsive, or the boredom of long improvisations, or how necessary it was to be a man to enter prog rock paradise. I tried to play the piano like Keith Emerson, but only managed to be nicknamed after the piano-playing dog on The Muppet Show. I didn’t want to think heaven could never arrive, though I had my fair share of four-minute-warning dreams. I asked my mother, in 1979, whether she was afraid. ‘Not after Cuba’, she said.

So what’s a heaven for? It is the place of desire; and we reach towards it through the passions of experience.

Our delight in the present and tangible is not confined inside a point called now. It spreads out from it, backwards and forwards through time. It connects the immediate (now) to the unattainable (then). It does this in the associations of memory, which is the form for longing after what once was. And it does this also in the way that we look, in a strangely similar longing, towards what has not yet come to be, the sight just at the edge of our vision. The experience of becoming, of being someone who has an unfolding meaning in the world, is absolutely dependent upon experience we can’t possess, experience lent to us through imagination and in memory. Somewhere over the rainbow waits the living fulfilment of all our longing. My Christian faith trusts desire to contain all meaning; in desire my eyeline lifts up beyond what is available, pressing forward towards something I am too small to possess. Whilst we are creatures who value yearning, who know that our reach exceeds our grasp, we are able also to be creatures looking beyond the visible towards what we cannot yet see or touch, towards the mystery of things. Desire keeps the future open and the past breathing; it invests the present with potential, a charge of power it cannot retain by itself.

The immediate is important. But alone it is vulnerable to despair. Desire invests the immediate and the tangible with potential, so that every experience becomes bigger than its own moment. Desire is our bridge out of the rule of time; and even if the bridge is barred presently by the toll-gates of marketing campaigns it is still possible to find ways to look into a priceless distance. ‘Buy wine and milk without money and without price’, invites God through the poetry of the third writer to be called Isaiah. ‘Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labour for that which does not satisfy?” Without hope - without its freight of desire - everything we already possess loses weight and value. When we behave as if the New Jerusalem is already here, we are bound for disappointment.

The heart-changing stories of humanity’s desire are not about careless delight or tearless potency. Ours is not a Captain Marvel story. We do not have to imagine what it is like to possess bodies impervious to violence or age, or minds indifferent to the passing of time. Our narratives of seeking and finding end not in strangeness but in recognition. For Christians like me, God manifests in the known human face, in the weakness of a baby, the rare vulnerability of an unarmed man, the defencelessness of offered love, the keeping company with a dying body, the unlooked-for meeting seen through passionate tears. For us, God inhabits the everyday truths of weakness, finitude and loss. For us, God’s presence is strong in the places where the human imagination quails or retreats - with the degraded, the despairing, the imprisoned, the raped, the assimilated or devoured, those of damaged or vanished memory, the dying, those in pain, the tortured and humiliated, those in social exile. All the places which bring human sympathy to a standstill, which darken human comprehension, unreeling the heart towards meaninglessness - those are the places God inhabits with special care. There are no locked doors in the divine imagination. This is a very great mercy of its own, because the burdens of human suffering and human cruelty are sometimes too heavy to bear. Live in the place of death for long enough and death can be what you will long for. But to us another heart helps bear that burden and another eye looks when we cannot, opening a door out of the dark confines of earth and dust. To us, paradise is a place of mercy and restoration, where tears are wiped away rather than where they were never shed.

So, then, what’s wrong with a world ‘run by desire’? If it is the ultimate good thing, the bridge to eternity, the raw material of meaning, the life-motor? What’s not to like? But turn the thought around. This isn’t about a world unexpectedly illuminated by wild desire, but one with its wildness trapped into serving short-term, deliberately short-lived pleasures. And our world, the world of the modern West, though it cannot trap all the wild desire there is, has managed to enslave desire on a truly industrial, global scale.

I do not know exactly what John Legend means as he sings to his baby. But the potential of a new baby is one of the very few places where our vision is long; where we clearly understand desire to be about a relationship between the immediate present and a possibly wonderful future. Babies require patience. They don’t always oblige with smiles and cute moments. You can’t rely on what you’ll get looking after a baby – though it will be unexpectedly wonderful at odd moments. Caring for babies means a grinding and monotonous set of vital, continual mini-tasks, is as different as it possibly can be from the harnessing of desire for swift gratification.

There is little space for the needs of babies - or wildlife, or insects, or trees or oceans or glaciers - in a world run by desire. Desire as a motor for immediate reward drives towards possession rather than care, possessions rather than relationships. It is harnessed in order to direct and distract us only towards objects we can completely encompass. It encourages us to think about non-human stuff - whether we mean by that the 27,000 miles of submerged mountain ranges at the bottom of the sea or our distance from the indifferent stars - as items which at least metaphorically can be ‘handled’, owned in the hand. What does it say about the human relationship with the wilds of space that a businessman might send up a Tesla into the orbit of Mars? (And even that has its own joie de vivre – unlike the many car adverts which fetishise the solitary landscapes the car economy continues to endanger and across which, on our crowded roads, no car driver may travel alone.) Yet to have and to hold means nothing without the stuff which we can’t just have, can’t quite grasp; the associations of the lost past; the potential of what might come; the wildness of what can’t be understood. The wickedness of many car adverts is that (like certain kinds of global tourism) they pretend we can buy wildness.

In a world run, rather than filled, by desire, our grasp is so continual and so driven that we forget that we have any reach at all. We are under compulsion - a word meaning enslavement - flogging the moment to beat a residual grain of longing or memory out of its blankness, or killing the time watching a procession of the wonderfully alien artfully domesticated into small-screen cliche. ‘It was no great mistake’, remarks the seventeenth century mystic Thomas Traherne, ‘to say, that to have blessings and not to prize them is to be in Hell. For it maketh them ineffectual, as if they were absent. Yea, in some respects it is worse than to be in Hell. It is more vicious, and more irrational’. Living becomes a crowded list of short-term goals and greeds. When we forget our reach we also forget our own small size; we forget that we shall die; we forget that we do not make ourselves, or live to ourselves, or die to ourselves. We forget that there is anything bigger than the self. We spend our entire lives in the act of distracted forgetting to avert our own mortality. It is not being very good for us.

#holinessanddesire

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