#i can tell its a few months old because my belly hair is thicker now lmaoooo

[ashdyke]

Little bit of an oldie (that is still bopping around from an old account) but it's a fun one so repost :)

[frenchfrysplash]

fic: between heaven, the sky, the earth

The Haunting of Bly Manor

Dani/Jamie

Chapter 3/10

Read on AO3 Here! Or you can continue into the Read More.

Summary: Jamie goes between one moment, and the next. Falling around her like rain, like snow.

She’s here for a reason. Here to help.

She just needs to remember.

Chapter Three: dearly departed

But even when one is dead and gone It still takes two to make a house a home Well I'm as lonesome as the catacombs I hear you call my name but no one's there

- The Shakey Graves, "Dearly Departed"

February 2001

"I think this is what you're looking for, Mrs. Clayton."

A plain clamshell box was placed gingerly in front of Jamie, the cardboard corners worn from being pushed and pulled to and fro a shelf for years. The archivist, a young blond woman with round-framed glasses, opened it carefully, and thumbed through the files. She glanced at Jamie, smiling uncertainly.

"It's not a lot," she said. "400 year old papers are fragile, and well, it's a miracle some of these have survived this long. We don't have the same kind of money for conservation as the big places. But this is what we have of the Lloyd papers."

"Right," Jamie stared at the box, apprehension brewing in her belly. She flexed her fingers against the foldable plastic table the archivist had set up for her, wedged in a corner of the tiny museum office. "So, have I got to wear gloves or something?"

"Oh, yes!" the archivist produced a pair of white cotton gloves, and laid them on the table next to box. "Now, these papers have survived pretty well, but they are fragile."

"Should I be worried about them crumbling in my hands?" Jamie asked.

"Nothing like that," the archivist shrugged. "They could tear though. Just be careful."

"Will do." Jamie pulled the gloves on.

"If you need anything, I'll be just over here," the archivist said, indicating the desk in the opposite corner.

"Thank you."

The archivist nodded, and made her way over to sit at her desk, sparing one last curious glance at her visitor. Jamie got the impression that this little museum and archives, hidden as it was in a tiny village in Devon, didn't really get all that many researchers. Especially ones specifically asking to see the papers of one Arthur Lloyd, whose trail she had been following like a dog with a bone for three months now.

She had started with one name - Viola. A Viola who had lived - and died - at Bly Manor, at some point in its long, dark past. It had seemed an impossibly thin lead, so she had called up Henry Wingrave, hoping he knew something of the history of his country home. He hadn't, not really, and Jamie was left to wonder if this was a fool's errand.

Until Flora had called.

"Uncle Henry said you were looking into the history of Bly Manor," she had said. "Specifically someone called Viola?"

"Yeah," Jamie had replied. "But he didn't know anything."

"No, he's not one for history," Flora had chuckled. "But that name sounded familiar. So I went looking through some of my old things, and guess what!"

"Flora."

"I have an old grave rubbing with that name on it! First name, last name, birth and death dates."

"Flora," Jamie had nearly dropped the phone in her excitement. "That's amazing!"

"I can send you a picture by e-mail?"

Jamie had blanched. "Can't you just tell me what it says?"

"Luddite."

And that conversation had led her to Viola Lloyd, born 1645, died 1680, who had lived at Bly Manor for the entirety of her short life, and had died and been buried there. From there, she was able to visit the local parish records office, and find a marriage record between one Arthur Lloyd and Viola Willoughby, in 1674. There hadn't been much else on Viola, but there was another marriage record for Arthur Lloyd, seven years later, to a Perdita Willoughby.

Scandalous.

Perdita had died too, according to the death record Jamie had found in the same Parish office. Plus, there had been a christening for a Lloyd baby in 1675, though the child's first name had been rendered illegible by the intervening years.

That had been it for the Parish records, but Jamie had something else now. Arthur Lloyd. A merchant, according to his marriage records. Born somewhere around 1640, but not buried at Bly Manor, or in the Parish cemetery. He'd probably left after the death of his second wife, then. But to where?

And that was the question that had led Jamie here, to this tiny museum. It hadn't been easy, and Jamie wasn't a natural researcher. But she was smart, and determined, and when the man at the National Archives had informed her he couldn't find any primary sources on Arthur Lloyd in the collection, but had found an obscure reference to a merchant named Lloyd in a book written in 1973 about the history of a little farming community in South Devon, well. Jamie had followed the lead, and been rewarded for her efforts.

Gingerly, she pulled out the first file, and flipped it open. The papers inside were yellowed, the handwriting looping and nearly impossible to read. Jamie sighed, glanced at the archivist again, and pulled her reading glasses out of her jacket pocket.

"I love when you wear those," Dani said from the other side of the table, resting her cheek on one hand, gazing at Jamie adoringly.

"I've had 'em for two years," Jamie replied, eyes scanning the pages in the front of her. "Thought you'd be used to it by now."

"You look so cute with them on."

"They make me feel old."

This file seemed to be mostly pages from Lloyd's ledgers, listing his business dealings, his trading in tobacco and spices and fine linens. Jamie's brow knotted together in concentration as she made her way through the rest of the pages.

"All good over here?"

Jamie looked up at the archivist, who stood in the spot Dani had been sitting, moments before.

"All good," she said. "I'll, uh, probably be a while, yeah?"

"Oh, of course!" The archivist smiled. "We're open until five. You're welcome to stay until then if you need to."

"Thanks," Jamie said, and took the next files from the box, wordlessly dismissing the archivist.

"You could be nicer," Dani chided from behind her.

"I'm busy," Jamie replied.

"She's just trying to be helpful."

Jamie sighed, and leaned forward, adjusting her glasses.

This file was more of the same, for the most part. And the next one was a deed to a cottage just outside the little village, as well as a few household expenses. Jamie tried not to feel frustrated.

"I don't even know what I'm looking for," she said, placing the file back in the box, and pulling the next one out.

"You'll know when you find it," Dani replied, voice more distant than it had been before.

Jamie paused, and looked back at Dani, who stood against the wall, smiling encouragingly. There was something off about her, and it took Jamie a moment to understand.

"You're fading," she said.

Dani blinked, and tilted her head, a frown appearing on her face. Confusion flashed through her eyes, and she glanced around, then focused back on Jamie

"Jamie," she said. "Where-?"

And she was gone.

Jamie's shoulders slumped, and she turned back to her table. The file in front of her was thicker than the others, and Jamie was extra careful opening it. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the first page.

"Here we go," she whispered to herself.

Letters. Dozens of letters, spanning just as many years, from one Jonathan Lloyd, Vicar in Essex, to his brother Arthur, Merchant in Devon. As Jamie read through them, taking notes on a little notepad she'd brought, a puzzle began to take shape. So many pieces were missing, but there was a solid outline, as Jonathan asked after Arthur's ill wife, Viola; solemnly comforted him at her death; congratulated him on his second marriage; counselled him on his money problems; offered advice and support as Arthur decided to move away from Bly Manor; lamented how fast children grow as Arthur's daughter married a man called Norton.

A sound from behind her; someone shifting against the wall. A rustle of fabric, the squelch of mud against the floor, and a few drops of water hitting wood.

"Do you remember?" Jamie asked, not turning around. "Do you remember him?"

Wet footsteps moved forward, stopping right behind Jamie's right shoulder. A water droplet hit her notebook, and Jamie caught a glimpse of long black hair from the corner of her eye, as Viola leaned forward.

"His name was Arthur," Jamie continued. "He was your husband."

A low, guttural keening bubbled up from the woman at Jamie's shoulder, soft at first, but growing louder. Jamie whipped her head around, eyes widening as she saw the woman leaning over her shoulder. Her face was different than before, more human. Still no eyes, but the outline of her nose and brow was stronger, her mouth less a hole in her face as lips were now visible. A hand clutched at Jamie's shoulder as the keening reached a crescendo, and Jamie reeled from the rush of anguish that followed it. Memories of love and happiness, followed by betrayal and anger and bitterness, flitting through her as her vision turned black.

---------------------

May 1995

The hand on Jamie's shoulder made her jump, and she nearly knocked the pan off the stove as she turned around. Dani shot her an amused smile, letting her hand slide down Jamie's arm. Her other arm wrapped around Jamie's waist, as she pressed herself against her fiancée and chuckled.

"Jumpy this morning?" She asked, leaning in to kiss Jamie on the cheek and rest her chin on her shoulder. "Mmm, bacon?"

"And eggs, and sausages, and beans, and mushrooms, and tomatoes, and toast." Jamie grinned that cocksure grin that Dani loved. "You're getting a full English this morning."

"You already had me full of English last night," Dani said, nuzzling under Jamie's ear.

Jamie groaned. "That was terrible. That doesn't even make sense."

"I'm loopy," Dani defended herself. "Because I love you. And I'm going to marry you."

"Oh?" Jamie put the spatula down, and turned in Dani's arms. She settled her arms on Dani's shoulders, and leaned in for a kiss.

"You'll burn the bacon," Dani mumbled against her lips, smiling, even as her fingers slipped beneath Jamie's shirt, skirting along her hips.

"You like burnt bacon," Jamie replied, dotting kisses along Dani's jaw.

"Do I?" Dani pulled back, eyebrow raised. "Or is it the only kind of bacon you know how to make?"

"Dani," Jamie whined, as Dani took a step back, a smirk on her face.

"I don't think I should distract you right now," Dani said, voice light. "You have to concentrate on not burning the apartment down."

"That's not fair!" But Jamie was already turning back to her pan, realizing that, indeed, the bacon was in danger of burning. Beside her, Dani poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Do you need my help?" She asked, taking a sip.

"No, no." Jamie waved her away. "You go sit down. I'm making you breakfast."

"Whatever you say," Dani said, shrugging and making her way over to the kitchen island. She sat down on the other side, hands encircling her coffee mug as she watched Jamie move around the kitchen.

"This is literally the only thing I know I can make well," Jamie said. She paused, and her voice was quiet for her next words. "My Dad used to make it for us, when he was home, rare as that was."

"I didn't know that,' Dani said, voice soft and careful.

Jamie hummed. "He used to burn the bacon too."

"Well," Dani tapped her fingers against her mug. "Maybe burnt bacon isn't so bad."

Jamie shot her a grin, and the couple lapsed into comfortable silence. Dani drank her coffee, enjoying the sight of Jamie working, the smell of sizzling food, and the warm feeling in the kitchen.

"Do you want to have a ceremony?" Dani asked suddenly.

Jamie turned around, eyebrows raised. "A ceremony?"

"Like, a wedding," Dani said. "I know it wouldn't be…legally binding, or whatever. But we could still have a ceremony. Invite the people we love, eat some cake, have a party."

Jamie turned back to the stove, falling quiet for a moment, absently stirring the mushrooms.

"Do you want that?" She asked.

Dani swallowed, smile dropping. She looked into her coffee for a moment, then shook herself.

"We don't need it," she said, the smile returning. "But we should go on a honeymoon."

"A honeymoon, eh?" Jamie had begun plating, and with a final, careful placement of some very unburnt bacon, she turned and brought breakfast over to Dani. "I like the sound of that."

"Yeah." Dani pulled her stool forward, picking up her fork. "Yeah! We could go to Paris."

"And never leave the hotel room?" Jamie waggled her eyebrows.

Dani laughed. "We have to at least see Owen."

"Oh, well," Jamie leaned forward on her elbows. "I suppose we can do that."

"And then spend the rest of the time in the hotel room." Dani said, taking a bite of the baked beans.

Jamie laughed, and Dani's eyes crinkled at the edges as she laughed with her.

"Oh." Jamie sighed, her smile fading as she gazed at Dani. "I was an idiot today, wasn't I?"

Dani frowned. "What?" She asked around a mouthful of beans.

"I wish I had said yes," Jamie said. "To a ceremony. To a party. To a wedding. With you."

"Jamie," Dani breathed, slowly lowering her fork.

"I know we called each other wife after this," Jamie said, reaching forward and grasping Dani's hand. "And I know when civil unions came about we got one. But we never celebrated, did we?"

Dani's eyes shone, and she clutched Jamie's hands between her own, tightly. "It didn't matter," she said softly. "The rings-"

"Enough for me, if they're enough for you?" Jamie turned Dani's hand over, running her thumb over the claddagh ring on her finger, the one that matched her own. She lifted it to her lips, and kissed it, shutting her eyes as tears ran down her cheeks.

"And they were, Jamie," Dani whispered fiercely. "You were enough for me, always enough for me."

"And you for me." Jamie opened her eyes. "But the truth is, the more time went on, the more I thought about it, the more I wished I had said yes to a celebration. I wished I could have stood up in front of our friends, and our family, and committed to always being there for you, to loving you."

"Flora could have been a bridesmaid," Dani said, a light smile on her lips.

"Owen could have been my best man," Jamie grinned. "Or I'd ask him to walk me down the aisle. I can't decide which one he would freak out about more."

Dani gasped. "Miles could bring his boyfriend!"

"Oh, yes, except," Jamie titled her head. "They weren't together yet, when this happened."

"Right," Dani nodded. "Miles wasn't even out yet, poor kid. But maybe if we'd done it when we got the civil union."

Jamie pointed at her. "The smart one, as usual." She glanced towards the windows, covered in plants. "I could do the flowers."

"You'd want to do your own flowers?"

"Who else could I trust to get it right?"

Dani laughed, clear and bright as a bell.

"I would have liked planning a wedding this time," she said. "If it were with you."

"I'd have helped more, for one thing," Jamie replied, tucking a strand of hair behind Dani's ear.

"That's true."

Jamie gazed at her for a moment, before her expression became more distant, eyes looking past Dani.

"They legalized gay marriage in the Netherlands, you know?" She said. "In April."

"They did?" Dani asked, eyes widening slightly.

"Yeah," Jamie nodded. "And there's talk in Canada. And other countries. It's happening, Dani. If we'd just-if you'd just-"

"If we'd had a little more time," Dani whispered, hands gripping Jamie's painfully tight. "Jamie, I'm so-"

"Don't," Jamie stopped her, a warning in her voice. "Don't apologize."

"But-"

"No."

Dani's brow was furrowed, staring at Jamie as though something about her was confusing her.

"This is strange," she muttered. "Something is…wrong."

"It's just a memory," Jamie said, dropping her gaze to their joined hands. "It's not even real. What did you say the kids called it? Dream hopping. This is all just my memory."

Dani shook her head. "But this is…there's something weird."

"It's ok, Dani." Jamie kissed her fingers again. "It's just a memory."

Dani continued to stare, blue eyes darting between Jamie's green ones. She was fading away, even as Jamie watched her, and Jamie found herself desperately holding on.

"Wait," she said, voice breaking. "Please don't - don't go. Not yet. I like this one. Can we just stay here for a bit? It's not enough time, I haven't had enough time."

"There's never enough time, is there?"

Dani was gone, but from the seat beside her vacated one, Viola Lloyd gazed sadly at Jamie.

She looked different, again. Still not completely human, hair and dress still damp. She had eyes now, though they were clouded over, and the rest of her face was unnaturally smooth, like a mannequin in a store front. She heaved a heavy sigh, eyes trailing back to where Dani had sat moments before.

"You took her from me," Jamie whispered, tears spilling over.

"I did," Viola said. Her voice was scratchy, disused. "Before her time. It was the same with me, I think."

Jamie opened her mouth to retort angrily, but caught herself. This isn't why you're here, she thought sternly. Closing her eyes for a moment, she steadied herself against the counter, and breathed in, out and in again.

"You were sick," she said finally, opening her eyes, her voice carefully even.

"Yes," Viola replied, turning her face towards Jamie. "Very sick. I should have died, really. But I didn't. I held on. Stubborn."

"You didn't want to leave your husband," Jamie said.

"No," Viola shook her head. "It wasn't fair. I had fought so hard for the life I had. And there it was, slipping through my fingers, like sand in an hourglass."

"You wanted more time with him."

"Not just him." Viola's brow furrowed. "There were others. A family, I had a family. A small family, but a family all the same."

Jamie nodded. "A sister, maybe?"

Viola's face turned towards Jamie so fast it seemed to blur, and something there twisted, mouth curling, eyes hardening.

"Yes," she said, the word coming out in a snarl. "A sister."

[winchester-fantasies]

Bewildered Heart - Chapter Nine: Welcome Home, Daddy

Series Summary: What happens when Sam and Dean Winchester love the same woman?

Word Count: 2276

Warnings: fluff, allusions to sex, pregnant reader, light angst, swearing

Pairing: Dean x Remi Leverett (OC), Sam x Remi Leverett (OC)

Winchester Fantasies’ Masterlist

     August

     Seven Months Later

     Remi placed her straw hat on her head before making her way outside, the heat hitting her face in a wave. She glanced around, squinting slightly against the bright summer sun. Tree frogs croaked in the pines and cicadas sung in the distance as she walked over to the garden bed. She bent down slowly, her now rotund belly making moving less than comfortable. She knelt down, her knees coming to rest on the wooden bed. She picked ripe vegetables, placing them in the wicker basket by her feet.

      “Hello, Remi.” Remi jumped in surprise at the voice behind her, causing her to teeter forward, almost falling face first into the soil. A strong pair of arms grabbed her from behind, hoisting her upward. She spun around, ready to confront the intruder.

      “Cas?” she exclaimed.

      The angel smiled as Remi threw herself into his arms. Even though she had needed to get away from the bunker, she had missed Jack and Cas and having her friend with her again caused an ache inside her heart she had not even realized needed to be filled. “What are you doing here?”

      Cas sobered at her question and he looked away as if he weren’t sure how much to divulge. “I didn’t tell them where you were, Remi,” Cas said, turning back to her.

      “Wh…what are you saying, Cas?” Remi questioned suspiciously.

      The angel sighed. “Dean. He’s on his way here. They used a tracking spell to find you.”

      “Shit,” Remi silently chided herself. She had forgotten all about tracking spells. She had been so upset and this place had provided her with such a sense of security that she did not even think about warding the place.

      “How far away is he?”

      “He should be here later tonight.”

      Remi nodded her head absentmindedly as she swiped a bead of sweat from her brow. “Okay, I’ll…. Oh!” she cried out suddenly, her hand coming up to her belly. “Easy, little man,” she chuckled, rubbing small circles over her stomach.

      Cas frowned, looking down to her belly as if seeing it for the first time. “Are you alright?”

     Remi smiled. “Yeah, he’s just kicking again,” she said with a laugh. “He tends to do that when I get excited or anxious.” 

     Cas continued to stare, his gaze wide. “Would…would you like to feel him?” she asked hesitantly. The angel glanced up, his blue eyes swimming with awe, as he nodded silently. Remi took his hand and gently placed it over her belly. She felt another kick and a wide grin spread across Cas’ face.

     “I remember when Kelly was pregnant with Jack. I felt both amazed and scared. I’m feeling that way now,” he admitted. “I can feel his energy. He’s strong. Just like Dean.”

      Remi smiled as tears sprang to her eyes. “Yeah. He is,” she said lovingly as Cas finally drew away.

      Remi sobered as she remembered that Dean was heading her way. “I guess…I should go pack. I don’t know where I’m going to go and I can’t travel far because of this little guy, but I don’t really have a choice,” she chuckled harshly as she began making her way back to the house.

      Cas’ hand closed firmly around her arm, stopping her and making her turn back to face him. “Remi,” Cas warned. “I don’t think you should keep running away.”

      Remi huffed incredulously. “But, Cas, they hurt me. They’re both selfish pricks who don’t want me, but don’t want anyone else to have me either. I’d rather run and live alone with my son, than have to live with two men that my heart still loves but be lonely for the rest of my life.”

      Cas searched her face imploringly. “Remi, these last few months have been hell on Earth at the bunker. Sam and Dean have been beside themselves, desperate to find you. Especially Dean. I can’t remember the last time he’s slept; he’s not eating properly, and he goes out most nights and comes home inebriated the next morning.”

      Remi shook her head. “But why?”

      “Because he loves you!” Cas snapped, causing her to jump.

      “But how can he? He couldn’t even stay in the same room as me when I told him I was pregnant. He made it pretty obvious he didn’t want me or our baby!”

      Cas sighed in agitation as he looked away. “Remi,” he said gently. “I’ve heard Dean’s thoughts. You and the baby are all he thinks about.”

      Remi felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. A tear suddenly slid down her cheek at Cas’ revelation. She had never meant to push Dean to this point. She had never meant to hurt either of them in return, but her pain had been so deep and she had felt utterly abandoned.

     She finally nodded. “Okay. No more running.” 

     It was time to face the music.

**********

      Remi glanced up, her lips twitching into a slight smile. She would know that rumble anywhere. It was faint, barely noticeable to the untrained ear, but she had lived with that sound for most of her adult life. She could have picked it up even in the busiest and most overcrowded place in the world.

      She stopped rolling the crust for the cherry pie she was preparing to bake. She took the towel from its rack and wiped the flour from her hands before going over to the doormat. She stood by the front door, looking out the window in anticipation. Remi felt a kick against her abdomen and she lightly winced at the slight pain before she smiled gently. She rubbed her hand over the spot, feeling another somewhat gentler kick. “Daddy’s almost here, baby boy,” she whispered.

      She stepped outside just as the Impala pulled up into the driveway. She stood at the foot of the gravel driveway, her hand coming up to her brow to shield her eyes from the setting sun. The Impala stopped and within a few moments Dean stepped out. Remi’s heart nearly stopped. He was dressed in his usual attire – jeans, logger boots, military jacket. He looked a little thinner than when she had left, and he had allowed his stubble to become slightly thicker. Remi had forgotten just how handsome Dean Winchester was, and the clenching of her stomach reminded her just what he could do to her.

      Dean’s breath caught in his throat as he stared back at her, his body glued behind the driver’s side door, his hands resting lightly against the rim, the key still gripped in his sweaty palm. She stood with her hand still shielding her eyes. The hot breeze flowed, plastering her long summer dress against her legs, the hem rippling in the wind, her bare feet peeking out from underneath. The dress was tight enough that it accentuated her ample belly and her chest had gotten bigger, the top of her full breasts peeking over her sweetheart neckline. Her dark hair was tied into a bun at the nape of her neck, but a few strands flew across her cheek in the breeze as his gaze traveled to her plump face. Her cheeks were rosy from the heat and a streak of flour ran along her left cheekbone, standing out against the color of her face. The setting sun cast her in a golden hue, giving her an almost angelic appearance. She was positively glowing and Dean thought she had never looked so beautiful.

      “Hey, Rem,” Dean said gently.

      She was about to respond when she winced in pain and her hand flew to her stomach. She closed her eyes as a slight frown crossed her face. “Remi, are you okay?” Dean asked, hurriedly shutting the door and striding over to her side.

      She opened her aquamarine eyes and smiled up at him. “Your son likes the sound of his daddy’s voice,” she said.

     Remi watched Dean’s eyes light up into a green she never knew existed as his eyes widened. “My…my son?” he breathed, his gaze falling reverently to her swollen abdomen, before returning his eyes to hers. His hand hovered over her belly, almost fearfully.

      She smiled as she drew his hand fully over her skin. His head jerked downward, his eyes widening with amazement as another kick pounded against Dean’s palm, this one stronger than Remi had ever felt before. An unexpected tear trailed down Dean’s face and Remi’s own eyes turned misty as she watched him carefully, his fingers grazing lovingly over her skin.

      “My son,” he whispered again his lips forming into a gentle smile.

      Remi placed her hand over his, causing him to look up at her. “Welcome home, Daddy,” she said gently before his lips captured hers.

**********

     “I’m sorry that I pushed you away,” Dean said, his gruff voice quiet.

      Remi ran her hand over his bare chest, her fingers etching along his anti-possession tattoo. Her hand stilled as she glanced up, meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry I ran away.”

      Dean tightened his hold on her, bringing her naked, full abdomen flush to his side. He sighed. “I don’t blame you. Not with what an asshole I was.”

      Remi smiled, regret in her eyes. “Well, I was the one who drove you to act that way. I should never have told you the way I did. I had wanted to make it special. It’s just with Sam coming back, us not being able to really be together, my morning sickness, me having to deal with my pregnancy alone – just everything…. My mind was already on shaky ground and I just blurted it. I was just so happy you were finally back with me.”

      Dean leaned over and placed a kiss on her lips softly. When he pulled away, his eyes were filled with heartache. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with all that alone, Rem. I was scared…confused…shocked. Everything was happening – changing so fast, that when you told me, I reacted in the first way my brain told me to. I’m so sorry, Remi. I should have been there for you. But instead, I….”

      Remi silenced him with a kiss of her own. “Stop. Let old dogs lie. I’m just glad that you’re here and that you want our son.”

      Dean smiled, his hand coming to rest on her belly. “I want both of you,” he breathed, his voice low. Remi smiled as his lips captured hers once more, this time slow and passionate. He gently rolled her on her back, his eyes grazing over her full body, his gaze filled with both awe and love like Remi had never seen nor felt. She realized she would lose herself in him again, but this time she did not have to be afraid to drown.

      “Remi?” Lauren called, her voice echoing from downstairs.

      Remi groaned against Dean’s lips as he pulled away. Dean rolled away from her, a disconcerted expression on his face at the sudden disturbance. Remi could not help the giggle that rose, and Dean frowned at her before helping her sit up. She scooted to the edge of the bed before pulling on her clothes once more.

      “Remi?” Lauren called again, this time louder.

      “I’ll be down in a minute,” Remi called back, opening the door a crack as Dean redressed. After he was done, they made their way downstairs, Remi taking the lead. She found Lauren and Zach in the kitchen, groceries spread out on the island in the kitchen. They were laughing about something, but their smiles vanished as they glanced up.

      “What the fuck are you doing here?” Lauren growled, looking at Dean with disgust. “I think it’s time for you to leave,” she continued, not waiting for an answer. She went to the door and flung it open as Zach stalked towards Dean. Dean instinctively backed away from the smoldering giant, but Remi stepped in front of him.

      “Stop!” Remi ordered, halting Zach mid-step. “It’s okay,” she reassured, looking between him and Lauren. “I knew he was coming. We’ve already talked. Everything’s forgiven.”

      Lauren shot her a skeptical look. “Are you sure?” Zach asked, his usually pleasant baritone voice low and threatening.

      Remi smiled reassuringly. “Yes. I’m sure.” Lauren finally closed the door, sending Remi a tight-lipped smile, her eyes still shooting suspicion Dean’s way. Zach’s shoulders relaxed slightly and he nodded once, although, his protective presence never wavered as he joined his wife in the kitchen.

      After supper, Dean went to bed, exhausted from lack of sleep and worry. Remi made her way downstairs, finding Lauren seated on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand, book perched in the other. Remi sat down softly, eyeing her friend silently. Lauren finally glanced up, sending Remi another thin-lipped smile. “I know you think I’m stupid,” Remi said quietly.

      Lauren sighed heavily. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Remi. I just…I just want you to be safe.”

      “I am safe. If there is anyone I can be safe with in this world, it’s Dean,” Remi said with a reassuring smile. “We’re leaving in the morning. Back to the bunker.”

      Lauren cocked her head. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

      Remi nodded. “Yes. More sure than anything. You and Zach have both been so kind and gracious for welcoming me into your home. I couldn’t ask for better friends.”

     “You’re more than just a friend, Remi. You’re family,” Lauren stated with a slight smile. “But you’re welcome. If you change your mind or if Sam and Dean are assholes again,” she chuckled, “you know you have a home here.”

      Remi grinned. “Thanks, Ren.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[tessimagines]

After All This (Bill Weasley x Reader) - Part Five

Pairing: Bill Weasley x Moody!Reader

Summary: (Y/N) and Bill gain an unexpected visitor.

You can find the series masterlist in my bio!

Warnings: a tad of angst.

Wordcount: 2.7k

A/N: There will be a minipart that will come out sometime during the week (but definitely before next Saturday!) Hope you all enjoy :) This chapter isn’t the most plot-filled but the next full-length definitely will be!

October 23rd, 1997

The brisk air wafting in across the sea ruffled both yours and Bill’s hair, your hand wrapped snugly inside his. You walked together down the path leading to Shell Cottage, a comfortable silence between the two of you. The Order’s meeting had gotten to the both of you, it’s heavy nature causing a weariness to set in. Bill was visibly exhausted beside you, his face displaying a sense of tiredness yet also a look of pure concern.

Severus Snape had given the sword of Gryffindor over to the Lestrange’s. It was now in their filthy, death eater hands and sitting away in their century-old vault. Who knew of the numerous Dark Artefacts that it now sat alongside in there, ready to be given to Voldemort at a words muttering.

“I can’t believe that Ginny’s at Hogwarts while those Death Eater bastards are there,” Bill muttered, his words laced with concern. There was a glint of unease in his light blue eyes, one that caused the hairs on your skin to stick up on end. You reached up and placed your other hand in the indent of his elbow, drawing the two of you closer to one another.

“I’m worried about her too,” you said, watching as his eyes glanced over to you while walking. “But she does do a pretty good Bat-Bogey Hex, so she has that going for her.”

Bill gave a small laugh despite his worry for his little sister. Ginny wasn’t the only one you two were worried about, there were so many people that this war was putting in danger. Somewhere, Merlin knows where, three teenagers were on the run. Both you and Arthur were risking so much by simply going to work in the morning and Tonk’s little Baby was set to be born into a world controlled by a mob of terrorists, bringing violence and war to a world that was so quickly losing its strength to keep fighting on.

Shell Cottage was now just ahead of you, it’s swirling patterns of shells only now becoming visible. You and Bill continued to trudge along, though frazzled and drained. Both of you were dreaming of the moment when you’re heads would finally hit the pillows so cozily resting on your mattress.

“Hey, Bill?” You said, you’re eyes fixed on the glowing windows of your suppose-to-be empty house. Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion, your grip on Bill’s arm tightening.

“Yeah?” He said, dazedly.

“The lights are on in the cottage.” Bill’s eyes followed your gaze to the small windows on either side of the door, finding that sure enough, both were glowing with the luminous lights from inside. Bill’s steps became cautionary as the both of you continued to make your way closer to the cottage. Bill was becoming more protective with every step, trying to move his body in front of your own.

You pulled out your wand and felt your grip tighten on it, the familiar grooves of the wood feeling natural in your hands. It had been your mother’s old wand once, gifted to you on your eleventh birthday by your father. It had been a handy companion throughout your life and a constant reminder that in some sort of way your mother was still here, helping you to fight whatever battles you came across.

You moved to stand in front of Bill, your feet treading silently and carefully on the cobblestone path leading to the doorway. Your eyes were pricked to pick up the tiniest of sounds, years of Auror training and work showing in your precise and skilled movements.

“(Y/N), get behind me,” Bill said, his own wand in his hand. His face had turned from a dazed tiredness to total awareness at the situation. You waved him off and continued forwards, your wand outstretched in your hand.

“Now is not the time for chivalry, Bill.” You quietly turned the doorknob to your shared house, doing your best to make sure that your action emitted no sound. As soon as you felt that it had turned as far as it could, you pushed it open, your eyes immediately falling on a tall, lanky figure standing in the middle of the room. Your wand was pointed directly at him when you noticed that he looked way too similar to the man now standing directly behind you to be a real threat.

“What the hell are you doing, Ron?” Bill shouted, dropping wand to his side. You felt yourself sigh at the stunned look on Ron Weasley’s face as he looked at the pair of you with wands in your hands.

“Merlin! You frightened us, you bloody idiot.” You muttered, following after Bill as he rushed forward and wrapped his arms around his stunned younger brother. As soon as Bill let go, you did the same, giving Ron a tight embrace.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his gaze flickering between you and Bill and finally to the wand that still sat in your hand. You hadn’t realised that you had still been holding it and tucked it quickly away in the pocket of your green jacket. “I just didn’t know what to do because no one was home.”

“Where’s Harry and Hermione?” Bill asked, his gaze flickering around the room. There was no noise coming from up the stairs, and even if they had been up there, you assumed they would have heard you and Bill and come down by now.

“We should probably talk,” Ron muttered. He could barely meet either of your eyes, flickering them away whenever he came close. His hands had begun to fiddle with his jacket, clenching the creased and grubby material. It looked as though it hadn’t been washed in weeks.

“Alright,” you said, looking at him with maternal concern in your eyes. He was so young when you had met him that you had always seemed like an older, caring sister to him. “How about we get you some clean clothes and run you a shower and then we can talk?”

“That sounds good,” Ron said, picking up a dirty old backpack that had been leaning against your couch. You placed a hand on his back and felt him flinch at your touch. Withdrawing and confused, you lead him up the stairs and into the small bathroom between two of the spare bedrooms you had. Leaving him to run the water, you went to go find some of Bill’s clothes for him to wear once he was done, a clean towel in tow before you headed back down the stairs.

Flicking the kettle on, you wondered what had caused the distress to come over Ron. You felt a pull at your heart at the mysterious whereabouts of his two best friends and uneasiness begin to bubble away inside of you. 

And with a look in Bill’s direction, you knew that he was feeling the same.

You stirred Ron’s tea with the silver teaspoon, watching the pale, milky liquid twirl around with its movement. Ron was staring at it as though it was the first drink he had seen in ten years, the steam coming out of it and rising deliciously to his nose. He was practically leaning over the mug, waiting on edge until you took the teaspoon out of the tea. As soon as it was out, the mug was in Ron’s hand, his arms rushing up to lift it to his lips. The hot liquid burned his mouth as it touched it, Ron’s face scrunching up and flinching away from the mug as the scalded sensation hit him.

“You right there, Ron?” Bill asked, a look of humorous confusion etched onto his face. “Tea is hot, remember?”

Ron didn’t say anything and instead put the tea down in front of him. He had hardly spoken a word since he had arrived and he couldn’t seem to erase the regretful look from his features.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, trying to make eye contact with him again. His head shot up at the idea of food and he quickly began to nod, as if the simple possibility of food was the best thing to ever happen to him. “Alright, just sit tight. I’ll heat you up some leftovers.”

You walked over to the fridge, pulling out a container of last night’s tomato pasta. Heating it up on the stove, you flinched at the silence that was quickly becoming thicker and thicker in the air. Bill just sat across from Ron, his expression turning more concerned with every minute that Ron didn’t speak.

Putting down a bowl of pasta in front of Ron, you quickly sat down in your place next to Bill. Ron was shovelling the food down, mouthful after mouthful. You assumed it was the first proper meal that the kid had eaten in ages and watched as he cleaned the bowl out in three minutes flat.

“That was beautiful, (Y/N),” Ron said, his face a tiny bit happier at the food now in his belly. He looked between the two of you sitting across from him.

“I suppose you want me to tell you why I’m here, then,” he started, noticeably sinking further back into his chair as he said so.

“Well, I think we’re both a bit confused at that,” Bill said, his eyes stuck on Ron’s ashamed looking face. “Or where Harry and Hermione are or even at what in Merlin’s name you’ve been doing these past few months.”

“It’s a long story,” Ron muttered.

“Well, we have all night,” Bill spoke. His words were followed by a moment of silence from Ron. He collected his thoughts, trying to think of what exactly he was going to say to Bill’s questions before he opened his mouth to speak again.

“Look, I can’t tell you exactly what we’ve been doing but I can tell you that we’ve been doing something for Dumbledore.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, squinting your eyes in confusion. “Dumbledore’s dead.”

“He left something for us to do. Something hard. And it’s been taking its toll on all of us. Especially on… on….”

“On who?” Bill asked, his blue eyes looked at his brother’s similar coloured ones. Both of them looked so alike yet wore very different expressions on their faces. Ron looked as though he wanted to sink back into the chair and become invisible. On the other hand, Bill had a look of worry on every single one of his features. He was pressing Ron for the answers, worried that something terrible had happened and Ron was hesitant to tell them.

“On me!” Ron said, his voice rising into a frustrated shout. “I left them there. I left them in the middle of a forest because I just couldn’t take the two of them anymore! They just couldn’t see it! The can’t see just how hopeless that stupid task is!”

Ron’s face was a bright, fearful red. His breaths were coming out in heaves, the look on his face one of gushing fury. It didn’t stay like that for long though, as his own words began to sink in and the rational side of his brain started to tick. His face lost it’s colour, becoming a pale and empty canvas. He leaned forward, placing his head in his hands, covering his face from the stares coming from yours and Bill’s direction.

“Oh, Merlin, Bill, what the hell have I done? I left them there! They needed me. They needed all the help that they could get and I just left!”

Ron’s voice was becoming raspier with every word that he spoke. Bill didn’t speak another word as he looked across at his younger brother so ashamed of himself. Ron’s eyes were wet with the tears he was trying so hard to hold back. The regret of his actions was so obvious to you and Bill, it seemed to mask the disappointment you should have felt in him.

You reached across and grabbed his hand over the table, watching as his head lifted at the touch. He didn’t smile or speak as he looked between his brother and you, anguish so clearly etched on his face. “You can stay here.” You said, giving him a reassuring smile. “Until you sort out what you’re going to do next. You know you’ll always have a place to sleep here.”

Ron only nodded and then forced his eyes to look up at his brother, Bill giving him a firm nod. You could tell that Bill was disappointed in his brother but that he also felt sympathetic for the guilt he knew that Ron was feeling. Bill got up out of his seat and walked around the table. He motioned for his brother to stand and gave him a hard embrace, a reassuring pat on the back as he did so. Ron’s eyes were still wet and his face was still a ghostly white. Then he jumped as though a thought had just startled him. 

“Oh!” Ron said, his voice thin and weak. “I almost forgot.”

He quickly stood up out of his seat and made his way around the table until he reached his filthy backpack leaning against your couch. He reached inside and pulled out a small object, it’s mass completely contained in the palm of his hand. His eyes flashed to yours again, holding out his hand for you to grab the object.

You felt your fingers graze a smooth, glassy surface and picked it up in a single swift move. You let it sit in your own palm as you brought it closer to yourself to get a proper look.

Sitting inside your palm was your father’s old electric-blue glass eye. It seemed so small in your hand compared to when your father had worn it strapped to his face. It was so delicate in your fingers, a single drop would send it falling to the ground and bring it to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. It was a piece of him. A piece of the father you had lost.

“Where…” your voice faltered as the words came out. “Where did you get this?”

“When we broke into the Ministry. It was on Umbridge’s door. She was using it as a security thing, I think. Harry took it and I somehow ended up with it when I… you know.” Ron was looking at the little glass eye in your hand, unable to meet your gaze as he dwelled on his last action towards his best friends.

“I thought you might want it,” Ron finished, picking his bag up off the floor.

“Thank you.” Your eyes wet with unshed tears and your voice was quiet and raspy, a thick and uncomfortable lump forming in your throat.

Ron nodded and left, carrying his bag behind him as he made his way up the stairs. Bill came around to stand next to you, his gaze peering down at the little glass ball in your hand. 

“Thanks for letting him say.” He placed a kiss to your forehead and let you lean into his body. Putting a hand over the glass eye, he closed your fingers over it and brought your face to look up at his.

“Why don’t you put it up on the mantelpiece next to the photo of him with his family? I think that’s where he thought the best place would have been for it.”

You nodded at him, walking over to place the glass eye down next to the photo of a newborn baby in your father’s arms – no indication of scars or glass eyes on his face. Your mother stood beside him as she smiled down at you and then up to him, amazement and esteem clear in her gaze.

“Let’s go to bed,” Bill said, taking your hand and turning you to face him. “It’s late.”

You let a faint smile come across your lips, leaning forward and placing a kiss to Bill’s scarred cheek. His face turned a soft pink at the affection. It was an area that made him shy away when he caught it in the mirror, yet he kept his strong gaze on your face. You turned to follow him up the stairs and into bed, your father’s glass eye now in its place watching over the peaceful home that was Shell Cottage.

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[purple-salt-mage]

A Mother’s Shield

A look into Reina’s resolve to keep her child safe after recent events.

Reina sat upwards in her bed, a miniature brush in hand with bristles specifically made to straighten up fur. Anakha "sat" in her lap, if the child's increasing attempts to crawl around the furniture could be called sitting, while her mother took the brush down her fur. The jet black hair on her head was easy enough, it had grown thicker the past few months but not unwieldy and gave the kitten a beautiful visage in her mother's eyes. Reina was careful when going around the ears as Anakha was being fussy enough "if you stay still, this will be done quicker, your hair needs to be groomed little one" she groaned but it was as if she was talking to herself, with the toddler's flailing. With a sigh, she finally finished up on the child's head and let her crawl forward a little on the sheets before grabbing her with one hand by the waist.

As Anakha squirmed around, her mother brought the brush down towards the stump of a tail she was growing "this can either take a minute or take a bell, your choice" and as if the child understood, she stopped moving so much. Reina brought the brush down against the tail, stroking along the fur gently for a few moments, thankfully because of its size, she finished quickly just as promised and let the kitten go. Anakha only made it a few ilms before finding resting on her belly and finding it hard to move "you'll grow into it Ana." The purple haired keeper set down the brush on a nearby desk before reaching to turn her child over and rub along the toddler's belly. She smiled as her ears were greeted with excited squeals and a smile that melted her world away. The kitten was one of the few things that brought constant joy to her life and as if on cue, words from a certain red head echoed in her mind. Reina would sit quietly to herself, the smile still on her face while her mind was elsewhere, debating if this was actually enough to give up her ambitions......

Cries for attention shook her out of her daze, the kitten below noticing her mother not paying attention to her had decided screaming would be the best solution to remedy this. "Hey hey stop that, I'm here, don't worry..." she moved her hand from the toddler's belly and up to caress her cheek, wiping away some of the tears streaming down until Anakha stopped. "I see you got that annoying trait from me, one last thing that I forgot to do, then I'll hold you ok?" Reina repositioned to be on her knees, both hands over the child but not touching her. The keeper's eyes were closed as she tuned into Anakha's aether, smiling at how familiar it felt to hers but noticing it to be a tad more potent "ah if you have a talent for manipulating ambient aether like me, you'll surpass your mother little one, I do hope you choose the path of a mage one day, now here we go..."

Reina concentrated, focusing her aether around her hands until an invisible shield began to form around the baby. After a few moments, the edges snapped together, perfecting the shield. "Ha, my intuition was correct, welcome to your first manaward Anakha." She brought her hands together in joy "well, technically it's my manaward using my aether as a catalyst while I trick it to think you are me, this should be as powerful as mine without needing to sap any energy out of you little one.....why am I telling this to you when you're only a few moons old? Maybe I just like to hear myself speak." The keeper shook her head a few times and smiled before picking the child up just as promised, the toddler looked at her with a confused look, as if she could tell that something was different but didn't know what. Reina shifted around to cradle Anakha in her arms "Momma will protect you with everything she has, this is just the first step." Her mind then drifted off to what errands they needed to run that day, for now, things looked a bit brighter.

This started out as me wanting to write a little bit about what I think miqo’te grooming is like but then I got carried away. I hope anyone who reads this enjoys my writing and please reblog it if you do, it helps to get it seen! The art was done by the awesome @thavnairian check them out if you can.

[patricia-von-arundel]

The Boarding House AU: Elsa & Christmas

Rating: T

Summary: Shardsverse AU. After escaping a death sentence, and forced to come to terms with the idea that she can never return to Arendelle nor see Anna again, Elsa finds herself in the unexpected position of sharing a room with a poverty-stricken young scholar of magic…

Part I: Elsa & Alarik

…And according to tradition, the one who finds the almond will be the next to marry. 

Alarik was quite sure he’d made the biggest mistake of his life. And he’d made some very big mistakes. Elsa - just Elsa now, something she would probably have to adjust to just as he would - was tiny and wide-eyed and clearly terrified. What he had to try very hard to hide was that he, too, was on the verge of panic.    He waited until she was sure she was asleep. Then he put down his pen, closed his books, and gave over to hyperventilation. When that proved insufficient, he turned instead to pacing, carefully avoiding the squeakier floorboards. The room was frigid, the coals down to embers, but he didn’t want to add more in case the light - or heat - disturbed her. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Finally, exhausted by fear and shivering and the stresses of the day, he gathered up the spare blankets - kept for the dangerous cold of January and February - and managed a restless, dozing sleep until dawn. When the weak light woke him, he went immediately into what might, with luck, become a new routine, before the fear could grip him once more: he straightened and tucked his shirt in, ran a hand through his hair - for all the good that would do - and tore a strip from a discarded sheet of paper to write a quick note, in case Elsa woke before he returned. He went out into the cold morning, shivering despite scarf and gloves and coat, in search of breakfast. He usually just ate whatever was leftover from dinner the evening before, or nothing at all perhaps more often, but they had finished the bread and cheese and milk, and it seemed cruel to not have something for Elsa. He returned home half an hour later with a quarter pound of salted bacon, several half-price rolls from yesterday’s baking, and two small twists of brown paper: one of butter, the other of tea leaves. The butter was an indulgence, but he would water his ink for a few days to make up for it. Elsa was still asleep when he returned, and he wondered how long it had been since she’d had a full night’s rest. She looked very small and very peaceful, curled up on her side with her hands folded against her chest, blankets kicked off and her hair a pale, heavy fan around her. Despite the fear of the entire situation, he found himself feeling strangely, strongly protective of her - and of the trust her sister had placed in him. He was poor and weak and terrified, but he would do everything he could for her, until a better, safer - cleaner - place could be found for her to go. He used scrap wood and paper, now, for the fire, because it needed only to last through breakfast. He rarely allowed himself fires during the day. If it was too cold to go without, he went to the university, where reading room hearths blazed, or, on holidays, to church. He was not a believer, but he always wondered how many others found faith in the warmth of packed bodies and spent breath. While the fire built up, he took the bucket down to get clean water from the pump, for tea and for washing. When he got back, Elsa was sitting up, knuckling one eye like a sleepy child. When she saw him, she bit her lower lip. He stopped in the doorway, uncertainty holding him firmly as nails through his shoes. “Oh. Uh… Good morning.” “Good morning.” Her voice was thick and raspy with sleep. “Would you like some breakfast?” She blinked once, and again, before nodding. So he came in, set the bucket down, got to work. Bacon over the fire in one pot, water for tea in the other. Single plate and cup set out for her - with the butter; he could do without - and the milk bottle of the night before and the smoothed wax paper from the bacon for his own setting. He gave them each two rolls, leaving four more for lunch or dinner. Elsa, he noticed from the corner of his eye, had crawled to the end of the bed and perched there cross-legged, watching him work. But she said nothing, and so neither did he. He used his spoon to flip the bacon - he’d gotten lucky, for the price he was able to pay; it was a good cut, and was cooking very nicely - then took the pot of boiling water off the fire and sprinkled the tea in it to steep. “Almost ready,” he said. She was still watching, elbows on her knees and chin on her hands, but she didn’t reply. She didn’t seem to say much at all, but he didn’t know if that was a result of the fear and stress of the last few months, or just a natural reticence. All he knew of her, really, came from letters written several years before, the last arriving when he was just about to reach his twenty-first birthday - and some few days after newspaper headlines had reported the tragic loss of King Agdar and Queen Idunn of Arendelle. The king had never described his elder daughter’s appearance, or much of the personality now so masked by fear and self-doubt. Instead, he had written of her intelligence, her keen mind for mathematics, her quick wit. The letters had spoken of her consuming fears - but in all, his love for her had shone through. And now here was word made flesh, watching him cook her meager breakfast. Had Agdar known the real Elsa? Had anyone? Would Alarik? “Breakfast is served,” he said, putting plate and cup on the table. Elsa got down from the bed, walked the few steps across the room, picked up plate and cup, and sat across from him on the floor. Her raised eyebrow invited him to try arguing. He didn’t. Nor did he object when she took half the butter - cutting neatly through the middle - and placed the rest, still in its unwrapped twist, at the edge of his waxed-paper plate. She was a queen, and his training on aristocratic etiquette went deep. But more than that, he didn’t want to object. There was something to this silent exchange that sent warmth through him, as fleeting, perhaps, as a full belly, but nonetheless, he would take it. It was nice - he had shared no more than a rare meal offered to university staff in a very, very long time. Elsa was quiet, but it was already obvious she saw everything, actually listened to words spoken. It was likely learned of necessity, but regardless, he liked it. He liked her. “How did you learn to cook?” she asked as they ate - and there was genuine curiosity in her voice, beyond mere polite query. “I had to,” he said. The butter was good on rolls - he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had butter. “It was that, or starve.” He felt himself grinning, but could do nothing to prevent it. Elsa nodded, eyes focused on the food before her. “That makes sense. I should have known without asking.” Her hair was still loose, her feet bare despite the bone-deep chill. She looked painfully vulnerable. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “It was ridiculous, really. I was 16 when I left home, and the first thing I tried was spitting meat on sticks, which I’d probably read about in a ‘true story of most miraculous survival’ in one of the ladies’ journals my mother occasionally bought. It didn’t go as well as I probably hoped.” She was still looking down, but a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “It took me longer than I like to admit to think back to what I’d seen in the kitchens at home. I still had some money then, so I - Is something wrong?” She was squinting at her cup of tea. But her eyes rose to briefly meet his, and she shook her head. “No - I’m sorry. Go on.” “I should have saved some milk. Or sugar - I don’t know if you take sugar.” Another quirk at her lips. “Not half as much as my sister does.” But then it was gone, like shutters closed over her face. “It’s not that. I’ve just… never had it with the leaves still in it.” “Oh. Yes. You get used to drinking around them, I’ve found.” He added “strainer” to the mental list of things to save for. Maybe he would just start watering his ink as general practice. She took a tentative sip of tea. “It’s good. What kind is it?” “It’s rare. It’s called ‘whatever was left over at the tea shop when the new stock came in, sold as a mixed jumble to Mrs. Herrdrehl for her dry goods stall’. You’ll never taste exactly the same again.” She actually laughed at that, and he felt absurdly proud of himself. Breakfast finished and dishes washed- and wax paper crumpled and shoved in his pocket to be tossed in the first midden heap he passed - he said, “So, um… clothes.” She reddened slightly. “I’m fine in this. Really. I don’t feel cold much.” He resisted the urge to ask more about that - she wasn’t here as a research subject. And maybe he would have a chance to ask later. She was wearing a dark blue dress over a brown shirt and brown stockings - not as fine as what she probably wore at home, but still unlikely to last for a long time if worn repeatedly, a lesson he had learned quickly while wearing his own “practical” clothes from back in Geatland. They might not be silk and satin, but they were still designed with the mindset that accessible repair or replacement would be available. Clothes bought here were thicker cloth, rougher weave less inclined to unravel or tear when caught. He had never bought women’s clothing, of course, but assumed it was likely similar. And she would need some - living here, unfortunately, she would need some. But he didn’t know how to tell her that. It ashamed him, suddenly - all of it. This part of the city, the boarding house, his room - the squalor and clutter, the constant smell of smoke and old cooking and damp wood and mildewed bedding. She still had no real understanding of the world in which she had landed - the world in which he had invited her to land. But the realization would come for her, as it had for him. He would never forget the helpless tears that had come when he realized he would have to sell several cherished books, some of the few he had carried through many years of wandering, in order to pay his rent. In living this far down, there was no grace period, nor were there sympathetic landlords. He had sold his books, paid his due, and returned to that summer’s meager quarters to cry again. Yes, Elsa would realize - but if he could prevent it, it would never be so harsh as that. Even if he had to sell more books to make sure, he had been here long enough to not feel the loss quite as deeply. He would do what was necessary. “Why don’t we just go have a look?” he asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind, it’s up to you, but… there’s a pretty nice market square, not far from the docks, so there’s usually… a lot to look at.” He knew nothing about women’s clothing, much less what might appeal to her. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay locked up in here all the time.” He saw her shoulders hunch, just perceptibly, and realized what he’d said. But before he could apologize, her eyes - clear and blue and firm - met his. “Yes,” she said. “That would be fine - going out to look.” Resolve in her eyes - but there was a tremble in her voice. Once more, she bit her lip. She wore the cloak and gloves in which she had arrived - and even without her earlier admission, he might have suspected that wasn’t due to the December chill. Still, most of the skittishness of the day before was gone; in place was a mask: serene face, straight back, gloved hands folded before her. Among women hard-bitten early by poverty and desperation, clutching threadbare shawls with chilblained hands and usually surrounded by hordes of red-faced children, Elsa was going to stand out no matter what she did, pale and unblemished and imperious as she was. If it helped her to walk like a queen, he didn’t see that it was likely to make the situation any worse. The marketplace was packed, far more so than was usual mid-morning, and it was only when he saw the butcher’s sign, advertising holiday specials, that he realized Elsa had arrived only a few days before Christmas. She seemed as oblivious as he had been, but judging from the way her brows drew down, she was deliberately taking in as little as possible, in order to maintain control. King Agdar had written that even as a child, crowds had been difficult, and she had fled more than one social event as temperatures dropped and frost trickled out beneath her feet. “We don’t have to stay long,” Alarik said, leaning close to make himself heard over the chatter of shoppers and sellers alike, but careful not to touch. Elsa just nodded. She stayed close by his side as they ventured deeper. He went first to a stall where books were sold - and bought. He wandered for a bit, pretending to browse, hoping something would catch Elsa’s attention long enough for him to do what was necessary. She stopped by a shelf of gothic novels, looking around to make sure it was all right to do so before sliding one out to glance through the pages. When he was fairly certain she was absorbed - she was hardly blinking, her lips parted - he went to conduct his own business. He glanced back more than once; she was reading each time. But when he rejoined her, she said, “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to do that.” She was still looking down at the open book. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s… necessary more often than you might think. And they’re usually still here when I have a little extra again.” “I can’t imagine why.” He burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw disapproving looks from several others. Well, let them - laughter caused no harm, and Elsa looked pleased with herself. Se glanced a last time at the page before her, then closed the book and returned it carefully to its place on the shelf. Alarik looked back at the bookseller, who nodded. They spent the new few hours trying to figure out buying her new clothes - Alarik had never bought clothes for anyone but himself, and Elsa had never bought clothes at all. He finally convinced her he didn’t mind paying for two new dresses - a lighter blue, a bit more expensive, but it was obvious she liked it, and a deep green - and a new bodice very similar to the old. “I’ll pay for them,” Elsa said repeatedly, something close to panic in her voice; she was clenching her gloved hands together at her chest. “Or… or Anna will. I’ll write to her, in your name.” “I don’t mind, it’s fine,” he said, but she was clearly not going to drop it, so he finally added, “You should write to Anna anyway - as you said, in my name.” But Elsa bit her lip and fell silent, and there were some walls she had built that he knew he could never, at least for the moment, get around. She was quiet and withdrawn on the walk back to his - their - little room, but once there, she untied the twine holding together her bundle of clothes, folded each item tight and neat, and placed them on the trunk at the end of the bed. She looked, he thought, very pleased. He was glad. 

The next few days were peaceful, if often more than a little bit awkward. He rarely did much besides work - he had no money for anything else - but it seemed uncouth to bury himself in books and notes when Elsa was there, quiet and uncertain and so very, very alone. But it was hard to tell how much engagement she wanted. Occasionally, she would participate in something almost like normal conversation, but those moments were rare - usually, she answered questions politely but succinctly, and was all but silent otherwise. After the single trip to the market, she also showed no inclination to go out again, though her usual place in the room became sitting on the edge of the bed, where she had a view out the little window to the street below. It took her little time to adjust to the schedules of the neighborhood, so that she saw the departures of the dock and factory workers at dawn, the return of some for lunch, and the appearance of street vendors with questionable meal-stuffs for all the workers trudging home in the frigid dusk. He watched her sometimes, then - he just couldn’t help it. Her eyes grew bright and her cheeks flushed, like a delighted child. For those few minutes, he caught a glimpse of an Elsa happy, carefree, part of a wider world. But he seemed incapable of finding a way to draw it out otherwise. He wasn’t sure how to phrase even his own activities - wanting her to know she was welcome to come out with him, but not wanting her to feel forced, he settled for just stating his intentions, though “I’m, uh… going to get lunch now” was still far from optimal. She usually just nodded. Then, one morning, she ventured a question from her usual perch by the window: “Where is everyone today?” He glanced out at the empty street, then realized: “Oh - it’s Christmas Eve. The factories are closed today and tomorrow.” “Christmas Eve?” She was still looking out the window, down at the cold, silent street. “I missed my birthday…” “When was your birthday?” “Last week.” And she lapsed once more into silence. He went out in the evening to buy dinner as well as things for the next day, when even the street vendors would be scarce. Money was running low - he’d need to take on tutoring again, come spring - but he bought what he needed, regardless. There were always more books to sell. Christmas morning came with bells and shouting in the streets, and Elsa almost smiling as she watched the neighborhood children - usually as dour and rough as their parents - laugh and toss balls of wrinkled paper and run deftly along the slick cobblestones. They ate well - sausages and lutefisk and cabbage, and he’d bought rice pudding for dessert. Elsa was quiet, but seemed happy enough, even laughing when she found the almond and he pulled from his pocket the tiny marzipan pig.    “Anna always won,” she said. “Even though she didn’t like marzipan.” “Do you?” “Yes.” But she broke the pig in half, so that he got some, too. He almost lost his nerve on the last thing, putting it off, wondering if it wouldn’t make sense just to sell it back, and hope to get even half of what he’d paid. The sky was growing dark when he finally said, “I, uh… I got you something. Just something small.” She took the paper-wrapped parcel in both hands, a strange, almost pensive expression in her eyes. “Thank you. I… I appreciate it very much.” She pulled the paper away with slow, careful hands, then was still for quite some time, staring down at the book’s cover. Then, to his surprise, she started to laugh - true, deep laughter that made her eyes water and her cheeks brighten and one hand rise quickly to cover her open mouth. He grinned - he couldn’t help it. Maybe she hated it, but regardless, she was laughing. She was happy. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, wiping her eyes with the back of one gloved hand. “It was very thoughtful. I just didn’t know you were paying that much attention when…” “When you were doing the same thing to me?” She nodded. She was still smiling. She put the book on the trunk, next to her spare clothes - all that she owned in the world, now. She looked at those things frequently, as if reassuring herself they were still there.

[summylise]

The Scars That Don’t Heal

A/N: Hey guys! Still not off of my hiatus, sorry (tbh I’m kind of liking not being on tumblr a lot. I’m getting a lot done, for once). BUT I didn’t forget about Nalu Angst Week and BOY ARE YOU IN FOR A SHOW PHEW!! I can’t wait to unveil my entire story and yes, you heard right. For the rest of the week, I will be writing chapters that all take place in the same storyline and universe. It’s like a really small multi-chap. Figured I’d get my feet wet some more before continuing with Cataclysm (and I can’t WAIT to pick that up again!!). AAANYway...here is part one: The Scars That Don’t Heal

rating: T

words: 3216

pairings: nalu, duh

summary: He had given in, and she was too late. There was nothing she could do besides beg and plead for him to come back to her. She knew it was in vain, that the words would never reach him. But there was still a sliver of her that hoped he was still in there. In the end, her kindness gave her scars that would never let her forget when her happiness had slipped through her fingers.

There was a time where she was looked on with admiration and envy. She couldn’t walk down the street without getting catcalled or hear a woman scoff under her breath just because she wore something that made her feel confident, albeit a bit more immodest than some would like. .  She’d be able to walk up to vendors and, if she played her cards right, she could land a pretty decent discount. It didn’t exactly work half the time, but that was beside the point. She even managed to land a pretty big following when she had posed for Sorcerer Weekly way back when and she hadn’t even tried for that one.

That seemed like years ago now

But now was different. Now she couldn’t walk down the street without hearing a gasp or a whistle as someone caught sight of her. She had tried to cover it up. Tried wearing her hair differently, buying hats, nothing worked. She hated the looks she got now. Many just stopped mid-step and turned a different direction. There were the spare few, however, that when she caught their eye, they’d give her that look. That terrible look one would give a beat up stray that seemed to say “I want to help but get away from me”.

Luckily, she hadn’t gotten to the moms-shielding-their-children-from-the-sight-of-her yet, but she had a feeling that if anything would happen next, it would be that. It had gotten to the point where she didn’t even bother looking people in the eye. She instead favored the various colored street signs or the cobblestone sidewalks or even the broken Aquarius key she wore around her neck. She tended to stay away from that one the most, lest she invite more unwanted memories back into her head.

She turned a corner and pushed on the glass door that released dozens of sweet aromas of pastries. She took a deep breath of the scent and stepped in. Erza’s favorite cake shop had grown on her in these last few months. It was tucked away in a little corner of Magnolia that allowed it to be just out of sight but not quite out of mind. Granted, that was probably not so good for business, but by the state of its colorful awnings, pristine black and white checkerboard flooring, and a bright grin on the baker’s face, she would been none the wiser. She took her place at her usual table hidden in the far corner of the shop, far enough away for regular customers to pay her no mind but close enough for her to see their faces and see reactions other than disgust or pity.

“Hey, Lucy,” said Karen, placing a pitcher of coffee on her small table. “How’re we doing today? Your footsteps seemed a bit heavy when you walked in. Anything you want to talk about?”

Lucy tried to smile, but the action didn’t quite reach her lips. She wrapped her fingers around the pink mug she had seemingly adopted and sighed. Karen, sensing her unease, took the seat opposite her and stared at something just past Lucy’s shoulder.

“Come on. You know you can’t hide anything from me.” She taps her cloudy eyes. “They say when you lose one sense, the others are amplified and I have a particularly good ability to tell when people are upset.”

Lucy giggled. “You know that’s not actually a sense, right?” She lifted the pitcher to her mug and poured.

Karen waved her off. “Pft. If it’s not a sense, then what is it?”

“I shrugged,” she said as her shoulders lifted.

“Ha! I could tell before you even-hey wait. Stop trying to change the subject.”

Lucy sighed again as she sipped the warm, hazelnut blend of this morning’s roast. Karen knew exactly what was wrong; the conversation would always go the same direction and end the same way: with Karen having steam coming out of her ears because of her inability to understand why people gave Lucy such dirty looks. Karen may have been blind, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew about Lucy’s scars, how they disfigured half her face, beginning above her eyebrow and ending somewhere around her shoulder. The thick, light almost-white lines scratched down her face like lightning over her eye and down her cheek, leaving large indents where there should have been regular, smooth skin. Where normal skin had been only a few months earlier.

“It’s just the usual gawkers, Karen. Don’t worry about it,” Lucy mumbled from within her cup.

Karen continued to stare at the place above Lucy’s shoulder though the girl could feel the heaviness anyway. After a moment, she sighed and leaned back in her chair.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop,” Karen said, beside herself, but continued, “pestering you, that is. I won’t stop worrying about you until you’re out of this dark corner and out in the sun, for once.”

Lucy let out a breath and rolled her eyes but inevitably smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

The old woman smiled that old lady smile where the corners of their eyes crinkle up, and you can practically see the sugar oozing from their pores. For all she knew, Karen was oozing sugar and mixing it in with the batter for the bakery’s signature cakes.

Her gaze followed the woman’s disappearing back as she slapped at the doorway to the back room with her walking stick and dissolved into darkness.

Lucy turned back to the throngs of people that frequented this shop on early Sunday mornings like this one. There were always so many, and all dressed like they were going to a funeral or something. They weren’t of course; it was just church, but to her, they might as well have been the same thing. Most of the time it was families that came in, wanting to sweeten up their weekend a bit with a little something extra. The children were always the funniest to watch; they’d get all excited at the sheer volume of sugary delights crammed into one, small establishment. They’d get that same, sparkling look in their eyes that always managed to drag a grin from Lucy.

A little boy ran up to the glass case where dozens of sweets stood at attention, waiting for their turn to shine. His hungry eyes swept over all of the different assortments of cookies and doughnuts and muffins. He turned to both parents and begged for more than one, despite the adults insisting for only one treat. His smile dropped a fraction as he turned back to the case. He lifted a finger to point, but every time he would figure out what he wanted, his eyes would catch on the frosting or fruit of another, and that finger would go slack. The baker laughed and reached into the display. He placed the filled bag in the child’s arms and smiled when the child’s face broke into an ear-to-ear grin. The boy practically leaped into the air with joy.

His toothy smile tugged on Lucy’s heart, and the image of pink hair and a scarf faded over the boy’s features.

Lucy’s own grin dropped, and she shook her head. Heart in her throat, she closed her eyes.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t going to be him. Her brain had to stop doing this to her.

She clenched her eyes shut and refused to open them until she heard the ringing of the front door and the sound of faded laughter. She squeezed her half empty mug and pushed her chair back. She passed the display case where the boy’s breath marks were still visible, her eyes glazing over. Her body automatically placed the mug on the small counter and reached into her purse. She wished that those memories would just go away, that they’d just leave her to whatever sorry corner of her life she resigned herself to. Granted, she’d still be alone, but at least she’d be in peace.

Gray had insisted that she not try and forget about the whole ordeal; that it was for the best and would be good in the long run. She had scoffed and argued about failing to see any good to have come of it. He was lucky. He got out of it virtually unscathed. He moved on. He grew from it and became a better wizard because of it but left her in the dust. Everyone else was able to keep going, but there was a certain finality to it all that kept her behind. She refused to accept it: that this was her life now, and in turn, she had stayed behind.

“Lucy?” the baker urged.

Lucy blinked and realized that he had probably been speaking to her for some time now. Lamely, she stared back, hoping he would repeat what he was going to say.

“I’m sorry. I’m fine. What’d you say?” she said, her voice thicker than she had hoped.

He merely smiled and repeated.

“I was just asking if you wanted to take Erza’s order back with you. I assumed you were going back to the guild hall after this?”

Lucy threw up the brightest smile she could muster, but even she could feel the fakeness of it.

“Sure thing! Did she actually pay this time or will you have to put it on her tab?”

The old man laughed, the sound resonating from his belly and creating a certain warmness that would have typically made her laugh as well.

“Nah,” he said, “She’s been pretty good these last few times. Anyway-“

He reached into the best lit part of the display case and slid out a cake roughly the size of a human head decorated with small strawberries that lined the edges of light, white frosting. It was complex yet simple in design: white buttercream draped over the sides like snowy curtains held up by small ruby weights. There was no fancy design, no elaborate scripture in the center. Just a crisp, clean white cake with strawberries being the only source of color. The dessert felt wrong in her hands. She stared at it with a particular disdain and jealousy even. Here was something coated in white that others looked at with delight whereas here she was in the same situation but looked upon with revulsion if they even looked at all. She knew it was just a cake and that it wasn’t even alive, but she couldn’t help but look at it with longing and envy.

“Make sure this one lasts more than a week this time?” he said, another smile playing on his lips.

Lucy nodded and watched as, just like everyone else in this damn town, his eyes involuntarily shifted to the white lines carved into her face. She had gotten used to the stomach drop and embarrassed flush in her cheeks, for the most part, but that didn’t stop this one from hurting any worse. Her eyes darted to the floor, and she pushed open the door, barely hearing the chiming bells as the ringing in her ears took over.

                                                         ~~~

Her walk to Fairy Tail had generally been uneventful. Normally, she’d be able to handle them staring and watching her, their deep gazes always stirring something inside her that made her feel both out of place and itching to get out of her skin. Normally, she’d be able to blow off those feelings and hope that they’d just disappear. But for some reason, today just wasn’t letting her have it.

By the time she reached the large, wooden doors to the guild hall, she had been on the edge of tears and itching to scream and cry and be anywhere out of public eye. A few more minutes and she’d be able to do just that. She just had to brave them. The guild.

The guild always was the worst to come to. It was just like walking in the streets except they pitied her not only for the scars but who gave them. They had seen what she had gone through. Had been there when she had received her wounds. Had been there when her deepest and still open wound was created. Seeing them used to bring a smile to her face and make her finally feel like she belonged somewhere. Now, she had never been more out of place, like a puzzle piece that you had tried to squeeze into a position only to find out that it wasn’t even the right color, to begin with.

She silently crept to the table she knew Erza would be and placed the cake on the edge. The guild hall quieted at her appearance, and that only made her stomach drop further. She turned without another word and started back towards the entrance. She hated encounters like these, the ones where she couldn’t open her mouth or else she’d say something stupid or burst into tears. She couldn’t face them when they looked at her like that. Wood scraped against wood as Erza stood from her chair, mouth likely agape to say something but Lucy refused to turn and face her. Her now free hands lifted to squeeze her forearms. She trudged back to the doors, eyes never leaving the hardwood floor. She gritted her teeth and refused to cry in front of them, lest they pity her even more than they did now.

“Let her go, Erza,” a deep male voice said behind her.

“I can’t keep this up much longer. It’s been almost a year, Gray.”

The frustration and waver to her voice almost cost Lucy right then and there. She closed the thick doors behind her and almost slid down their forms, just as she did a few months ago.

“It’s different for her. He wasn’t just her friend.”

“Yes but she’s our friend and she’s hurting.”

“Exactly. We had to figure out how to cope on her own. You have to let her do the same.”

She tried not to hear the tail end of their conversation, but she couldn’t help it. Damn doors, despite their size and thickness, were somehow not sound proof. She broke off into a run to Strawberry Street. Unable to deal with any of this any longer. She ignored the staring, the noises of disgust and surprise when she raced past people on the road. She focused on the pounding of her feet on cobblestone, of her labored breathing, of the tears she gritted her teeth to keep in check.

She slammed the door to her apartment closed and leaned against it for a moment. If only she had never gotten these damn scars. If only people weren’t so quick to judge and didn’t feel so sorry for her.

She ripped her t-shirt over her head and flung it somewhere in the corner of her room. Her bra was next to follow. She stomped over to her full-length mirror and switched on her bedroom light. As she lifted its edges, she bared her teeth. The thick white scaring had only gotten worse as time went on. At least it was covered by bandages when she was first attacked. That way no one could see how bad it really was.

Her fists clenched. A rapid breath of hot air whistled through her teeth. Blood raced past her ears, and she narrowed her eyes on the carvings that dug into her skin like the claws of the creature who had given them to her. She wished that there was something that would get rid of it. Something to finally rid her of one last thing to remind her of when she lost a part of her heart.

The angry tears finally raced down her cheeks, and she screamed. Her fingers clawed at the marks, digging into her flesh and trying to rip the scars from her skin. She knew it was in vain. Magic didn’t work. Medicine didn’t work. Porlyusica exhausted her resources just to make sure she just survived rather than worry about her skin in the future. She scraped and clawed and scratched at the white marks. She tried to ignore the stinging pain that followed. Her fingers went numb and white became pink became red.

She continued to stare at the white veins, letting what little blood she could draw out dribble into the small crevices and crack in its form. She watched as they turned back from red to pink to white again and suppressed the urge to scream again at its stubborn resilience. Not only had it been able to recover like everyone else in her life but it also left a visible, permanent wound that mimicked the one she felt inside. The emptiness that accompanied her everywhere she went and left her feeling hollow and incomplete. She was a Rubik’s cube without color. A dull shell with no worth other than to take up space someone could otherwise use for something better.

A small rapping on her window drew her out of her reverie for all but a moment until she saw who it was at her window. A flying blue cat floated into her room and settled on her pillow silently. She secretly missed the way he would not stop talking about fish, about Carla, about anything. Now it was a chore to get him to say anything, let alone eat. He didn’t comment on her state of dress nor the disorganization of her usually pristine room nor the tracks of dried blood trailing down her scars. He only stared at her with wide eyes.

Lucy turned to her dresser and pulled out an old t-shirt that wasn’t hers and a scarf that wasn’t hers. She padded to her bed and pulled back the covers despite it only being one in the afternoon. Time hadn’t been relevant to her for quite a while now, and she wasn’t entirely sure it ever would.

Happy plopped down next to her and curled up inside the scaled scarf Lucy had loosely wrapped around herself. She tugged it up and over her nose, trying desperately to smell it again. The unique scent of sandalwood and smoke that used to inhabit every inch of his scarf and shirt but was now slipping through her fingers as he had. She tugged it further up her face and buried herself into it. She squeezed her eyes shut as a fresh wave of tears washed over her. These were the ones she hated the most. They often came to her at night when Happy would show up, and she’d have to get his things out. The tears that left no sound. No sobs, no hysterics. Just her and her sadness.

Her memories weren’t done with her tonight, though. Tonight they wanted her to relive every second, every moment that had changed her life. Tonight, they wanted her to suffer again. Maybe it was because of all the thought she had about it today. Maybe it was because of her inability to block out the stares today or maybe it was just because of that boy whose smile so much resembled his. Maybe it was a sign that she just needed to move on. Maybe. Or maybe it was her own sick way of making herself finally feel something. She just wished that it hadn’t been because of him.