#i darned two socks last month

[artifucker]

Start school at the end of the month. Forgot like all my Welsh. Deleted Discord (for now at least). I want to be working on myself but I feel like I do not have that freedom. Which is funny because I have been happy whenever I haven't been speaking to my friends. People are so exhausting.

My sister was in town last week and I had dinner with my girlfart. Oh and I saw Deadpool X Wolverine the other day??? Benefits of a sugar mommy. I've been thinking about more tattoo ideas but idk yet. I wanna know good lepidopterans to get inked on me that aren't so obvious like rosy maple or luna.

The delulu has been winning as of late. So many voices. Reading and YouTube and music helps tho frfr. I hope no one on Discord misses me too much. Or at all really? That would be so embarrassing. I need to relearn Welsh again gahhhh.

[kaiyonohime]

I don’t wake up well suddenly in the night.  Like really, really not well.  I’ll have issues trying to figure out reality for a little bit not well.  As in I will full on not know kind of where I am or anything.

This has caused some interesting issues now that I have a baby and all, and the baby does wake me suddenly in the night for things like new diapers and feedings.  Which is normal for the baby to do.  But my brain still can’t handle waking up well.

Last night I thought he was Lambert (Witcher) and was lecturing him on how if he kept being a little shit like this, Aiden was going to leave his ass and no one was going to put up with his moping.

All of this happening while I was changing his diaper, and then settling him on his nursing pillow and covering him with his blanket for a feed.  It was until a few minutes into his feed that I realized that no, my baby was not Lambert.  And that it made no sense for me to think he was.

Shit like that happens to me three or four times a night.  And has been, more often in the beginning, since he was born.

It’s very annoying.  I look forward to him being able to sleep through the entire night so I don’t keep having to orient myself to reality so often.  It’s fucking with my head.

I also look forward to him being able to walk and get around on his own because my left shoulder and spine are fucking killing me.  He’s barely two months old and already 6.5 kg, and taller than most one year olds here in Japan.  My left shoulder is shot to shit because of years of viola playing, lifting heavy objects, especially squirmy ones, is not helping.

[mothiir]

story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally? 

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

”Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured. 

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’. 

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor. 

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up. 

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea. 

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist. 

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way. 

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs. 

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal. 

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story. 

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course! 

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest. 

You make a strange strangled sound. 

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning. 

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan). 

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it. 

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze. 

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says. 

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts. 

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch. 

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl. 

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity. 

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming. 

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation. 

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious. 

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic. 

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm. 

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate. 

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance. 

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.” 

“Amen,” he echoes. 

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks. 

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh. 

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor. 

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”

[springsylph]

WITCHING HOUR, CH 2/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: the prodigal son returns tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but now a little more than kinda), original side character(s), does arthur count as a tag, he needs his own warning, its more exposition please don't leave

word count: 4.9k

a/n: HERE! DAMN! (i'm so sorry this took so long)

<< previous chapter | read on ao3 here | masterlist

you can find a link to the playlist here! tag list (look how crazy. i have a LIST.): @photo1030

The subsequent mornings are painted with varying shades of gloom. It was smeared over the sky in thick coats, and if it was just a little thicker, it might be able to keep out the spears of light. 

Sometimes, they tickle. Sometimes, they recoil from the rigid mounds of snow and blind you and anything else unfortunate enough to get caught in the line of fire. Pain in the ass, really. A particularly nasty pain in the ass flickers in the cloudy metal of your spoon one morning while you’re shoveling grits into your mouth.

“You planning on eating the table too, kid?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, as does your spine once you lower your spoon back into the chipped bowl. 

“My apologies,” you gulp. “You’ll uh, have to forgive me, Mrs. Campbell. Seems the winter air’s gotten to my head.”  

Mrs. Campbell was a wiry, dark-haired woman of 63, and had spent more time rearing cattle than children. She was rough, tough, and at present, leveling you with a stare so doubtful that you wonder if the look you often catch on the livestock is embarrassment. 

After holding your gaze for a few moments more, she resumes the rocking of her chair from the corner and returns to her darning. A large red sock, the same one she’d whacked Mr. Campbell over the head with after she’d found it on the floor of the living room only thirty minutes ago.

“No, no, you’re alright.” Mrs. Campbell pauses, though her hands continue to work. Under, over. In, out. Not a single finger pricked. “Think that’s the most I’ve seen you take down in one sitting, is all. You bite like a bird.” She makes a funny chewing motion with her mouth—or, at least you think it’s supposed to be funny. It seems to amuse her well enough; most strange things did. 

She then asks how much horse feed is left, and you tell her enough to last for the next two weeks. You ask how her daughter’s baby boy is doing, she tells you he’s been picking his nose, and the two of you return to your respective distractions: the pulling of thread and a spoon fishing around a now empty dish while you consult silently with the peeling floral wallpaper. 

Arthur Morgan’s appearance had set you on edge, loathe as you were to admit it. The fact that there’d been no sign of him since you’d first spoken only hastened the growing dread, more so than the lack of response after your father’s men had been so kindly disposed of. 

Contingencies had been thoroughly accounted for, leaving you mildly inconvenienced at best and dead at worst. There were other conclusions you’d drawn up, of course, but dealing in extremes had its benefits.

You press your thumb absentmindedly into the corner of the dining room table. Could the Campbells have heard your exchange? No, they couldn’t have, too old. And that was excluding the fact that the main house was rather far from the cabin. Given the time frame, it would have been well beyond what was reasonable for your…situation to have been brought up. 

Besides, this was important. Better to sort this out now than when—if—he showed up at your doorstep again.

“I have a question.”

Mrs. Campbell snorts. “I presume you’re lookin’ for an answer.”

You set your spoon down, and stand to clear the table. “Do the two of you get…stray cats often?”

This time her hands waver. “During the warmer months, sure. But in this weather? I mean, if it had the guts to get through all that ‘winter air,’ I don’t see why not.” Her eyes flick up. “Would have to be real hungry, though. Or stupid, which I doubt, ‘cause cats ain’t stupid—sonuvabitch!” 

You jerk as her needle clatters to the floor. She lets a curse slip as she hunches over to retrieve it; another follows as she tugs the string loose, just a little, and her fingers trip over themselves before falling back into a steady rhythm. 

Her brows pinch in concentration. “Never met a stupid cat,” she repeats.

“I…I see.” Moving around to the other side of the table to collect what's left, you frown when you catch your warped reflection in a bent spoon. You pick it up, and your fingers brush over the bump unconsciously. “I saw one,” you say slowly. Mind fumbling over any disastrous outcomes. “A cat, I mean. He’s been hanging around my cabin for a while now. I was only asking ‘cause he’s been spooking the chickens.”

When Mrs. Campbell doesn’t answer, your mouth gets the better of you. “Only, he turned up again a couple nights ago. Acting real docile, you see.” Not docile. The farthest thing from it. “Nearly shot him then and there, but—oh, he just looked so pitiful! He’s real mean looking, all scratched up and such, but I was tired, so when shooing him off didn’t work I let him in. Didn’t hiss, didn’t bite, nothing. But, I think I may have scared him. Skittered right out the door, quick as lightning. He’s been pissin’ me off—pardon my language—but, I just don’t see why he’d go through all that trouble to show up if he was just looking to leave the moment I raised so much as a finger.”

You only cease your rambling once you realize that you’ve bent the spoon too far in the wrong direction. “I…should turn him away, shouldn’t I? If he shows up again?”

Mrs. Campbell lets out an exasperated exhale, smooths out her apron, and sets her mangled sock down in her lap. “He kill any chickens?”

“No, but—”

“You feed him?”

“No?”

“Well, I think you should. It’d be real funny.”

Funny. Funny, she’d said. 

You look to the silverware for consolation, but they can only produce a weak gleam.

“Quit making faces at my utensils, I hate when you do that. If you got something to say, say it now so I can finish this damned sock.”

Instead of making faces at the spoons, you reserve them for the tablecloth. “I just—don’t think it’d be wise.” A wanted man, with a lofty bounty at that, and you were comparing him to a mangy feline. Attempting to see him as anything other than what he so obviously was would be disingenuous. 

And maybe Mrs. Campbell wasn’t the right person to be speaking to about this, because her nose crinkles with such distaste that you have to remind yourself that you’d remembered to bathe. “You’re grown,” she says, “and you work here. I’m inclined to believe that you have enough know-how to keep yourself from doing anything too dumb. If not, oh well.”

“…Right.”

Sometimes you wonder if her daughter had moved out not for marriage, but to escape Mrs. Campbell’s dreadfully indifferent way of speaking. Still, you take her words with relative care and pray that the “feeding” portion of her advice can be altered into something much more metaphorical.

When you attempt to bring the dishes to the water bucket, Mrs. Campbell’s head snaps to you and she clicks her teeth. “Drop it.”

“I was just—”

The sock finds its way into a basket of other half-finished projects at her feet, and she pushes herself up to stand just as tall (if not taller) than any tree before snatching the dishes from your hands. “I don’t pay you to do my dishes, girl.”

You smile. “I don’t believe you pay me at all, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Precisely. Your Pa pays me. And enough with that ‘Mrs. Campbell’ mess; makes me sound like an old crone. Told you to call me Fran, didn’t I?”

Shrugging past the bitterness in her tone at the mention of your father, you turn to the doorway and pull your coat off of the hook you’d tossed it on the night before. It’s only slightly warm from where the sun has touched it. 

The beams have softened their assault on the curtains; it’s still fairly cloudy, but there’s no sign of incoming snow. Chores would be alright, if only for today. 

“I’ll work on it, Mrs. Campbell. But, I do have one more question, if you don’t mind.” You wait for a nod while you pull on your boots with a wince. “How come you don’t take on any other help?”

Like most of her responses, Mrs. Campbell doesn’t give much away. Nothing remarkable that you can discern, at least. She merely winks and carries on with her washing. But just as you set a foot out the front door, she calls out to you. 

“Hey, kid?”

You turn.

“If the worst you can call him is a spooked cat, he can’t be all that bad, can he?” 

You freeze. “Pardon?”

She looks up at the ceiling, as though her next words will appear if she gets her eyes to narrow enough. Glasses had been the first of many neglected suggestions you’d offered upon your arrival. You’d even offered to buy them yourself, with what little you’d been able to bring with you. But Mrs. Campbell, being Mrs. Campbell, had simply laughed.

Squinting, she returns her focus to the bucket and reaches for a cake of lye soap. “Ah, and tell that idiot if he slams my doors, I’ll send my foot so far up his ass that them science folks won’t have any animals left to call him.”

__

Illusory warmth finds you a few weeks later.

It isn’t quite spring yet; winter is a stubborn mule, and though the snow has receded into the dirt it still stamps its hooves into the wind. In the water, too—freezing rain taps its fingers onto the windows. Soft and melodic, it nearly puts you to sleep from your place on the floor before you remember the annoyances it’s dragged along with it. 

There’d been no sign of trouble tonight, and the chicken wire had been reinforced a few hours prior. That’d mostly been the work of Mr. Campbell, though. He’d chirped about some promise he’d made to his “lovely wife,” and went on his merry way after leaving you with some choice words from the wife in question about the importance of rest. 

The rain had started not long after. Which was great, for someone out there. But, bad for you. Pretty bad. Ugly, messy bad—because it was cold, dark, and the dirt hadn’t the moral backbone to keep itself together for any longer than two blinks before your boots were practically swimming in it. 

The trudge back to the cabin was only slightly humiliating, considering the fact that the sole witnesses were the owls you knew were hiding out in the safety of the trees. 

Scampering from the uneven path to the front porch, however, was another story. Although the pliant (no good, backstabbing) earth was quick and eager to drag you to its depths, you were aggravated enough to be slightly quicker, and your palms shot out to catch you just before your chin could meet the full wrath of the wood.

But the word “just” was a pebble cast into a pond, and the first ripple was the metallic tang that flooded your mouth. Diatribes were spat onto the ground alongside the blood, tongue throbbing with a vengeance before you drove the heels of your palms down to push yourself up. The second ripple was a little less red, but just as irritating. The rain had pulled the wet fabric of your work shirt and trousers tight over your limbs, and it had begun to border on painful when water droplets struck like one might strike the skin of a drum. 

“I’m grateful, I’m grateful, I’m oh so fucking grateful…” It was a mantra you often found yourself repeating whenever nature’s pranks sought to drive you mad. Rain was good. Rain was fine, actually, so you’d ignored the creaking of your knees and hobbled your way inside.

And here you sit: back propped up against the wall, shivering like a fool with your knees tucked into your chest. The mud crusting between your fingers barely registers while you work on releasing yourself from your wet clothing.

Which, of course, is when the light tapping on the window takes its cue to crescendo. It’s a rather flimsy cloak for the uneven thunks outside that make no attempt to conceal themselves. But your bones know better. 

Awful timing, that man. 

You feel the weight of his fist against the door before he makes contact. 

(One.)

You shoot up.

(Two.)

You lunge for the table.

You decide against greeting him with the rifle, which is a significant improvement. It’s a revolver. But you did have the good sense not to kick the door again; the rusty hinges were fragile enough without your meddling. Instead, you let it creak open with one hand on the doorknob.

You’re met with a bruise, planted right atop a cheekbone. A swollen bottom lip, blood threatening to split it wide. He’s got a button missing from his rumpled jacket, and the caving of the porch underneath his feet clues you in on the fact that he’s favoring his right leg. He’s been fighting. Fighting, and he looks about ready to keel over and die. Or pick another fight. Probably both.

Part of you unwinds at the sight of him, battered as he was. Present as he was. But the more logical part of you senses that he’s here for something, and the even more logical part of you remembers exactly what it was that stood at your doorstep.

It’s then that the stench of alcohol hits you, and the familiar smell of mud sweeps in not long after. Arthur is completely covered in it, save for his face. And—

There. There it is again.

That look. 

Your pulse trips in your throat, and you pray that he’s inebriated enough to ignore it. “You’re on my porch. Why?”

Bright blue comes back into focus, and his hands fall to his hips. “I can go where I damn well please.”

“That’s all well and good, but why are you on my porch?”

He sniffs. Peers just over your shoulder. “...House call.”

You step to block him. “Now that’s two chances. I have it on good authority that one is just fine these days, but I’m feeling generous.” And confused. Extremely confused.

His face contorts into a heatless grimace, and the doorknob squeals. You’re suddenly reminded of the odd tales of shapeshifters you’d stumbled upon as a child: one moment a man, the next a bloodthirsty predator. Not a particularly helpful development—especially since your talk with Mrs. Campbell—but it was a development nonetheless.

Arthur rattles off the courtesies typically extended toward esteemed guests while you look him over again, and your eyes lock onto his hair. Another familiar connection—doe brown strands, streaked with mud and nearly plastered to his head from the light downpour. Much less ferocious than the rest of him. But, tonight, if you have to pick, he’s a wet dog. A wet, potentially drunk dog, who was missing his hat. 

And suddenly, the natural chatter of the trees comes to a halt. 

“What’d you just call me?”

…You idiot.

“I didn’t call you jack shit,” you lie. Arthur gives a loose smirk, and your next protests become nothing but bluster. “What, the little girl that hit you knock your ears shut?”

“Figured I’d let her get a hit in, out of the kindness of my big ol’ heart.” Arthur sways on his feet a bit, peering down at you through the water that he hasn’t bothered to wipe from his lashes. Gravity finds eventual triumph, and he leans into the post before eying the revolver still in your hands. “Don’t suppose you’re plannin’ on pullin’ that trigger any time soon.”

“What’s it to you?”

Arthur’s face begins to harden, and he crosses his arms tight over his chest. “You know, last time I was here I said you were lucky. Well, I’d like to make an addendum: lucky and stupid, lady.” 

You cast a disbelieving look at the leg he’s been keeping his weight off of. “And you’re drunk. The fact that you got here without your horse cracking your head open is a miracle.”

His brows draw low, and he rubs the heel of his boot against the muddy spot where you’d fallen earlier. Blinks at the ground. Then, with the vigor of a child caught sleeping in church, wipes angrily at a speck of mud on his thigh. “M’not drunk,” he finally mutters, flicking the offending dirt out into the yard and crossing his arms again. “And I’ve got enough trust in my horse to fill at least half of that barn y’all got.”

“Just half? Not the whole thing?”

“Whole thing would be two horses.”

You almost laugh. Almost. When you don’t reply, his eyes drop back down to the gun, gaze contemplative. “You got any idea how easily I could’ve knocked that flimsy thing outta your hands?”

“Why of course I do, Mr. Morgan.” The dampness you’d been struck with pulls at you, bones heavy and patience now worn thin. You give the revolver an exaggerated twirl, the metal snatching what can be seen of the moon through the rain and reflecting it at him. “I’m real lucky you’re here to tell me so, ain’t I? Matter of fact, why don’t you go and fetch me my chair before I topple right on over? ” 

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it.” You think he sounds somewhat regretful. But somewhat isn’t enough. 

“Do I now,” you say dryly. “You seem to ‘not mean’ an awful lot.” 

Arthur pushes himself off of the post with his shoulder and shoves his muddy hands into his muddy pockets. “I just don’t see why you people are so eager to act like you got your life for dog-cheap.”

“You people?”

“Yeah, you heard me. You people.” He’s looking at everything but you now, eyes wild but body frighteningly still. “You’ll look trouble right in the eye, and lie right through your damn teeth till it gets you laid out cold in a ditch somewhere.” Arthur gestures to the embarrassing height your shooting arm has dropped to in the time that he’s spoken. “I can tell each time you open that door that you won’t shoot. Can’t, I’d argue, ‘cause if you didn’t have my big head within one inch of that barrel, you’d be some deep shit.” His words are a forlorn echo amidst the rain, now nothing more than a light haze. 

You could shut the door and go back inside, you think. Tell him he’s wrong, because he most certainly was. Peel out of your damp clothes, because standing outside in the chill spelled nothing but trouble. Arthur wouldn’t push. He was just as prone to bluffing as you were. 

And yet.

And yet.

“I could say the same about you. Don’t think your kin would take too kindly to the fact that you’re hangin’ around someone that knows your face. Who you are.” You steady your aim. “That’s a loose end, Arthur. You don’t seem like the type of man to keep many of those around.” It’s the first time you’ve said his name all night; you’re only sure because the moment it leaves you, his entire body tenses before he sags back against the wooden post. 

The way he looks at you then might be considered cruel and unusual punishment. You think of butterflies, embroidered into blankets from childhood. Tacked to the wall of your father’s study. The only difference between them and you is that you’re free to leave.

If only you possessed something to sweeten the deal—whatever deal you could come up with in the next five seconds. To mask the returning waver of your voice, now laden with inconceivable realities. “Am I a loose end, Arthur Morgan?” 

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Untucks a hand from the arms he’s wrapped around himself to scrub at his beard and finally wipe at the water you’ve been eyeballing from his lids. He opens his mouth again, now on the precipice of what might be an explanation.

“S’dangerous,” is all he says.

You see red.

The arm holding the revolver is dropped so you can poke a finger into his chest. “You’re not making any sense!” Each word is enunciated with a jab, and you cringe at the feeling of rain rewetting the mud underneath your fingernails. “You cut and run, turn up drunk and beaten half to death, practically beg me to let you inside, and then you get upset when I say I won’t pop a bullet into your head?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, voice beginning to escalate. “Now if you would just listen for more than two seconds—”

You cut him down with a harsh whisper. “Listen? Listen?” Your eyes momentarily check for any sign of a light being turned on in the main house. Nothing. Your finger falls away then, and a violent chill wracks your body from head to toe. “No, you listen. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You said your piece the last time we spoke, and you left, so why are you on my porch!”

“I don’t know!”

Something cracks, and your vision blurs when you whip your head to recheck the lights. Still nothing. The crack fizzles out into nothingness, and you return to find Arthur close. Awfully close. And your hand is warm and—oh.

It seems his pluck is rather contagious. The noise you’d heard wasn’t thunder, but the sound of your treacherous hand clapping right over Arthur’s mouth.  

Time stills. Or speeds up, more like. The only thing you can be certain of is that ring of greenish gold around his pupils. The brush of his lips against your palm. Humid air being released in slow, steady clouds. You briefly wonder what else this warmth has dominion over, save for your cupped hand. Who else. 

The speed of the exhales increases, and envy wriggles in the dirt of your heart like unearthed worms. Did his mind wander, as yours often did? Surely not as emphatically. It no doubt ambled from one thought to the next, attention snagged only when he had the energy to do so. Had you been interesting enough to snag his?

The spell is broken by a lamp flickering on in the distance. 

“Shit!”

Sheer panic sinks its claws into you before rationality can, and you’re curling a hand around Arthur’s wrist and yanking him inside before he can protest.

You’re both panting ragged breaths once the door shuts behind you, in spite of the mere two steps it’d taken to cross the entryway. Tangible confusion permeates the air, and Arthur looks at you expectantly. It’s only fair that the (secondary) perpetrator speak first.  

But words are tricky, tricky things. And as much as you partook in your fair share of falsehoods, finding the right ones when you didn’t feel that your life was on the line was an unfamiliar practice. 

Voice quiet, you blink at the muddy footprints on the floor. “You left my door open.”

“I remember,” he replies. Simple.

The silence returns, eerily reminiscent of your first encounter. You consider telling him about the warning Mrs. Campbell had wanted you to relay to him. But then you think about all of the other things he’s missed since he’s disappeared, and your mind becomes saturated with just about everything, and somehow nothing at all. But Arthur’s voice, once again, cracks the fragile quiet. 

“God damn it!” He begins to pace, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes. You’re thankful that he’s finally lowered his voice to a whisper, though the close quarters don’t seem to help with the intensity. “I ain’t supposed to be here. Not like this.”

“Not like what? Arthur what do you—” 

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he says, voice edging on the side of desperation.

“How what was supposed to go?” You look at his hands, fumbling with his belt loops. He sucks in a brittle gulp of air when he catches you looking, like he’s surprised you’re looking at him at all. 

And then, miraculously, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. 

“I’m to kill you. Ideally this evening.” 

Until it all promptly falls apart.

You turn away. Begin to work open the half done buttons of your shirt. Arthur turns to face the door. You decide to humor him. “Who.” 

“Some man, your Pa, I presume,” he says. For the first time in what feels like eternity, his voice is devoid of any feeling. It sounds small. Not defeated, not yet, but oh so small. “Willing to pay big bucks to get rid of a ‘financial thorn’ in his side. Knew ‘bout my business in Blackwater, which I assume you’re also aware of. Said he’d had some bonds on that boat.” Blunt fingernails scratch lightly at the curtains. “He said I could sniff things out, see if I wanted to to his dirty work.”

Shirt falling to the floor, you allow yourself some time to stew numbly in your naivety while you get the fire going; you could be disappointed all you wanted once you were warm. You can hear Arthur scrubbing at his beard again when you begin to drag a chair in front of the fireplace. You sit, or collapse rather, and shuck off your boots with little care for where they land. Where the mud splatters.

“How’s Marlene?” You ask.

Rustling. He’s turned around. More frantic rustling. He’s turned back to the wall. “I’m sorry?”

“Marlene. Chicken. ”

“Ah. She’s uh, good. Eating good. Still pecks like hell, though.”

And, once again, more silence.

You bark out a dry laugh. It hurts—hurts like hell, but it tumbles out of you with a sharp snap. It snowballs into pure, unadulterated laughter. Bouncing off the walls, the drinking glasses, the mud, right into the fire and back out again. It continues until you’re left with nothing but a pathetic wheeze rattling your lungs.

Settling into the back of the chair, your head lolls back till you can see an upside down version of the bewildered Arthur you’d turned away from. The angle is awkward, and the blood rushing to your head makes him look all warm and fuzzy, but it’s precisely why you’ve chosen it.

“Didn’t think finding all this out would be so funny.” He speaks as if poking a tiger.

Another half-hearted chuckle slips out of you. “Good god, I thought you were trying to proposition me.”

“Proposition you?” He scowls. “What on earth would I—” 

Arthur stops. Blinks one of his blinks. Gives his eyes another rub. Blinks again. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. This “blinking” thing.

“Oh.” He frowns.

Frowning right back, you push yourself to stand and toss some old papers from your table into the fire. “No need to seem so put off by it, gosh. Should’ve told me you were out for my head from the start. Would’ve made this a hell of a lot less embarrassing.” Disappointment had beat out the warmth.

You wait for an apology, or a joke. Or something. Anything. But you’re met with nothing. The paper eventually crumbles into nothing, too, smoke tickling your nostrils alongside the smell of rain.

His voice sounds from the back of the room.

“I didn’t say that.”

You whip around.

“Say what.”

He speaks as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. Interested, I mean.” When you point to yourself, he rolls his eyes. “No, the couch.”

There was no couch.

The two of you watch each other for a bit. Then Arthur finds another annoying spot on his thigh to rub at, and you’re watching him.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, voice flat. You pull on a blanket, suddenly conscious of the bareness of your shoulders. “You’re drunk, or tired, or both. You weren’t here. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Am I clear?”

You stand on wobbly feet and motion for him to leave.

“You don’t think I’m joking, do you? I meant what I said.” He brushes past your outstretched hand to clunk into the chair, mirroring that same awkward position you’d found yourself in earlier. Strong neck arched, fire light catching the water that’s begun to bead on his cheeks. “I don’t do charity. Don’t think I have the money for it, actually.”

“How kind of you.”

“I mean it. Truly.”

“Then come back tomorrow,” you blurt.

Fuck.

What the hell were you doing? “You come back tomorrow night, sober, and we’ll see.” No, we would not.

But it’s too late—Arthur is rebounding off of the chair, straightening out his jacket (he’s noticed the missing button, finally), and striding to the door before you can retract your mistake. Even so, you follow after him like a besotted moron, only stopping when he turns to face you once the door is back open.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says. Eyes dark. Searching.

And then he’s stooping down. Reaching for your hand. Pulling it to his dry lips, and pressing a chaste kiss right to the top of it. He chuckles when you shiver, still clutching the blanket tight around your shoulders.

You’re released soon after. And Arthur gives you one long look, tells you to lock your door, and leaves.

—

next chapter >>

[wordswithkittywitch]

This week* on My Sewing Table:

I put an extension into a belt with an attached pouch to make it fit my mother and actually be adjustable. The six inches or so makes it look like the belt was very nearly a reasonable size, but as best as I can tell, it came out of the package with the intention to be worn with the belt completely doubled over to be half of a reasonable waist measurement.

My mother requested several bibs for Christmas. We had several bolts of canvas we bought in error, so I was able to use some of that to make a variety of different styles and also a new apron. She loves the apron, and has made sone use of the bibs.

I also made her a new quilted vest out of an old quilted skirt, which was trimmed with fake fur and woven trim, as well as a single antler button. So yes, it looks very Mrs. Claus.

I replaced the bows on a pair of sheer stockings, as one had lost its bow and they no longer matched.

I'm down to the last two pairs of socks to darn. Unless there's another pair under the other mending in the basket.

*I haven't updated this series for a month. I was too busy sewing.

[chaos-deimos-et-eris]

I dont know a bunch, but I do pick up a bit now that my sister's moved out and asking for similar advice from the adults in the family.

Main one is budgeting. Figure out how much you currently have, how much u get per week, and how much you're spending and where. Take a month or two of regular spending to get your base numbers. Taylor Budgets has a good video explaining how to do a budget and also uses a cash stuffing method, which is basically money out of ur bank account and thats it. thats your spending money for that area, which makes it harder to overspend, then if youre just using your card for everything

Figure out if u have any subscriptions you forgot to cancel or for some reason just realized you're not using and get rid of those first.

See if you're over spending somewhere. I'm not taking about the nice shirt your spent a little extra on last month or that slightly more expensive almond milk you buy because you're severely lactose intolerance but the store brand tastes like crap damn it, I'm talking about you going to the mall every weekend to just browse and it turns out you've been walking out of hot topic every week with a new pair of socks. You need groceries every week. You do not need new socks every week.

See if you can make entertainment less expensive. Go to the library. the books are free, they usually have ac and sometimes have other things for lending, like video games, sewing machines and basic tools. Do you live with someone? see if they're willing to set up the communal tv with their Netflix account. use your sibling's Spotify account. cry when they kick you off for ruining their favorite marker back when u were four. my local movie theater sells tickets for 6.50 vs amc's 25. Curse the gods when you prick urself while darning your favorite pair of socks. beat bread dough for an hour. circle square pieces of fabric as you figure out how you want your quilt's arrangement (some people buy quilting fabric for their quilts. i cut up old clothes and use thread and a needle). decide whether or not the artist of the 1000 piece puzzle u bought deserves a slow death by your hand while trying to figure out the pieces' placement by the size of the snowflakes they painted. I can assure you there are cheaper ways out of boredom if u go out to look for them

thrifting!!! buying second hand is a great way to save money. if you live in a poorer neighborhood with no thrift store or a store that has no good things (low quality materials, things are stretched out, thin, patched badly, not your size ) and you have access to a train station, go to richer cities. I got a 3 dollar irish linen button down that actually fits. they were selling hardcovers and crystal glassware for 2 dollars. they have no idea what they're selling and all the rich people want to feel good by donating their unwanted things to these stores instead of throwing them out. take advantage

Want older/fancier things? estate sales. someone died. someone else wants to sell the house fast but doesn't want to pay to trash everything. sometimes you get old clothes, furniture, and movies. sometimes someone is desperate to get rid of heavy leather-bound books and their grandfather's collection of swords. usually things are cheap because the people selling want things gone more then they want to make a profit. estatesale.net is a good place to start looking to see if there are any around around your area. Colleges on move out day are great to get things for free

You can sell things!!! Used but still in good condition clothes can go to places like thread up. They sell second clothing and give you part of the cut. their second hand clothing isn't the cheapest, but percentage wise can save you a lot of money, especially on brand names. and you can send them stuff for free. for undergarments knickey is the best I've found. they recycle the fabric into insulation, and give u store credit. their stuff is ridiculously expensive, only for women and u have to pay shipping but what I've gotten so far from them is good quality and honestly better then nothing.

some places you regularly shop at have online websites and apps. look at them before buying something, but only check once you're already done inside the shop and ready to go pay. they usually have coupons and deals, so check quickly to make sure if they apply to anything in your cart before getting on the check out line. use coupons as a way to help you save money on what you're already going to buy, not to see if anything is on sale.

Finally for insurance, can't really help you. I'm convinced no one really knows what the fuck is going on. BUT ask around to see if a friend you have used to work in the industry and is willing to help out. The best video I've found is from Brian David Gilbert, who doesn't usually do videos like this but apparently already did the research while getting new insurance so might as well.

If I get better info I'll be sure to update. Good luck!!!

I'm looking to learn about financial literacy, does anyone have any pointers or suggestions on folks to get my information from?

There's a mega sea of info out there, but I would like to learn from people who aren't assholes or just total capitalists. Just :) nice people doing what they need to to survive In capitalism, who Wouldn't exploit me at the drop of a dime if they could. It's okay if that doesn't exist yet, but if it does I'd love to avoid having to comb through a million shitass "entrepreneurs" looking to be as rich as possible no matter what I just wanna learn how to live here

[frostandflamesfanfic]

couch. (Peter Parker x Reader)

couch. (Rated G)

Request?: No...

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader (wrote with Peter 3 in mind, but can be applied to any of our spidey boys)

Word Count: 1.7k+

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, I wrote this while being sleep deprived so there may be typos, Peter being just too gosh darn adorable

Summary: Inspired by "couch" by We Three- The best laid plans always work out right? On one lazy Saturday morning, Peter is contemplating how to start taking the next steps toward your future together. When you remind him how important it is to relax, does he stick with his big plan or learn to sometimes just to go with the flow?

We've got a lot of things to figure out

Like cash the checks and go workout,

But I think I'd rather sit here on the couch

“Peter?” your voice danced its way into the living room of his apartment. “Have you seen my hoodie? I can’t find it anywhere and I need to get to the bank to put in my paycheck.” You stumbled throughout the space, one hand rubbing at your sleep-riddled eyes. To Peter, there wasn’t a more beautiful sight to wake up to. You were dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and one of his old beat up t-shirts. He had lent you a pair of oversized socks, too, because you were complaining about your toes being cold under the covers the night before.

The brown-haired looked up from his spot on the oversized ripped sofa, where he was working on his laptop. He tilted his head to look at you with squinted eyes. The morning sun was streaming through the windows of his apartment in just the right (but also totally wrong and annoying) way. “Good morning to you, too, sweetheart,” he gave you the sweetest tight smile before directing his attention back to the screen. “Have you checked under the bed?”

He was supposed to be editing a series of images he snapped of Spider-Man over the last week. Was he actually doing that? No. He was actually looking up plane tickets to Bali. Why Bali? Because that’s where he wanted to be able to propose to you – the same place your parents met on a volunteer expedition. He had been saving for months. Not just for the trip, but the beautiful silver half-carat diamond ring that was burning a hole through its hiding place in his dresser drawer. 

The two of you had been dating for a year or so now, which might seem a bit rushed to some people, but not for you or Peter. You had both seen your fair share of tragedy before you finally crossed paths. He had lost his parents as a child and the love of his life around the end of high school. He needed to start over completely. You lost your parents in a freak accident at a young age, not to mention your fiance merely weeks after beginning your new job at some corrupt company. 

When you met on the subway, it almost seemed like the universe was trying to tell you something. There had been no seats left and the two of you were forced to stand face-to-face on opposite sides of the car after a series of delays. Not that Peter was complaining, though. You looked like a vision to him. From the way you anxiously shifted your weight from foot to foot, to the way you bit the middle of your bottom in concentration as you looked at your phone. He wished he would have had the courage right then and there to ask your name. Yet something stopped him.

For a subway ride, it had been a rather bumpy one. You had been pushed forward and fallen against him…twice. Each time you collided, he could feel your heartbeat thudding incredibly hard against his chest. He was surprised to discover that his heartbeat soon matched your rhythm and he gave a subtle grimace at the sweat gathering in his palm. He tried to get himself to talk to you, to even ask your name, but nothing escaped him. By the time you had reached Peter’s stop, he sighed as he ultimately gave up with the internal battle. He had no chance, Peter had assured himself. Then he heard you stammering behind him as he turned to walk toward the door. 

“So how many times would I have needed to fall into you before you asked me out?” your voice called out.

It was safe to say Peter didn’t hesitate any more after that.

The next year was a beautiful rollercoaster. Peter had to pinch himself a few times to realize that this was real – you were actually his and he was yours. He didn’t need to worry about pretending to be someone he wasn’t. With you, he could let down his guard. You made him feel safe, loved…at home. He really hoped you would say yes to his proposal. He couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with you.

The feeling of an added weight on the couch and something brushing against his arm caused Peter to be snapped from his thoughts. You were snuggling into his side, attempting to rest your chin atop his shoulder to look at his screen. In a panic, Peter minimized the tab and started to play around with a random image in his editing software. His quick thinking- and reflexes- came to the rescue again as you gave a small nod.

“That’s a nice shot,” you mumbled sleepily before yawning again. You rested your head against the side of his arm and smacked your lips like a small child. It always made Peter smile to see you like this. You reminded him of a little kid in this state, but always with this mushy personality. 

He leaned over to press a kiss to your forehead before allowing himself to get fixated back on the image in front of him. “Thanks, sweetheart,” Peter answered. “I mean, it is my job right now, so…I hope I’m good at it.”

You gave a hum of agreement and nestled against his sitting frame. Another smile plastered itself against Peter’s lips as you tangled your legs with his. Your nose nudged at the back of his arm and you closed your eyes. “This is nice,” you said, stretching out just a bit more. 

Peter nodded and let out his own sound of acknowledgement, expertly adjusting the saturation levels of the image. 

We've got a lot of people we should see

And I know that we should get some groceries,

But honestly, I just don't want to leave

“We need cereal,” another mumble into his shirt sleeve. “And milk. And fruit. And eggs…”

A chuckle escaped Peter before he could prevent it. “We,” you had said. Slowly but surely, it wasn’t just his apartment anymore. Your stuff had begun to find its way into random drawers and closets in the space. Your toothbrush sat right next to his own in the bathroom. There was a shared grocery list stuck to his refrigerator with both of your handwriting on it. Even your shampoo was stored in the shower, its sweet vanilla scent flooding the room and making him relax every time he stepped inside. It smelled like you and he couldn’t get enough. He never thought he would be able to share his life with someone like this ever again, but he was beyond grateful he could. 

“We can get them from the store on Fifth,” he said now, nodding a bit at the mental note he made to visit the shop. Martha, the shopkeeper, would be happy to see him there. She’d probably pester him about the fact he had yet to make you an honest person, but he honestly didn’t care. “You can take one of my hoodies when we go, if you want.”

You grunted. “Or…” you mumbled. “We could just stay here.” You snuggled closer into his side. “This is pretty perfect right now.”

Cause I'm here and you're there,

Breathin' in my air

Feel it stop, skip a beat

Peter moved his hand to toy with the ends of your hair, making you hum in delight. It was a sound that brought a smile to his face and a warm feeling in his heart. Everything you did was perfect to him and gave him so much joy. He loved how you felt in his arms, how good your hair smells after you get out of a shower… 

“Marry me,” he said softly. Peter barely registered the words as they left his mouth, but deep down, he knew it was the right thing to do. This was the moment. Not some big vacation to Bali, nothing overly extravagant. All he needed was you, him, and this couch. The two of you were in your own little world and that was perfect. 

“What?” you asked, sitting up ever-so-slightly. 

“I want to marry you,” Peter was more confident now. “I want to wake up with you every day, I want to hold your hand in the grocery store. The days you’re having the best time, I want to be there. I want to hold you when you’re crying and having the worst day, tell you it’s okay and things will work out. I want to see you come down the aisle and we both are crying.” The two of you laughed at the last part. “Most of all, I just want to know that for every day for the rest of my life, you’re going to be in it. So please, marry me?”

“Peter…” you breathed out. 

That’s when he realized something was missing. Something that was really…really important to this particular moment. “Actually,” he said, standing up suddenly before taking off to the bedroom, “hold on one second. Just…stay there. I have to get something.”

When he came back into the living room, he got down on one knee before you. His dark eyes searched yours as he opened the small velvet box to reveal the sparkling piece of jewelry. “I know it’s only been a year,” he said, “and I really should have had a much better speech planned out, but that’s just it. With you, I don’t have to plan. You make me want to be spontaneous, to be a person that doesn’t have a care in the world. But…I can only be that person with you. So, what do you say?”

You shook your head with a playful expression on your face. “It took you long enough,” you teased, giving him the slightest of nods with the largest of smiles threatening to appear. It was so bright, Peter was afraid he might go blind just looking at it for too long. “Of course I’ll marry you.” 

As he slipped the ring on your finger, Peter pressed his lips to yours and nearly melted. You truly were his missing puzzle piece, his better half that he always was going to need. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for you and he couldn’t wait to see what forever would hold. 

On this couch, in my T

You're wearin' my sweatpants

Without a doubt, not goin' out

Let's stay on the couch

================

Author's Note: I have no self control. I swear, I cannot help myself when I hear a song and get a character scenario stuck in my head. This is the second time this has happened in the last few days, but this is first one I'm posting. I still need to work on the other one! Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this little fluff piece with our lovable dork, Peter Parker. I thought this song was just perfect for him, even if it means doing something a bit different than my typical Strange fics.

As usual, if you liked this fic, leave a like, comment, and a cheeky reblog. It helps me out with the lovely algorithm and lets me know what kind of stories you like to see on my blog! And let me know which Peter YOU imagine this story to be about. I'm curious...

Until next time, little sparks! If you want to be added to any of my character taglists, drop me an ask or private message- I promise I'm really not that scary!

[blamebrampton]

A thing I wish I had started much younger was learning how to fix more things. I started with a decent base – clothes, tack, basic household stuff – and added bicycles fairly early on (and yes, I can change a car tyre and do some basic mechanics on old cars and tractors, even though I don’t drive, because those are basic farm skills), but a lot of my repair skills were only learned after I was 30, or even 40 and I still often find things I don’t have the skills to fix. Some I never will (my phone), but others I want to (the peeling veneer on my front door).

Sometimes mending is meditative, like the darning on this scarf where a neighbourhood dog accidentally tore it (excuse the cat hairs). Sometimes it is a gift, like being able to get my neighbour’s bike back on the road. Almost always, it is a better use of time and resources than getting rid of the broken thing and getting a new one.

When something breaks now, I will often try to fix it. Sometimes I already have the skills. Sometimes I can jury rig a fix with textile or leather skills. Others I’m still learning. I sat down and worked my way through a knot book a few years back, which was no end of help as I’d forgotten how much you can get done with string, plus I ended up learning how to make nets properly. The month after next I am doing a carpentry class, because it is embarrassing how few woodworking skills I have.

Some fixes are embarrassingly simple, but I only realise I can do them when I google ‘how to fix…’ Very often the ones in this set are done with glues: special glues for fixing the split seam on my Wellingtons, two-part epoxies for the table I had to take apart to move, which will fill the gaps rather than me needing to chisel and sand them smooth. Glue chemistry is amazing. Did you know you can use a bike tyre patch to fix a small hole in your wellies? I learned that on YouTube last Tuesday.

I don’t know that I’ve saved a lot of money — I tend to buy a few tools every time I learn a skill; really should have started with metalwork and carpentry and then I could have made a lot of them — but I’ve saved a lot of treasured things, and while on some the repairs are invisible, on others, I can see that I was there, that I added to the life and story of that object.

So if you have the confidence in your hands, the next time something breaks, see if you can fix it. Google, YouTube and online libraries make it easier than ever. And if you don’t have confidence in your hands, see if you have a local Repair Cafe, where there might be someone who can fix it for you and perhaps help you learn enough to do it yourself next time. Because if you start learning how to do this stuff when you’re young, you’re going to be unstoppable by the time you’re my age.

(One caveat: unless you love darning, only ever darn your favourite socks. It takes for flipping ever and most socks are cheap. Those hours weaving in toes or heels could be spent making something cool, shagging or reading.)

[misfit-fics]

Demon Rehab For Dummies

Summary: (Y/N) started seeing seven demons when she was 10. Through the years they all disappeared, all but one. Namjoon. A demon who has not so creepily, creepily, very creepily been in love with her for years.

Genre: fluff, crack, extremely minimal angst, idiots to lovers, romantic-comedy

Word count: 7384

Rating: Teen

Warnings: mentions of suggestive & kinky themes, a handful of cursing, a story with a plot but not doesn’t exactly have a plot, a stubborn (Y/N) who dismisses love confessions & genuine flirting, an unspoken confession

A/N: Hey! we're back, it's been a while. We're starting school in a while but it will be gamble if we'll be more active or not. Well... we ARE active but just not posting? Yeah, you know what I mean. This has been sitting in our drafts for a while now and we're posting it now... although it's pretty unedited, feel free to address any oopsies. Hope who ever finds this enjoys reading!

At the ripe young age of ten (Y/N) began seeing seven men. Which- would’ve (should’ve) freaked any kid out but you know (Y/N) is just kinda quirky like that so she didn't really mind much. The men were nice and played with her anyway, and the only weird thing was that sometimes they would bring her dead birds.

At age eleven (Y/N) noticed that one of the men was missing.It didn’t affect her much except for the fact that this particular one would help her find things and she’d lost almost all of her socks since he disappeared. Not to mention the increase of bug bites after he left. The darn things seemed like they multiplied exponentially after a month.

By twelve only two of the men had disappeared, at this point (Y/N) not only lived in sandals (she still couldn’t find her socks) but she also couldn’t explain why her hair was burning off every time she tried to straighten it (her lil demon friends didn’t want her to, you’d think after almost 3 years of having men following her around and telling her what to do she’d get with the program already.) Her dog her parents had given her when she was 9 started disappearing quite often after he left. He always came back with a single sock that would disappear the next morning.

By thirteen (Y/N) had developed a crush (more like unhealthy obsession) on one of the men, Namjoon. The third year was also the year when Jimin disappeared, taking all of her favorite shoes with him. That year she had prayed to whoever was listening because her parents really couldn’t afford to keep buying her socks and shoes, and because she definitely couldn’t afford to shave her head.

By fourteen, Hoseok, the man who had cheered her up whenever she needed it, had gone, leaving a tidal wave of bad luck in his wake. He had a great deal in keeping (Y/N) happy, although some of his antics made her want to punch him, it never turned out that way.

When she was fifteen no one left… except for the dog. Aside from that, the only thing that left was her social life (It wasn’t like she had one before but you know it was still a little rough). (Y/N) began to depend more and more on her demons. She had become great friends with the oldest, Seokjin, who cooked for her when her parents went on trips.

At sixteen Yoongi left and the nightmares began. And with the nightmares came the growth of (Y/N)’s relationship with Namjoon. Namjoon became her protector, along with sometimes Seokjin, who still cooked for her and cared for her altogether when she couldn’t.

At seventeen, (Y/N) was informed that when she turned eighteen Seokjin would be leaving, on account that they didn’t need each other anymore. (Y/N) had been torn up when he told her and even more when he left. He didn’t take anything when he left other than a piece of (Y/N)’s heart.

At eighteen, (Y/N) moved away from her parents house with Namjoon trailing behind her (He even had lil demon suitcases and everything,) following her every move.

“I really don’t understand why you had to follow me out of my parents house. I thought spirits are supposed to be attached to a general area…” (Y/N) took to unpacking a box in the small apartment she now lived in.

“(Y/N) how many times do we have to go over this, I'm a demon, DE-MON.” Namjoon clapped his hands with each syllable. (Y/N) rolled her eyes and flicked her wrist at the self-proclaimed demon.

“Demon, ghost, same thing.” She shrugged her shoulders, “same thing as to-may-to, to-mah-to.”

“It is not the same thing!” Namjoon looked at (Y/N) like it was obvious.

(Y/N) snorted, “Okay Casper.” She continued pulling out the items in the box.

Namjoon looked flabbergasted, “CASPER!?” Namjoon put a hand over his chest and widened his eyes. (Y/N) looked up at the demon with a raised brow,

“Geez Casper, why are you so offended? I’ve called you Casper before, Casper.” (Y/N) struggled to keep in her laughter, trying to keep a straight face as she looked at Namjoon.

Namjoon looked at (Y/N), “I think I shall simply cease to exist in your realm.”

(Y/N) looked back down at the almost empty box, “You wouldn’t do that, you love me too much, my dearest Casper.” She said in a singsong voice, “Oh hey I found a sock.” She pulled out said sock from the box, it had yellow stripes. :]

“I think Jungkook took the mate to that when he left.” (Y/N) threw the sock at Namjoon with a loud ‘FUCK!’

“I mean we could try and summon him to see if he’ll return your socks.” Namjoon shrugged.

“I wouldn’t even try.” She started putting the random items in their new places.

“You should put Juno on the window sill rather than the coffee table, I mean cacti do need sun.” Namjoon looked at the little green prickle plant.

“I’m sure if i didn’t tell you how to parent your child, it would’ve been confiscated by child protective services.” Namjoon crossed his arms and looked at Juno who had been (rightfully so) moved to the window sill.

“Casper- Juno is a cactus. There is no CPS (Cactus Protective Services).” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon with her own arms crossed over her chest and an eyebrow raised, “Now if you could- Can you please go unpack a few boxes?” (Y/N) shooed Namjoon away before her eyes widened and she added in, “NOTHING LABELED FRAGILE!”

“You know if we painted a wall or two in here, it would liven up the place so much…” Namjoon looked around the bland apartment, “Maybe an accent wall over here. A floor lamp over there. A new plant in the kitchen. It wouldn’t hurt you to give Juno some siblings.”

(Y/N) looked flabbergasted, “You want me to pop out another child?!”

“No I mean-” Namjoon’s eyes widened.

“-OUT OF MY WALLET?!? MY BARELY 21 DOLLARS!?” (Y/N) got her wallet out and zipped it open. She shook it in the demon’s face, about 26 pennies, 2 nickels, 1 dime, and a quarter fell out. It was followed by a single, folded, 5 dollar bill.

“I don’t think that’s 21 dollars, (Y/N)” Namjoon looked down at the floor, where one or more of the coins had caught onto his feet.

“I have a gift card.” She pulled out the cheap plastic, silver, $25 visa gift card (that didn’t have 25 dollars) with a bit of a struggle.

“How much exactly is on that gift card (Y/N)?” Namjoon eyed the flimsy silver object.

“You expect me to know- I mean probably more than 10 dollars!” Namjoon raised a brow at the statement. “Okay, maybe about 3.69.” Namjoon sighed, massaging his temples. (Y/N) bent down to put the money back into her wallet like a pigeon eating bread crumbs the old lady on the bench threw onto the floor.

Namjoon walked away from the pigeon-girl and grabbed a notepad and pen that was left on the kitchen counter. “We’re making you a to-do list.” He stated, clicking the pen.

“WE haven’t even unpacked all the boxes yet.” (Y/N) whined, pointing at the last large box in the middle of the hallway. Namjoon looked to where she pointed and shrugged.

“It says Christmas decorations.”

“EXACTLY! VERY. IMPORTANT.” she clapped her hands in between each word.

“It’s February.” He said.

“It’s still winter.” (Y/N) reasoned, finally done picking up the money. She plopped herself down onto the small brown couch.

“Okay so first off you need a job.” He wrote it down onto the notepad, the pen scratching being overlapped by a loud gasp from the human in the room.

“You dare ignore me?!” She yelled offendedly at the demon who glanced at her before looking back down at what he was writing.

“You also need to go to the supermarket.”

“I told you I barely have any money.”

“Your parents gave you some money.”

“Oh, you’re right.”

“And also, you should walk to the school and find a short route to get there.” Namjoon pulled out a literal map.

(Y/N) pouted, “I thought you were gonna walk me to all my classes to deter all the frat boys from coming my way…”

“I did say that,” he confirmed before continuing. “But I mean to get to the actual school grounds.”

“But we have a car.” She had drawnout the ‘but,’ trying to make her point that she didn’t need to walk.

“But you need exercise.” He reasoned, mimicking the way she had said her words.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“No.”

“Yes you are.”

“(Y/N) i’m not.”

“Yeah you ARE, Casper.”

“Would you PLEASE call me by my actual name for once?”

“Sure thing. Rap Monster.” She teased, the ground started shaking. (Y/N) let out a loud screech looking up at the demon who’s eyes were rolled back. “OH FUCK YOU!”

The shaking died down, Namjoon staring down at the girl who was now underneath the coffee table. “This is why you’re still here!” she cried.

“You want me gone?” Namjoon questioned, offendedly. (Y/N) army crawled her way from her ‘safe spot.’

“I DIDN’T SAY THAT!” She yelled, returning the offended tone.

“I’m out,” Namjoon pivoted on his heel, walking to the front door robotically.

“Noooo!”

“Will I ever see my socks again?” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon with hope, “I mean having shoes would be great too though.”

“What’s wrong with living in sandals? Birkenstocks are very comfortable.” Namjoon pivoted around with a candle in his hand.

“It’s winter.” (Y/N) frowned.

“You could always use mine?” He gestured to the shoes at the shoe rack at the front door. The ones that were closed toed…

“Your feet are too big.” (Y/N) looked over at the shoes, then looked down at her own feet, then at the demon.

“Size didn’t matter Last night with your sweaters?”

“That’s different, Namjoon.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes.

“Size.” Namjoon smirked.

“Different.” (Y/N) stood confidently.

“You know, you could always just go buy new socks?” Namjoon looked at her oddly.

“I usually wait to get them for Christmas, you should know this by now.”

“Independence.” He stated.

“You’re a hypocrite.” Namjoon let out a ‘huh?’ and (Y/N) continued, “You said independence when you’re dependent on me.”

“That isn’t my fault.” Namjoon raised his hands in defense.

“It kind of is though…” (Y/N) shrugged, Namjoon opened his mouth to retort but was quickly cut off, “I’m literally a rehab center for you.”

“Apparently you’re not a nicely rated one.” Namjoon shook his head.

“I’ve helped 6 other demons, Namjoon. You’re just being difficult.” (Y/N) poked his chest really hard before retracting her hand.

“Ouch,” he put his hand over his heart where she had poked him, “You shouldn’t be saying these things to your client.”

“I didn’t ask to get a client or even BE a rehab center.”

“The reason why you became a rehab center was because you decided that humans were ugly and disgusting.”

“The reason why you ended up with me was because you did something bad and you just now decided to be a good person and it’s not turning out well for you.”

“For your information, I could have left a long time ago.” Namjoon crossed his arms, with an audible exhale from his nose. He stared down at the rehab center.

“And why didn’t you, hm?” (Y/N) crossed her arms also with a raised brow. Namjoon kept quiet, debating how to answer, keeping eye contact as if it was an olympic staring contest.

“You.” He said. (Y/N) snorted, ready to insult the patient. “-would’ve starved to death by now if I hadn’t stayed with you until now.” He finished, (Y/N) gasped, reaching up and hitting Namjoon on the shoulder.

“You. Jerk. Get. Away. From. Me.” She hit him harder every word before waddling away into the hallway from the chuckling demon.

“No problem,” Namjoon disappeared with a veil of sparkles out of view.

(Y/N) thrusted open the door to her new bedroom. Continuing her waddle to the end of the full size bed. Facing the head board, she plopped the top half of her body onto the bed front first. Namjoon reappeared about 6 feet away from her with a loud poof and a burst of sparkles scattering around the room.

“Go away.” (Y/N)’s face was still shoved into the mattress, “Seriously shoo.” (Y/N) lifted her arm off the bed to wave him off.

“I won’t go. You can’t make me.” Namjoon walked towards the bed hesitantly, scared to get fucking murdered by his prison warden, “Move over. Give me some room.”

“Go sleep in my closet.” (Y/N) flipped the demon off.

“You’d prefer nightmares over your dearest Casper?”

“Yes.” Namjoon sat down on the bed, his knee almost hitting the girl’s head. “I thought I said in the closet.”

“And I prefer the bed.” Namjoon leaned forward and took (Y/N) by her hands and pulled her closer to himself with an annoyed groan from her. She was pulled until her head was laid on his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

“I hate you.” (Y/N) grumbled into her demon-pillow.

“I know.”

“You live because I allow it, and that is it to be my flesh pillow.”

“Okay, now sleep.”

“But why do you have to leave?” (Y/N) looked up at her bunk buddy, her chin was impaling the person’s chest.

“I have to. I'm ready to go.” Yoongi looked crestfallen, “They said I could have one more night. But then, when I leave, I can pass on my role.”

“Could you maybe not steal my socks?” (Y/N) pouted at Yoongi who chuckled in response. “This is a genuine request.” She said with slight seriousness in her tone.

“You don’t have any to steal anyways,” he rolled his eyes with an endearing smirk that replaced his dispirited look just seconds before.

“Ok just- don’t go stealing any of my clothing, I need it.” (Y/N) clicked her tongue, not denying the fact that she was sockless.

“I won’t. I don’t need your clothing.” Yoongi shrugged, “I might take your guinea pig though. Meatloaf is cute.”

“YOU wouldn’t DARE take Meatloaf from me.” She glared

“I can and I will.” Yoongi crossed his arms over his chest and looked towards the cage that housed Meatloaf. (Y/N) groaned, unlatching an arm that was sandwiched between the bed and Yoongi’s back. She planted her palm smack in the middle of the demon’s face, covering his view of the poor guinea pig.

“No.” She patted his face, Yoongi’s eyes now squeezed shut.

“I can lick your hand.” he threatened, his voice muffled and jumpy from the wacky hand.

“You’re gross,” she moved her hand up, now only covering his eyes and revealing a gummy smile from Yoongi.

“It’s sleep time,” he declared. (Y/N) whined in response, “I’ll be here in the morning to say goodbye one more time okay?”

“Promise?”

“Never said that,” he hummed.

“You jerk,” she groaned, laying her head sideways. Her ear over his heart, engraving the sound into her mind.

Like a cliche love story, (Y/N) woke up to no one but herself on the bed. Through groggy eyes, she could see that poor Meatloaf was gone too.

“I tried to stop him from taking Meatloaf I swear.” Namjoon uncrossed his arms from over his chest when he noticed that (Y/N) was awake.

“Did you really?” (Y/N) sat up in bed.

“I did, I swear,” he said immediately, “I have proof.”

“By proof, do you mean you broke something?” Namjoon took a deep breath figuring out whether or not to say yes or no.

“I… never said that.” He decided on dying, his words drifting off in nervousness.

“So… you did?” She concluded, Namjoon nodded slowly, his eyes down on the floor.

“Yea…” (Y/N) sighed, trying to find anger to cover up a tsunami of sadness that was approaching.

“It’ll be okay. We can summon him every once in a while. Maybe while we’re at it we can try to get your socks back.” Namjoon smiled and hoped it would make her feel better while the reality of things had begun to set in for him. All of the boys loved (Y/N) with all of their hearts but he was the only one willing to stay for the long run.

“I don’t think people want to go back to a rehab center, Namjoon.” (Y/N) let the tears begin to pour.

“(Y/N) it’ll be okay…” Namjoon went over to sit on the bed next to (Y/N), “Seriously we’ll get through this.” Namjoon put a hesitant hand onto (Y/N)’s shoulder and began trying to comfort her.

“I know- I know but-” (Y/N) sniffled, “Hold on, my mascara will run.”

“You’re not wearing any?-” Namjoon raised a brow and looked at (Y/N) like ‘bih-’

“Shush.” (Y/N) shushed Namjoon before shaking off his hand and placing her head on his shoulder.

“You know you can’t prevent me from getting a boyfriend forever.” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon before continuing to pack her bag for school.

“I can and I will.” Namjoon slung his own bag over his shoulder. He was definitely a professor.

“You can’t make me be single forever.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes and slung her backpack onto her shoulders.

“Your preferences in men are horrible (Y/N), I'm not trying to prevent you from getting a man.” Namjoon said in a matter of fact voice, moving and opening the front door, letting (Y/N) pass through before he walked out behind her.

She scoffed, “maybe you should hook me up with someone, maybe then you can leave rehab.”

“I miss Meatloaf,” Namjoon said solemnly, changing the subject.

“Why do you always change the subject when I bring up my love life?” (Y/N) complained, stomping her foot as they walked down the hallway of the apartment building toward the elevator.

“Do you think Yoongi will respond if we try to summon him?” He ignored the question.

“Hey Joon? Is your dick ribbed? I heard all the demon dicks were ribbed.”

Namjoon stopped in his tracks, putting his feet together and staring down at the human with a face screaming ‘what-the-fuck?’ (Y/N) had a boxy smile on her face, waiting for a response. “Who the fuck did you hear that from?”

“A fanfic I read, it was a group called DTS,” she shrugged. “Is it right though?” she leaned forward slightly in high expectations.

“Well-” Namjoon paused, “uhhh…” his eyes darted around. “Mine… isn’t.”

“Damn- that’s really disappointing,” (Y/N) frowned, throwing down an imaginary hat onto the ground and continuing walking with Namjoon following behind her.

“Why is it disappointing? You’re a virgin.” Namjoon raised an eyebrow.

“Why would you think I’m a virgin?” (Y/N) looked offended. They stopped in front of the closed silver elevator doors, Namjoon hit the down button before responding.

“You literally had no social life in middle and high school and depended on demons who were attached to you by force in order to not lose your ability to speak in English.” Namjoon raised a finger, “Plus I’ve known you since you were ten and unless it was before that… I would know.” He slipped into the elevator, turning around and walking backwards. A know-it-all smirk plastered on his face while (Y/N) had an annoyed look on her own.

“Can we just- stop before we start arguing about my sex life?” She marched forward into the elevator like a preteen going into their room after an argument with their parents.

“How did you even become a professor?” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon confused. “Couldn’t you have just you know… poofed yourself from people’s view when I go to school?”

“I need something to do while you’re in class. I might as well teach asshole frat boys how to do business math amiright.” Namjoon chuckled.

“I mean… you can just be the ghost you are and haunt me n’ stuff?” (Y/N) suggested, “I mean you already do that, Casper.”

“That’s Professor Casper to you.” Namjoon laughed too hard at his own joke.

“Ew,” (Y/N) cringed. “I’d rather call you Daddy Casper.”

“Only in the bedroom.” Namjoon looked at the human.

“Sex doesn’t always have to be private.” (Y/N) stared back at the demon, flipping her hair back. “Wait- are YOU a virgin then?” She asked, bringing back the topic from earlier, but this time about Namjoon.

“Classified.” Namjoon glared.

“So you ARE a virgin?” (Y/N) snorted a laugh, “And you call yourself a demon.”

“Not all demons are incubi or succubi, your demon-racist.” Namjoon accused.

“I am not demon-racist.” (Y/N) looked up at the tall demon, “I’m human.”

“You’re not a human, you’re the personification of the word ‘dumbass.’” He said, poking the proclaimed dumbass on the forehead.

“Rude of you to assume what I am, Casper.” (Y/N) smacked away his hand and pushed Namjoon not so gently on the shoulder.

“Now you’re the hypocrite,” Namjoon glared, “Professor Casper.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes, “Daddy Casper.”

Namjoon frowned, “If you’re so persistent on not calling me Professor, then just Daddy works fine.”

The girl shrugged, “I’d prefer to just call you Daddy Casper, but without the Daddy part.”

“But what if I want to be called Daddy Casper.” Namjoon wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as they walked through the gates of the school, the walk soon enough would be coming to an end.

“Woahhhh down bessie.” (Y/N) lifted her hands and moved them in a downward motion, “Save it for the student who’s gonna try to fuck you for their grade.”

Namjoon laughed again, “You say it as if it won’t be you trying to fuck for an A.”

“I don’t get how an idiot like you got a job as a professor.” (Y/N) punched Professor Namjoon on the shoulder who was still laughing at the insult he pulled out his ass against the girl.

“I don’t know how an idiot like you got into college.” Namjoon rubbed his shoulder and then pushed (Y/N) back with a grin on his face. The bell conveniently rang, ending the conversation and forcing the pair to speed their way over to the classrooms.

“You know I saw one of the sorority girls eyeing you, I think we’ve found our fuck-for-a-grade person.” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon, “You wouldn’t fuck her right?”

“I would never fuck one of my students.” Namjoon looked at (Y/N), “Plus I don’t like cheerleaders, I like depressed freshmen who can see demons and that double time as rehab facilities.”

“I am not a rehab facility. I am a struggling freshman.” (Y/N) clapped at Namjoon.

“No you’re not a rehab facility, you’re my rehab facility.” Namjoon smiled cheekily, “And the way I see it you are not a struggling freshman, you live with a professor that helps you with most of your homework.”

“Eh- The one thing you don’t help with is stress relief.” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon, “The least you could do is let me go out and find a boyfriend.”

“You HAVE a boyfriend.” Namjoon looked at (Y/N) seriously.

“WHERE? WHO?” (Y/N)’s eyes frantically searched the room.

“HERE! ME!” Namjoon pointed at himself and then widened his eyes.(Y/N) looked at Namjoon with a raised brow, her frantic eyes stopping and looking the demon up and down.

“I didn’t know you had a rental-boyfriend service?” (Y/N) said in genuine shock, “I don’t have any money though so-“

“You don’t have to rent me.” Namjoon scoffed, “I’m right here and I cost no money.”

“I don’t take charity work, sorry.” Namjoon groaned and covered his face with a hand.

“You’re literally the most stubborn person I know.”

“I’m trying to keep my single streak here, thank you very much.”

“Wait so we aren’t dating?”

“You thought we were dating?”

“You didn’t think that?”

“You like me?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I mean- you never said it-”

“I literally said it seconds ago, (Y/N).”

“Well yeah, seconds ago I guess but I mean before?”

“I literally confessed to you when we were looking for apartments to move out of your parents house.”

“When?-”

“What about this place then?”

“I like it.”

“More than you like me?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Are you questioning my love for you?”

“Bitch, maybe I am.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I be questioning it then, hmm?”

“I’m literally helping you look for a home that we both will move into.”

“That proves nothing.”

“Bitch- If that doesn’t say ‘I LOVE YOU’ I don’t know what does.”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe saying ‘I love you’ straight up?”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I love you.”

“Nice.”

“Ohhhhhh.” (Y/N) smiled, “You meant that?”

Namjoon looked at her with a blank face. She stared back waiting for an answer that didn’t come.

“So… you do mean it?” She confirmed it herself. The demon nodded slowly, waiting for her to process it.

“(Y/N)? You good?” Namjoon waved a hand in front of her face.

“You know,” she started, finally having rebooted her system. “There’s a lot of things wrong with this relationship. First of all, you’re a demon and I'm a human.”

“Not the first time I've heard of that type of relationship.”

“Secondly, you’re supposed to leave soon considering you’ve delayed it enough. Even using my personified dreamcatcher as compensation to stay longer.”

“I’m pretty sure at this point, they’ve given up on trying to get me back.”

“Third of all, it’s weird that you’ve literally known me since I was ten.” She held up ten fingers, “How old are you again?”

“Not that old for a demon,” he shrugged.

“Exactly. For a demon, thank you for proving my point.” Namjoon went to retort but (Y/N) continued. “Fourth, teacher and student relationships are weird.”

“People roleplay it in the bedroom?” Namjoon shrugged once again.

“Exactly,” she said again.

“It’s technically not weird since you’re not my student though. You’re definitely not a business major so…” Namjoon weighed the pros and cons of being caught with a student even if said student isn’t even one of his.

“I’m an English Major- BUT that’s besides the point. You’ve still known me since I was ten.” (Y/N) poked Namjoon’s chest.

“Hey it’s not like I was creeping on you when you were a kid…” Namjoon raised his hands in defense.

“No you just started creeping on me when I was around sixteen.”

“It’s more acceptable than pedophiles!”

“You’re like three hundred!” She exclaimed, she threw her hands above her head to

“Add about seven-hundred years to that.” Namjoon added with slight hesitation.

(Y/N) stood there, mouth agape, trying to do the mental math.

“You’re one-thousand?!”

“Give or take some.”

“I- I’m going to remove myself from this situation.” (Y/N) walked away.

[:] I ran out of image things, so we get text from now on. [:]

“Maybe I should start sleeping in the closet.” Namjoon voiced his thoughts as he was grading papers one night.

“You don’t have to sleep in the closet.” (Y/N) looked at the demon from across the kitchen table.

“The closet is comfortable.” Namjoon shrugged before voicing his concerns about the student’s work, “I’m pretty sure this student is gonna try to suck my dick for an A. This work sucks ass. How did she even get x=34? The answer is x=0!”

“I’m bad at math, don't look at me.” (Y/N) jotted a note down on her work before closing her notebook.

“But anyway- Back on track. Why do you want to start sleeping in the closet?” (Y/N) raised a questioning brow.

“Because the bed is awkward now.” Namjoon sighed before writing a bold ‘10/35’ down on the paper and circling it. (Y/N) glanced over at the paper that was marked red at every inch of it.

“You should put ‘see me after class’ on it. Maybe she’ll suck your non-ribbed demon dick.” (Y/N) suggests as she puts away her notebook. Namjoon’s fist hit the table in annoyance with a loud sigh that definitely said ‘i’m not getting some dumb bitch to suck my dick.’ The girl snorted, “Geez, no need to be so rough on the table.”

“Stop bringing up my non-ribbed demon dick.” Namjoon glared across the table.

“You admit that it’s not ribbed? That’s rough, man.” (Y/N) sighed sympathetically. “Some people are into that, you know.” Namjoon facepalmed, a bit too harshly, a loud smack echoing in the cramped apartment. “No need to be so rough, Casper.”

“You’d probably like it rough, and why the hell are you so bent on the fact that my dick isn’t ribbed?” Namjoon glared, moving onto the next student’s paper.

“We’ve taken the god damn BDSM test together, Casper. You KNOW I'd like it rough.” (Y/N) said in a smart-ass tone, knowing for a fact that they’ve done the test before.

“That shit lies,” Namjoon declared, “I’m not a bottom.”

“We know sweetie, we know. The test did you dirty.” (Y/N) weighed her options before ultimately deciding not to cross the room to comfort her demon. “But you know, the test DID have some direct questions-”

“You mean like the golden showers?”

“Ew, why would you even bring that up.”

“You said ‘direct questions.'” Namjoon shrugged.

“That question was traumatic.” (Y/N) shuddered, “But anyway, You can keep sleeping in the bed. It’s only awkward for you. Plus you can’t even be a demon dreamcatcher from a closet.”

“I can and I will. Now go get ready for bed. I'll join you in a bit. I have to email the kids' advisor.”

[:] Oh wow, another spliter [:]

“What’s awkward about this?” (Y/N) asked, ignorant to the fact that it was very awkward. Her legs were wrapped around the demon’s waist, who was laying down as straight as a log uncomfortably.

“Everything is uncomfortable.” Namjoon tried to push (Y/N) off of him.

“This is where you’re wrong,” (Y/N) states. “Your chesticles are very comfortable.” She furthered her point, by moving her head and weirdly nuzzling her cheek into his chest.

“(Y/N) get off of me.” Namjoon was now really uncomfortable.

“No.” (Y/N) pulled Namjoon’s log-body closer.

“Please?” Namjoon wiggled some more, “Seriously (Y/N) get off.”

“No…” (Y/N) held Namjoon tighter, “Imma go sleep now.”

“Ok (Y/N).” With that Namjoon pushed (Y/N) up and off of him and climbed out of bed and into the closet.

(Y/N) whined, “Nooooooo!” She looked at the closet through her eyebrows. “Are you hiding something from me?” She accused the demon.

“Excuse me?” Namjoon opened the closet door a bit.

“Oh my god- are you a closet gay?” She gasped loudly.

“WHAT?” Namjoon looked at (Y/N) from the crack in the doorway.

“It’s okay! You don’t need to use a fake confession to hide it from me.” She comforted the demon, “I will support you 1000 percent.”

“I’M NOT GAY!” Namjoon wiggled around in the closet before emerging from the space.

“Okay okay- but just so you know, there’s nothing wrong with being gay, Casper. Closeted or not.” She hummed, her words being muffled as she slowly put her face into the mattress.

“It’s been awkward since you basically called me a cradle robber, you stubborn piece of shit.” Namjoon blushed at his confession.

“I thought you didn’t care about that earlier.” (Y/N) looked back up, taking a deep breath of air after almost suffocating herself.

“Well I did.” Namjoon huffed out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Well that sucks,” (Y/N) said blandly, “I was thinking of saying I love you.”

“The fuck- wait,” Namjoon’s eyes widened.

“Night night.”

[:] Cockadoodle-Doo it's morning [:]

The next morning came around quickly for (Y/N), though I wouldn’t say the same for Namjoon. Having him overthinking the “postponed” love confession from (Y/N). Meanwhile, though the night was quick, the morning dragged the girl by the toilet paper stuck at the bottom of her shoe.

Frown plastered on her face, seemingly deep in thought. She was unmoving in her seat aside from her wrist moving to stir the half eaten cereal in front of her. Namjoon sat across from her, “You can stop thinking, you’re going to hurt your head.”

The insult snapped the girl out of her concentration, she looked up and clicked her tongue. “I was just thinking about you. You want me to stop doing that?”

Namjoon raised a brow, “Depends on what you were thinking about.”

“I was wondering if we could summon the boys,” (Y/N) smiled before continuing, “Maybe get my socks back…”

“Are you saying you’d enjoy the company of your socks more than you with me?” Namjoon asked rhetorically with a shocked expression. (Y/N) gagged and rolled her eyes.

“Namjoon…” she said with a honey coated tone. “Are you saying you don’t know that I know you’ve used MY socks before?” The accused had a shocked look on his face that looked like he was on the verge of throwing up.

(Y/N) started snickering, amused by the demon’s expression. “As if I'd use your cheap ass yellow striped socks,” Namjoon aimed his nose at the ceiling. The girl laughed harder, finding the insult to her socks a bit too amusing.

“Okay, back on topic,” she said in between giggles, “We’ll get back to this later.” Namjoon shook his head, unamused unlike the person across from him.

The offended sock insulter cleared his throat, “We should have enough time before we need to go to the school to summon one of them.” He said in a factual voice, (Y/N) nodded as she took a glance at the time that read 7:23 am.

“What did we need again?” She got up from the stool she sat on, abandoning the poor soggy cereal. Namjoon got up also with a hum of thought.

“Candles and a lighter are the main things, obviously,” He says. (Y/N) nodded going into one of the kitchen cabinets for the items. “And if we’re summoning all of them, we’d need offerings…” Namjoon drifted off.

(Y/N) put down the candles onto the marble counter and looked at Namjoon questionably, “So… we need another hamster and dog?” This made the demon pause before nodding slowly, the situation becoming a bit more difficult than it needed to be now.

“And then what about Hobi? What he took wasn’t exactly… a physical object?” She also put it into consideration and clicked her tongue. “I’m still mad at you for sacrificing my literal source of happiness and good luck for yourself.” Namjoon’s jaw dropped.

“I thought we were past this!” He threw his hands up in the air, (Y/N) flipping him off simultaneously.

“Maybe you were,” she sassed, pointing fingers with a half assed glare.

“Technically, it wasn’t a sacrifice, (Y/N).” He said, crossing his arms.

“Well-” She was cut off by the demon.

“Nuh uh, It was just him choosing to leave and wanting to stay,” he snapped, not in a harsh way though.

“But-”

“You know what, let’s just try and summon them another day. I don’t think it’d work anyways.” Namjoon said, dismissing the topic by waving his hand, taking a glance at the tree outside.

[:] Wooshy flash back time I guess [:]

“Why are you still here?” (Y/N) looked at Namjoon, “I mean weren’t you supposed to leave this year?”

“I was supposed to leave instead of Hobi last year. I asked to stay.” Namjoon was sitting nonchalantly in one of the lounge chairs in her parents' living room reading the book she was supposed to be reading for school.

“Why didn’t you leave when you were supposed to?” (Y/N) looked at the demon, a look of confusion evident on her features.

“Who else is supposed to write your book reports for school?” Namjoon smirked while holding up the book before going back to reading said book.

“Then why did Hobi leave? Did he not want to be attached anymore?” (Y/N) began to tear up.

“It’s not that. I asked to stay because I felt I wasn’t ready to leave yet and Hoseok felt he was ready to leave. Most of the time, we leave when our time comes (Y/N). Hobi and mine were at the same time and I wanted to stay so I stayed.” Namjoon smiled at (Y/N).

“But why didn’t Hobi want to stay?” (Y/N)’s tears were flowing freely at this point.

“(Y/N)! Are you crying?” (Y/N)’s mom came rushing downstairs to investigate why her only child was crying.

“I’m fine.” Even (Y/N) wasn’t convincing herself, “Really Mom, I’m just over exhausted. I’m gonna go up to my room.”

[:] And back to the present :) [:]

“Are you almost ready to go?” Namjoon popped his head into the bedroom, “We have to leave soon if you want to be on time for school.”

“I’m almost ready, relax. And don’t you have a class to teach and a non-ribbed dick to get sucked by that one bitch for an A?” (Y/N) scoffed from where she was printing an essay that Namjoon had written the night before.

Namjoon started counting down from five, “Five- You better fucking get your ass in gear or you’re gonna be late. Four- Seriously (Y/N). Three- Professor Howard can’t give you another pass just because he likes you. Two-” Namjoon got cut off by (Y/N).

“I’m ready, asshole.” (Y/N) looked at him, “You better not let that bitch Brianna suck your dick.”

“I won’t let her suck my dick!” Namjoon raised his hands in defense, “What about my toes though?” (Y/N) looked at the demon with a face of disgust and looked at him from head to toe.

“Are you Namjoon or Taehyung?” She squinted, looking at his face.

“It was a joke!” Namjoon smirked, “But I'm sure she’ll do it for an A anyway.”

“I’m done with this conversation Casper.” With that (Y/N) slung her bag over her shoulder and left.

“Hey wait!” Namjoon grabbed his own bag before speed walking after (Y/N).

[:] Professor Casper or Daddy Casper? [:]

“SO.” (Y/N) sat down across from Namjoon in his office, “Rumour has it that you’re dating a cute english-lit major and are up for evaluation. What say you in your defense?”

“I mean I am dating a cute english-lit major. But I’m not up for evaluation, I used my demon charms to get out the punishment.”

Namjoon looked at (Y/N) seriously.

“Did you actually?” (Y/N) gaped at Namjoon.

“No. I explained that dating you is punishment enough.” Namjoon smiled, his dimples popping.

“Bastard.” (Y/N)looked at Namjoon.

“Bitch.” Namjoon smirked at (Y/N) before leaning over the desk and kissing her on the forehead, “I love you.”

“Good.” (Y/N) blushed.

There, through the window of the office, there were 6 peeping toms watching the couple.

“Adadada-uda,” Taehyung stuttered, “THEY’RE SO CUTE!”

“This looks like it’d turn out like a straight porn video on the hub,” Yoongi says bluntly.

Jungkook looked at Yoongi, “Ew straight.”

“Moving on,” Seokjin cleared his throat, “Does anyone remember when (Y/N) said I love you back?”

A series of “No’s” could be heard.

“Maybe we weren’t watching!” Jimin raised his hands, “But when were we not watching?”

“Oh I know!” Hoseok interrupted, “When they split up because of classes earlier. We left Yoongi hyung in charge just in case something happened.”

“I took a nap and must've missed it.” The guilty demon shrugged.

“No, (Y/N) definitely isn’t someone who confesses straight up.” Seokjin said, stroking his chin. The rest nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, that's why she didn’t have a man when we were still there.” Jungkook snorted.

“No JK, we all know the reason why (Y/N) was always single. Was because she was pining after Namjoon.” Jimin stated the obvious.

[:] Damn. Imagine having someone to kiss in public. Or at all. [:]

“So how do you reckon the staff caught onto us… I mean PDA really isn’t our thing.” Namjoon looked at (Y/N), “Who have you told?”

“I haven’t told anyone!” (Y/N) frowned, “Maybe someone saw us go home together? I bet it was that bitch Brianna. She gives off the stalker vibes.”

“I’m not gonna let her suck my dick.” Namjoon looked at (Y/N), “And she’s already failing my class so even if I did let her suck my non-ribbed punisher, she still would probably only have a D-.”

“Hey- I thought we stopped referring to your dick as non-ribbed.” Namjoon raised a brow, making a face that said ‘you’re-the-one-who-started-it.’

Reading his expression (Y/N) glared at the demon, “Technically you’re the one who started it because you freely admitted it freely.”

“What makes you find out the hard way that my dick isn’t ribbed?” Namjoon looked at (Y/N) suggestively before flopping namtiddie first into the couch.

“I think I would've preferred finding out the hard way.” (Y/N) flopping onto Namjoon’s hard back.

“So I can’t even have the couch to myself?” Namjoon groaned before realizing what (Y/N) meant by ‘finding out the hard way,’ “Are you saying you rather had found out in the heat of the moment after having prepared yourself for a ribbed demon dick?” Namjoon leaned his head up to bump (Y/N) who still had her fat ass on his back, “I can’t breathe, get off.”

(Y/N) rolled off of Namjoon before plopping herself down in front of Namjoon, “That’s exactly what I am saying.”

[:] Smh stalkers at every moment [:]

“And I got a big fat ass!” (Y/N) shook her ass while singing off-key.

“Your ass is everything but big, baby.” Namjoon passed (Y/N) to reach for the garlic from the spice cabinet.

The girl turned and looked at Namjoon with an offended look, “You know. As my rental boyfriend, you’re supposed to be nice.”

Garlic forgot, Namjoon turned to (Y/n) and grabbed her waist, “I’m not your rental boyfriend and you know that.”

(Y/N) laughed, “Okay go off I guess, not my rental boyfriend.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes before pushing Namjoon away.

“Woman,” Namjoon placed a hand over his heart, “You wound me.”

(Y/N) turned around and smiled at her demon, “I could argue that you’re the one that wounds me.”

“I do not wound you.” Namjoon scoffs, “But I could very well wound you if you keep saying i’m a rental boyfriend, love.”

“Well we wouldn’t want you to wound me now would we,” (Y/N) smiled up at Namjoon before leaning in and placing a quick peck to his lips, “I love you.”

Namjoon smiled before returning (Y/N)’s peck with a chaste kiss, “I love you too, baby.”

*Meanwhile from the dining room 6 men were watching from not so afar*

“Hyung! Hyung! Did you see that!” Jungkook excitedly pointed towards the couple in the kitchen.

Yoongi groaned, “See what?”

“Le gasp! How could you have missed that!” Taehyung held a hand over his heart, “(Y/N) initiated affection for once!”

Jin smiled, “It really was adorable.”

[:] Oh look, you're at the end. [:]

“Every kiss begins with consent.” Namjoon wiggled his shoulders while grading papers at the table.

(Y/N) smirked before leaning over the table and planting a large whet kiss on Namjoon’s cheek.

“Rude.” Namjoon scoffed before pulling (Y/N) in for a proper kiss.

“You know that kiss didn’t have much of my consent in it.” (Y/N) smiled before leaning in for another kiss.

“I don’t think I consented to that either though.” Namjoon smiled.

“Get back to work baby.” (Y/N) nudged Namjoon towards his pile of papers.

“Yeah yeah.” Namjoon smiled before looking down and putting a big red ‘F’ on a paper clearly marked Brianna Simms.

“When will she just drop the class?” (Y/N) chuckled, “Dumbass.”

all rights reserved © misfit-fics

do not repost, translate, or claim as your own. :]

[sparklefairy]

I’m having a Beatrix potter day.

By which I mean my to do list looks like this:

Wake up with the sunrise

Have a cup of tea and some hot apple cider

Make apple sauce from the rest of the apples I picked last month in the orchard

Make butter from the cultured cream I’ve had set out the past two days

Write a letter to a dear friend

Read a book about pirates and eat a morning snack of mango and berries

Finish darning my socks

Make some vegetable soup (for me) and a loaf of bread (to share with the blue jays)

Check and see if it’s cold enough to go ice skating outside yet

Bubble bath

More reading

Finish the paint by numbers kit I started last weekend

Light a candle that was entirely too expensive but will smell so good

It’s gonna be a great day

❤️

[marigoldvance]

Trick or Treat 02

prompt: (Trick) One of them lives in an old lighthouse AU. And when I say 'lives'… Does he really [...]?

Fíli’s bones groaned as he sat up, swung his legs over the side of his narrow bed and planted his feet on the rug on the floor beside it. It was a thin, ratty thing that absorbed the cold that seeped through the concrete, rather than protected from it. A chill ran up from the soles of Fíli’s feet and settled as an ache in his knees. He felt haggard, spread well beyond his thirty-six years, but duty called, and it was ingrained in him to answer.

He’d been here for as long as he could remember. The small island had been his family’s responsibility for generations, and it was his turn to take up the mantle of keeper. As soon as Fíli had been old enough, his uncle – who had replaced Fíli’s late father – had moved on to take over a fishing enterprise in the shoreline village.

Dale appeared to have climbed out of the sea, a densely packed cluster of damp stone structures, as grey as the landscape that surrounded it. The smell and taste of brine had sunk into the pores of its people, clung to them wherever they went so they would always be reminded of where they came from. They were hardy, grown on temperamental waves, giving and receiving life from the depths, and Fíli was no exception.

Though, now, in the strained, evening, mid-October light, Fíli’s joints creaked as he stood, and his spine popped like a zipper.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been ashore, though it couldn’t have been too long ago. His mother wouldn’t have had it, making the short journey to the island herself if he’d been gone awhile. Time passed strangely there, one day washing into the next and into the next and so on, like waves over sand.

Dressing quickly in a wool sweater that needed darning at the elbows, a pair of thick trousers that should’ve been replaces ages ago, the hems curled and frayed, and his double-breasted sack coat, Fíli didn’t waste time shuffling toward the stove to boil water for coffee. His nights were a slow routine of shaking the coffee tin, jotting down a note on his supply list to get more when Bard made the trip over; then he sat for a few minutes, warming his hands around his mug, letting the stiffness in his body recede enough that he could comfortably climb the stairs to the light room.

Earlier, Fíli had seen signs of an oncoming storm and he wasn’t disappointed to hear the roar and crash of waves against the crags. As soon as he finished half his mug, he ambled to the stairs and made his ascent.

***

Outside, the fog was thick and the air so cold it pinched Fíli’s cheeks and neck. He’d forgotten his scarf again, somewhere in the bedroom. It was odd that he’d misplaced it in the first place, given that there wasn’t much filling the small spaces within the lighthouse. Hardly anywhere it could’ve hidden itself. No matter, Fíli had a job to do and so he set about doing it. It was nearing the end of October and the light was thin by four. He hobbled up the stairs to the light room, made his tour and inspected what needed inspecting, winding the lens and ensuring it moved correctly.

***

Fíli sighed, the unmooring sensation of isolation squeezing his chest, as if someone’s boot was bearing down on him. It had definitely been too long since he’d been home. Thankfully, he only had a week left, his cousin Dori taking his place for the month of November. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of his bed and planted his feet, tilted forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

His back protested, but he ignored it, hunching forward. Then, scrubbing his hair back, Fíli stood and moved to his wardrobe, pulled on his wool sweater that needed darning and his trousers that needed replacing and shoved his feet into two pairs of socks which he then shoved into his boots.

Next, stove, boiled water, coffee.

Christ, what day was it?

***

October 31st. He didn’t know how he knew today was October 31st, only that it was. The same way he knew when it was time to get up and time to go to sleep, when he was hungry or thirsty.

Fíli hauled his legs over the side of his bed with a groan, feet on the rug. He stretched his arms and scratched his furry belly and then marched to his wardrobe to dress. While he didn’t particularly enjoy the monotony, he had to admit he liked the simplicity of wearing practically the same thing everyday. The sweater with the elbows that needed darning, trousers that needed replacing, socks in socks and boots and coat.

It was when he was bending to sit, a movement the required his legs to be spread at exactly the right angle and his arse to stick out in order to hit the seat before the rest of him fell into the chair, that something very…unusualhappened.

***

The crash and clamor hadn’t been what had spilled Fíli’s coffee all over his boots, it had been the very sudden interruption of a body falling through the door, soaked in the sea and pale as a ghost. Fíli shot forward, thoughts stuttering to a halt as instinct took over. He dropped to his knees and rolled the stranger over by the shoulder to get a better look at what he was dealing with.

He gasped at the sight.

A boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen with features that would mature into a striking handsomeness. He was wet from head to toe, lips blue and lashes starred and stuck together by globs of something resembling black tar. Fíli hurried to strip the boy of his wet clothes, an unusual combination of hideous green and purple and black-and-white-stripes; half-carried, half-dragged him to the armchair in front of the stove and piled the boy in blankets.

Two hours later, after Fíli finished the chore of winding the lens, the boy woke up and gave Fíli his name.

“Kíli,” He said it like a secret, “What’s yours?”

***

Kíli told Fíli a harrowing tale of dares between friends and how Kíli had swum from the shore to the island, emboldened by something called Sour Puss.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” Kíli admitted, looking small and lost and very ashamed.

When Fíli didn’t say anything – he didn’t feel there was anything to say, honestly – Kíli again filled the silence, nattered on about this and that and—

“Mobile?” Fíli interrupted as soon as Kíli had said the word. It wasn’t as though Fíli didn’t understand the concept of the word, he did; it was simply that in the context Kíli used it, it didn’t make sense.

Kíli scrunched up his face in confusion, “Yeah?” Fíli lifted an eyebrow in the hopes of prompting Kíli for clarity. Instead, Kíli continued his story, telling Fíli how he’d decided it was about time his dumb friends learned that I’m not the kind that doesn’t follow-through.

“So, you’re a knob’ead.” Fíli concluded, deadpan and stone faced. He couldn’t keep it up for long, though, the mask cracking at Kíli’s gull-like guffaw. Fíli doubled over, sucking in large breathes and holding himself around the middle. Kíli’s stricken expression was priceless and by far the funniest thing Fíli had ever seen.

“Oi!” Kíli leaned back in the armchair and kicked out, striking the side of Fíli’s thigh. “Don’t be an arse! I almost died!”

Which sent Fíli into another fit of laughter.

***

A year later, Kíli returned, again on October 31st. He’d said he’d been ‘round sometime in between, but Fíli hadn’t been there. Fíli figured Kíli made the journey during one of the months Fíli was ashore and so Fíli rectified that by giving Kíli a better idea of the rotation he, Dori and Nori had created for themselves.

Kíli had looked puzzled, the straight line of his mouth giving him a severe look. He’d been quiet for most of the night, brightening later when Fíli promised to show him how to wind the lens so it turned clockwise.

***

Over the years, Kíli grew into himself, and Fíli had been right, his features only improved with age. He was striking and dark and emotive, the position of his brows determining his whole expression.

Somehow, Fíli didn’t feel as though he was outrunning Kíli in age. Rather, Kíli made him feel young; his joints protested less, his skin warmed, his chest lightened. He had a regular skip in his step in the days leading up to Kíli’s arrival. And then, one year, Kíli came with something familiar wrapped around his neck.

“Where’d you get that?” Fíli asked, trying his best to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

“Huh?” Kíli tucked his chin into his chest, peering down the long line of his nose, going crosseyed as he gazed at the scarf he’d chosen for his visit. “Oh, this?” He glanced him, big, cheerful smile lighting up the dull interior of Fíli’s living space. “My nan was cleaning out her attic, this was tucked away with some of her grandfather’s things. S’nice, innit?”

“Yeah.” Fíli said, eyes fixed on a coffee stain he was certain he recognized. “S’nice.”

***

“You know, one of these days, you’ll have to come to me on the shore.” Kíli wheezed, dragging himself up the rest of the stairs and through the door.

Fíli chuckled, large hand pressed into Kíli’s lower back where it belonged. “One of these days, I might.”

Kíli cast him an odd look over his shoulder.

“What? I’m on shore a few months during the year, you know. We could meet then. You just,” Fíli hesitated, realizing a little late that he didn’t want to have that conversation, “Never suggested it before.”

***

Fíli never sought Kíli out on shore.

Kíli never mentioned it.

And they continued the way they were until Kíli never left again.

~fin.

[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 4)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (here) Part 5, Part 6, Part 7,  Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

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

He awoke sore and badly rested, tears dried on his face.

Jaskier made it through the next day. He ate a little of the food Ciri offered him, only because when he tried to decline the first time her eyes got large and her bottom lip showed just the barest hint of a tremble. He couldn’t bear it. The dry horse bread that was usual for traveling rations crumbled in his mouth. He was so hungry, it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted. 

Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to even unsling his lute from his shoulder during their trek. His fingers itched to play, of course. He continued his story for Ciri and in his mind he played music for the background, he just couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t sell his lute in this next town, but before they reached Kaer Morhen he would have to. It would give them money, and he wouldn’t be a burden. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and continued telling Ciri the story. 

He noticed a bit before mid day that Geralt was watching him. That wasn’t out of sorts, of course. Yennefer and Ciri were watching him too, he was an excellent storyteller and the tale was enthralling. Geralt didn’t seem to be paying attention to the story though. He was staring-- glowering--brow low and furrowed, at Jaskier. 

Jaskier felt hurt lance through him and he almost staggered, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. He knew Geralt didn’t want him along, didn’t want him at all, but he couldn’t even pretend? He couldn’t go back to their relationship before? Not the warm, almost companionable silences that had been nurtured between them, but the grunts and stone faced silence of the beginning of their acquaintance.  

Jaskier breathed through the pain in his chest. Twenty years of silences, all kinds of them, stony and friendly and sleepy and painful and quietly nice. But they were back to the beginning, or worse, Geralt angry and Jaskier’s voice filling in places it didn’t belong.

“Jaskier?”

That was Ciri, and Jaskier realized that he’d actually trailed off mid-sentence. 

“Sorry little highness,” he smiled and gave a funny little bow. “I’m but a simple entertainer, a poet and a fool, sometimes my mind runs away from me.”

“Fool is right,” Yennefer snorted. It wasn’t totally unkind, but it still stung. It stung even more when Geralt, so taciturn all day, snorted with laughter at her comment. Jaskier felt his ears burn and his chest ache.

“Now, where was I?”

“The king’s son met the North Wind,” Ciri said, matching Jaskier’s steps. “And he has to beat him in a game of wit to gain knowledge of where the sorcerer’s daughter was taken, that’s what you said, but you didn’t tell us what game yet.”

At least someone treasured his words, Jaskier thought. Although they weren’t worth much, he threw one out after the other. 

Like garbage, whispered the back of his mind.

“Ah yes,” he said instead. “the North Wind sat before the king’s son, and laid out a chess set made of ice and wind.”

“How can chess pieces be made of wind?”

Jaskier smiled, Ciri asked questions at all the right places. “The North Wind wanders, he goes everywhere, blowing cold breath across The Continent. When the North Wind is present and we breath our breath can be seen.” Jaskier smiled here and added an aside, “My little sister used to call it dragon smoke. But by the same magic that gives the North Wind a body to walk the world, he can take our frozen breath and turn it cold and solid as glass.”

Jaskier let himself tell the story on autopilot. His feet ached. He’d been darning the socks he was wearing for a year or more, but he wasn’t good at it and the lumps were rubbing his toes raw. Worse than that, the soles of his boots were almost worn through. Just one more thing he’d have to buy.

He felt ashamed of himself. His boots had been going thin for a while, and instead of saving his coin and getting them repaired or just buying new ones, he’d drowned himself in drink, feeling sorry. Oh, he hadn’t known he would be making a trip up a mountain, but he needed boots regardless. No wonder Geralt had always been upset with him, he always put pleasure over sense, couldn’t even spend coin sensibly.

Couldn’t darn socks, couldn’t budget his coin, couldn’t shut up. A fool.

He stumbled on a tree root and nearly swore. Couldn’t even walk right. One of the blisters building on his foot had burst, he was sure. It was easy to tell, the pain had gone from a rubbing ache to stinging and warm. Only years of practice and performance kept him from interrupting the story.

Something must have shown on his face though, or his scent changed or whatever because Geralt was staring at him intently. That face, always so unreadable. 

Jaskier wasn’t going to give him anything else to scowl about. He kept walking, keeping the story rolling and his voice light. His bones ached. He had to stop for just a moment when a button, long past hanging loosely on his doublet, finally pulled free. He picked it up and the head rush nearly took him to the ground. He’d eaten little, slept poorly, and the only food he’d had in a long time before this was ale. He blinked the grey from his vision, trying not to let the panic show when it didn’t go away as quickly as he’d have liked.

It was okay. It was all going to be okay. They’d make it to the village by nightfall. They wouldn’t sleep there of course but he could get proper food. Maybe even slip away and catch a quick nap in a stable or hayloft or something. His whole body was buzzing with a sort of exhausted energy and his heart was pounding.

Jaskier reflected that he hadn’t been well before meeting up with Geralt and his little family. He’d been sick with drink and heartache and had not enough food then too. 

Smile through the pain.

This wasn’t even bad as performances could go. Once he’d actually broken a finger just before a set at Oxenfurt. Simple clumsiness, he’d closed his index finger in a door, but he’d played his whole set, with a perfect score from his professor.

It grew darker, the sun just setting when they reached a field at the edge of the town. It was a large open field and, in warmer months, it was likely home to fairs and large market days. Probably in these rural areas people traveled for a week to bring their goods and livestock to this town. It didn’t matter now, mid autumn settling into late autumn. To Jaskier the town was nameless. 

They set up camp in the field. It left them exposed to being seen, but they hid themselves behind a small rise on the edge of the field, blocking them mostly from sight. Still, Geralt seemed on edge. Jaskier wasn’t sure it was about the camp. Geralt kept looking over at him with his eyebrows pressed together. Whenever he did that it formed this little crease right between his brows that Jaskier wanted to kiss away.

Jaskier bit his lip, hard, to focus on anything other than that.

The three of them sat, too tired to talk much more. Jaskier had finished most of the story and decided to leave the rest for the next day they were traveling a lot, to give Ciri something else to think about. She was definitely Calanthe’s blood. They traveled all day and she never complained, but also told them when she needed to stop, advocating for herself in no uncertain terms. It was the princess herself who interrupted his thoughts.

“You said you had a sister, do you have lots of siblings?”

“Not really,” Jaskier said, settling down on the ground and feeling his bones pop. His blisters were definitely bleeding inside his boots too. “Two older brothers, Henrik and Teodor, and I had a younger sister, Lotte.”

“Had?”

“She was sickly, always too small for her age,” Jaskier said quietly. “I learned the lute for her, at first. She liked music and was often bedridden. A fever took her when she was about your age.” Jaskier looked down at his battered boots. 

“I’m sorry,” Ciri whispered. 

“It’s allright little highness, it’s been almost thirty years now. Time flies.”

“I didn’t know you had siblings,” Geralt said. It was growly, but Geralt always used that tone.

“You never really asked.”

Dinner was a quiet affair. Jaskier ate the last of the rations in his pack, waving away Ciri’s offerings and showing her his food as proof that he had some. It didn’t really settle the hunger that had been eating him from the inside out all day, but at this point he figured he could eat a mountain and still have room for dessert.

“Tomorrow,” Geralt said gruffly once dinner was cleared away. “We don’t all enter the town as a group. Yen and Ciri go together. I go alone. Jaskier goes alone.”

Jaskier nodded, so did Ciri and Yennefer.

“If we see eachother, act as though we don’t know eachother,” Geralt said, then he turned his gaze on Jaskier. “Don’t attract too much attention.”

Jaskier bristled at getting his own private reprimand. “I’m a bard, Geralt,” he said. “How am I supposed to earn coin if I don’t play.”

Geralt grunted. “I didn’t say don’t play just no... don’t do the whole...” he gestured a vauge hand. 

“The whole...me?” Jaskier said sarcastically. He was pulling at the lion’s tail he knew, but he was in pain and tired and hungry and Geralt had no right to be so cruel.

“The whole bright colors, loud and annoying thing. Country bard, not court bard, got it?”

Loud and annoying.

“Got it,” Jaskier said, looking back down at his boots. He didn’t say that none of his clothes could have passed for courtly anymore anyway. 

They set about getting ready for bed. Ciri gave him a quick hug before she and Yennefer disappeared into their magical tent. Jaskier sat and pulled off his boots, not letting a single flicker of pain show on his face. He knew Geralt would be able to smell blood, but Geralt had gone to get water from the nearby river. He had to peel his socks off and yes, there was blood there, by now stuck into the threadbare fabric. He let himself wince then. He rinsed off the wounds but he was without bandages, so he just dried off the area and put his other pair of socks on. He only had the two pairs anyway, but at least the blisters would stay dry. 

He rolled himself into his bedroll and thought of tomorrow. At least there were no tree roots here.

The next day dawned slowly, instead of bright pinks and oranges it was a kind of runny yellow that just leeched into the sky before fading into early morning blue. Jaskier watched in admiration as Yennefer changed Geralt’s hair to short and dark, and then gave herself brown eyes and a slightly different bone structure. To look at both of them was odd, because Jaskier could see the similarities. Yennefer’s nose was changed and her cheekbones were a little different, but it was still her, and Geralt just looked like a different, although quite handsome, version of himself. Ciri was simply given mousy brown hair and some extra freckles.

Just like that, the perfect and all powerful family looked like two normal people and one witcher who was still clearly a witcher but not the white wolf. Jaskier shouldered his lute. He’d cleaned up the scruff he’d been growing into a more respectable look and with his longer hair and tatty cloak he looked like any poor traveling musician. If he’d traded the lute for a shortbow he could have looked like a woodsman, totally nondescript.

He was entering from a different direction, so as not to arouse suspicion, and so was Geralt. Jaskier began walking around, so that he could enter from the east. Yen and Ciri would walk into town the closest direction, and Geralt was entering from the west. This early, it was unlikely they would have been seen all together. 

Jaskier made his way to the eastern edge of the town and walked in, scanning the streets. If this were a farm people would be up and awake long before now, farmers wake well before dawn, but this was a town, and so few people wandered the streets. Shop keepers were just beginning to open up. Jaskier bought a couple pears, slightly overripe but cheaper because of it, off of a fruit seller and had breakfast. He tried to lock into his mind all the shops around so he could find his supplies easiest later.

His mind was resisting him though. In spite of the softer ground, Jaskier had still slept badly last night. His body ached and he wished he could find somewhere warm to lay for an hour or two. Instead he found the well. 

As wells should be, this one was right in the center of town. He set down his lute case beside it, tuned his lovely lady, and began to play.

In his very first few months after leaving Oxenfurt he had learned this trick, and used it often. If you get into a town early, play at the well. People get their water first thing in the morning and there you are.

A few young women with yokes and buckets smiled at him and he nodded in return. The day brightened a little further as the sun crept above the buildings and more people came to gather in the town square. They weren’t there to hear Jaskier, not at first, most of them came for water, or to chat with neighbors, or discuss business. Many of them gathered around him though. 

Coins clattered into the case. Mostly coppers, but in a little town like this that was quite normal. 

“As sweet Polly Oliver lay musing in bed, A sudden strange fancy came into her head. "Nor father nor mother shall make me false prove, I'll 'list as a soldier, and follow my love,” he sang.

“So early next morning she softly arose, And dressed herself up in her dead brother's clothes. She cut her hair close, and she stained her face brown, And went for a soldier to fair Rinde Town.”

Sweet Polly Oliver was one of his favorites, a simple country song about a girl and her lover in wartime. This town was far enough north that with luck Nilfgaard wouldn’t attack, but the anxiety threatened. 

Jaskier gave a good performance, perhaps not his best, but he was tired and cold and the flagstones beneath his feet were very hard. He danced about, playing sweet folk songs and jigs and reels, delighting in the people who swept up and danced along. Still, though, he felt his feet bleeding inside his boots. He played from just after dawn until perhaps an hour after noon before bowing away and taking his coin. 

He’d done better than he’d expected, but there wasn’t nearly enough coin for all the things he’d need for Kaer Morhen, and extra food to help Geralt and Ciri. He’d buy what he needed now, and they’d stop again in Ard Carraigh before the keep. He’d sell his lute there, it was a large city, and he’d get a good price. The thought still made him ache, though. 

It wasn’t just his emotions causing him pain, he realised. The aches he’d been experiencing were in his chest lately, and both physical and emotional. He just needed more rest. 

Jaskier slipped through back alleys and bent streets. He’d seen a stable on his way into town. He stepped in quietly, startling a stable hand, no more than a boy, who’d been quietly talking to a horse.

“You’re the bard,” he said. “Saw you in the square jus’ this morning.”

“That’s right,” Jaskier said, bowing a little. “I’m afraid I’ll be moving on this evening and--”

“And you want to have a kip in the stables,” said the boy. “Yeah lots o’ musicians and peddlers do that. Rule is though, I got to get a coin off ‘em first as payment. I’m sorry, but I get a beating if’n I don’t.”

“No worries,” Jaskier said, he’d expected as much. He handed the boy two copper coins. “There’s pay, won’t have you getting beaten for my sake, the second coin is to wake me in two hours.”

The boy gave him a lopsided grin. “You got it sir, thanks.”

Jaskier snuggled up in the hay loft. He’d often done it, it was pretty common, if you couldn’t buy a stay at an inn or especially if you just needed a ‘kip’ as the boy had said, during the day. He’d slept in haystacks once in a while on the road too. They were sort of comfortable and surprisingly warm and, best of all, robbers didn’t get you if you kept yourself mostly under the hay.

The scent of hay and oats and horses lulled him to sleep.

He dreamed about haystacks. For some reason Roach was in the haystack with him. Geralt and Ciri too, even Yennefer. It was a crowded haystack indeed, and it grew smaller and smaller until Jaskier had to leave it and sleep on the ground so that the others weren’t squished.

He awoke to the stable boy nudging him.

“Pardon me mister,” he said. “But it’s been two hours.”

Jaskier thanked him and brushed off his clothes. 

The shops were doing a good trade this afternoon and he’d be sure to be a face in the crowd. He bought a small cooking pot and plenty of ground oats and barley for porridge at one shop. They were light to carry and owner packaged them nicely, first in one cheap, cloth drawstring bag, and then in another such bag, but with the drawstring on a different side, so he was unlikely to lose food. 

In another stall he bought plenty of nuts, walnuts were cheap here and would keep well. Good for traveling and they had protein. Some dried jerky, dried peas, and dried lentils finished his food shopping, and also most of his coin.

It was three days to Ard Carraigh, another week to trek up to the keep. The food would sustain him for that long, and they’d probably just pool their food to make sure everyone was fed. Still, he wasn’t being a burden, not too much. 

He couldn’t afford new boots, gloves, or a cloak right now, but with the last of his coin he bought a new pair of thick, warm socks, a small roll of bandages, and a couple pieces of candied ginger in a little paper twist. He tucked them all away and left the town, disappearing back to the field and their little camp well before the sun set. 

Jaskier’s heart sunk to see that he was the last to arrive. Everything was packed up, they couldn’t risk staying in the same place two nights in a row. Geralt grunted at him, but didn’t unleash any thoughts on Jaskier being a burden, so he counted himself lucky. 

He hung his head a little at having delayed their parting and trekked after the perfect little family, his pack much heavier than it had been. Ciri slid her hand into his and they walked on in silence. The hand was nice though.

In an odd way, it hurt, too. He wasn’t part of the family, so he didn’t really deserve this, but it was painfully good to have just a taste of being wanted. 

What would happen, he wondered, when the winter was over. He was a danger to Geralt and Ciri if Nilfgaard found him. He wasn’t wanted by Geralt at all. Jaskier was reminded once again that it would be so much easier for Geralt to kill him, or for Yennefer to wipe his memory. Maybe he could fake his death to get Nilfgaard of his trail.

“Jaskier?” Ciri asked. “How did you become a bard?”

Jaskier looked down at her, maudlin thoughts interuppted. “Oh, well, it’s not as though you have to register, you just become one. Walking into an inn and saying ‘let me play for you pretty please I need food’ is a good start.”

“No,” Ciri giggled. “I meant, you said you learned the lute for your sister, but you write your own music and stuff too.”

“Oh, well, anyone can write music if they have an instrument and a good enough memory,” Jaskier said. “Indeed, many of the greatest bards had little education at all, I, however, studied at Oxenfurt.”

“Did you like it?”

“Sometimes. It was school, and some parts were dull but I learned much.”

“I heard some of the maids giggling once about a young scholar who’d come to stay with us,” Ciri said, matter of factly. “He was always in the library and was kind of snooty with me when I asked questions, but the maids were saying he certainly had a lot of ‘carnal knowledge’. Did you study that too?”

Jaskier was choking on thin air. 

“I, um, no it was more of a hobby,” Jaskier said before his head could catch up with his mouth. “Little Highness, I suspect you weren’t supposed to hear that conversation, and no, I studied the seven liberal arts.”

“So it was about sex, I was never sure,” Ciri said.

Jaskier coughed awkwardly. “Yes, princess.”

“It’s okay, I know about that stuff, Grandmother explained it.”

Jaskier let out a breath, at least he wouldn’t have to be the one to explain anything to her. 

“When you went to school were you scared to leave your family?” Ciri asked.

“No, pet, I was excited to go,” he wasn’t about to get into all his trauma with her, she had enough of her own, poor thing. “I couldn’t wait to learn about music and poetry.”

“Grandmother said all poets were silly romantics and dreamers, but I think that sounds nice. Do you have a moose?”

“A what?”

“I read it in a book, a moose, somebody you love and you write about it.”

“Oh, that’s one of the trickier words Ciri, it’s said ‘muse’, and yes, I had one or two.”

“Only one or two? In the book the poet had hundreds,” Ciri sounded almost disappointed. 

“I only ever needed one,” Jaskier said quietly. “One that mattered anyway.”

“And your Countess still left you,” Geralt said, rather coldly. He was doing his annoyed face and Jaskier could have kicked himself. He’d been talking too much. The reminder that the Countess de Stael had left him too hurt, but Jaskier wasn’t going to risk Geralt’s ire to say that she wasn’t the muse he was talking about. That was maybe something he should keep to himself.

“Do muses often leave?” Ciri asked, wide eyed. “If somebody was writing me poetry I wouldn’t want to.”

“No, usually the poet does the leaving,” Jaskier said. “After his muse asks him to go. There’s a shelf life on a bard, you know. We only have so many stories and songs before we’re used up and no one wants us around anymore. That’s when we move along.”

“I’ll hear your stories again and again,” Ciri said. “I won’t ask you to go.”

Jaskier’s heart curled up and whimpered inside his chest. He’d have to go sooner or later, he’d have to leave her. Geralt would get sick of him, too sick to bear even for Ciri’s sake. Or Jaskier would just have to leave of his own volition, lest he shovel shit into her life too.

If he could give her life one blessing...

“This’ll do for a campsite,” Geralt said. It was a tiny, clear area. Jaskier almost groaned. It was surrounded by oak trees, with dropped acorns that would dig into his bedroll and mottle his back with bruises come morning. He’d had a good rest in town, though, so another bad night of sleep wouldn’t be too bad, he told himself.

The others had eaten in town. Jaskier said he had too, so he wouldn’t waste rations. He had plenty, but strangely, he wasn’t so hungry lately. Anyway, always best to save.

He pulled off his boots and  his freshly bloodied socks. Ew. Ciri retired to the magic tent early, exhausted from their long days of walking. Jaskier listened to Yennefer and Geralt talk.

“We’ll need lots of supplies in Ard Carraigh,” Geralt was saying.

“We don’t have any money,” Yennefer replied. 

Jaskier had his back to them as he cleaned the wounds on his feet, but he could picture grave expressions. 

“We’ll get some, I’ll do a quick contract there, something. We’ll need a cart and pony to get Ciri up The Killer, it’s too much for her, it’s too hard for some witchers even.”

“That’ll cost,” Yennefer said. “But you’re right. I wish I could portal us but--”

“Tracking, exactly. There’s always plenty of contracts in cities, it’ll be fine.”

Jaskier looked at the blisters on his foot, they’d opened more with his long performance that day. It was no matter, he wound the bandages around them and put on his new, thick socks. At least his feet would be warm. 

Not too warm, though. He spotted a hole in the bottom of his boot that he hadn’t noticed before.

And they needed lots of money for Ard Carraigh. No matter. He knew how to get some.

He pretended his eyes filled with tears from the pain of blisters, not from heartache, as he pushed his feet back into his boots and opened the lute case. He pulled out his beautiful girl. He wouldn’t play her, it would annoy Geralt. He’d always hated Jaskier’s music, although he hated to hear Jaskier sing even more. 

Pie with no filling.

Jaskier wished he could play her, though. It was going to break his heart to part with her, and he didn’t think he’d ever played another instrument as fine. If he could, he’d play her every second until he had to sell her. 

Probably for the best, though, if he was going to fake his death. She was distinctive.

He brushed a hand over the beautiful wood work on her front. There was a little bit of linseed oil left, and he poured it on the rag he kept in the case and began to work over his girl lovingly. His eyes teared up again, but he fought it back. He would have smashed his lute if it meant helping Ciri. And Geralt.

Jaskier longed for Geralt to forgive him, to take him back and let him stay by his side, but he’d meant what he’d said, bards have a shelf life, and Jaskier’s time was up. 

He wished Geralt would at least speak with him, though. His heart was aching. In a completely different sense, so was his chest.

“Play us a tune, bard,” Yennefer said.

Jaskier turned around. Yen and Geralt were sitting beside eachother, close together. She looked so beautiful in her fine cloak that Jaskier wondered how he ever thought he could catch Geralt’s eye when beings like her existed.

“You know,” he said. “It’s late and I wouldn’t want to bother Ciri.”

“Tent’s soundproof,” Yennefer said, waving her hand. 

“I mean, really,” Jaskier protested weakly. Disobeying Yennefer’s request/command was like bathing your brain in lava, but Geralt was looking angry again. Some would say there wasn’t much change from Geralt’s normal expression, but Jaskier knew his face better than he knew his own. Something had made Geralt angry or upset. The only possible answer was Jaskier. It was always Jaskier. 

“Play us a song, bard,” Yennefer said. “You’ve been so quiet other than stories, I’d almost think you were a doppler, Melitele knows no one could have taught you to shut up.”

Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat.

He began, slowly, to pick out a gently tune on his lute. It was a song about winter and home, and he knew the lyrics well. Yennefer had only asked him to play, so he would. His music was at least less offensive than his voice.

He reveled in the feel of his lute beneath his fingers, letting the feeling wash over him, committing it to memory.

When he was finished Yennefer said, “I suppose your voice was tired from your performance, I heard in the town how the bard had played such a long set.”

Jaskier smiled grimly back at her. “Just earning my keep.”

He went to bed, feeling the cold seep into his bones.

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

Tag List!

@frywen-babbles @mordoriscalling @thedarkestangel1 @kerfufflezz  @live-long-and-trek-on @holymotherwolf @gryffinqueen

@samukai @charlies-dragon  I can’t seem to tag, but they’re on the list

[joyfulsongbird]

broken not shattered

in the year following Vecna's defeat, Percy starts to notice that Cassandra is displaying the same attributes that he had in himself in his darkest time. Percy helps pull her through her anger and darkness, knowing what it is like, and makes sure she doesn't spiral the same way he did.

the cassandra-centric self indulgent fic i was born to write <3

ao3 link!! (content warnings listed in the notes)

***

You learn things, when you get to a place where your mind is no longer your own, let alone your body. You learn how to survive, when there is nothing you can do but save yourself.

You learn more than how to hold a blade, more important skills than how to dress yourself in armor, or tie your hair back by yourself because mother was still doing it for you when she died. Vesper always said it was ridiculous how much her little sister depended on their mother. “I was braiding my own hair before I even got to the double digits!” she’d say indignantly, but Cassandra never listened. She refused to learn. Being the youngest didn’t mean as much as many think. She was not doted upon as much as the twins were, she was the smallest, the least interesting, and being left in the dust made her starve for attention. No one could blame her, she was a child. A child who would not regret the minutes in the early morning when Lady de Rolo would braid her youngest daughter's hair into a neat plait. She did not regret the fuss she had made, not when it gave her just a few more minutes with her mother. So she taught herself how to braid her hair.

When she got older, maybe 15 or so, she was braiding her hair every morning. She’d spent two years with the Briarwoods, growing more and more numb every day. She had doomed one rebellion already, and she did not know that she would doom another yet. There was very little she could do that would make any sort of lasting impression, besides string herself up on the Sun Tree in the same place they had hung her family's corpses. Despite herself, she could not bring herself to. There was still a self preservative spirit inside her that she could not quell. The only rebellions she got at that time were silent, not even rebellions. Lady Delilah did not know that the way she wore her hair was in honor of her mother. Honoring her deceased family was strictly forbidden and Cassandra was quite sure the De Rolo name had not been uttered in the Briarwoods presence, maybe at all, in well over a year. She still did it. She wore the stockings gifted to her by her father even though they had been meant for 12 year old feet and had been darned and patched many times over. She wore her mothers braid; and when her fingers wound her hair tightly into the simple braid, she could feel the ghost of her mothers hands in their place.

She honored the De Rolos. Her mind was broken, her body did not belong to her anymore. But she honored them by existing. In the mirror she looked into the eyes of the dead. That’s the thing about big families, they all look at least a tad bit similar. You could look up at the portrait that used to sit in the grand hall. The dark hair, the strong jaw, the striking eyes, even the freckles. On some they showed more than others, but they were there. She remembered how in the summer, when they vacationed South where the sun was so much brighter and stronger, they’d come back sunburned and freckled. She’d laugh at Percy, who hated how his skin got so dotted and peeling from lying in the sun. Cassandra rarely wandered outside the castle walls, her freckles were non-existent. Still, she was comforted by the fact that if she did wander the gardens more often, her nose would soon look just like her grandmothers. She, too, was long gone and Cass barely remembered her, but in the few memories she had, her freckles stood out.

Cassandra learned to brave the cold. Even when it meant giving up her honorances. Lord and Lady Briarwood were not dumb, they were quite the opposite. There was a reason they had made it this far, a reason they had managed to convince so many that the murder of her family was just an awful tragedy. Her socks were burned. Her mind picked apart until she confessed to every thought she had of her family, every death wish to those who hurt them, every inkling of rebellion. She learned to brave the cold even when it meant forsaking the ones she loved. They were not here to see her betrayal, the guilt persisted anyways. Her mind did not belong to her. She was never alone. She forgot what her family looked like. How was it possible, some might ask, that she forgot what they looked like when she saw them every time she looked in the mirror? Maybe it was that she did not recognize herself, either.

She was 13 when the Briarwoods came. She was 14 when she was tortured until she told Anna Ripley everything about the first rebellion. 15 when her mind started to wane. 16 when she wasn’t sure how to breathe anymore. How do you breathe when there is no air to consume inside of the castle? On the outside, she was perfect. Perfect, lovely brown curls. Bright, alive, attentive eyes that shone like sapphires. She grew into a beautiful young lady. That’s what they all said. The little girl who had run through the halls and caused a riot grew into a lady who would fetch a fine husband someday.

The years passed slowly, the second rebellion came and passed. She didn’t even try to resist the questions when they came. They asked “where are they planning to meet?” She told them everything. “What is their plan?” She told them everything. She bore the scars from the last one, the white in her hair was proof enough, how could she even attempt to put herself through that ordeal again? She could not bring herself to pray, she didn’t even think to ask for any kind of holy assistance until late one night and pushed the idea away quickly. If a god wanted to help her, they would’ve already. It was too late for her, she had supposed long ago, no god could destroy her when there was nothing she felt was worth destroying.

She learned there was nothing she could do, but go along with the plans placed in front of her. She was their puppet. She was their little doll they played dress up with, they stole not just blood from but her soul itself. It was not a quick realization, that she was without hope or future. It came slowly, when she was maybe 17 it entered her mind, fully formed.

She was a Briarwood now.

The De Rolos were no more.

Years and years later, she will lie awake in the late hours of the night, wondering how much of that realization was mind control and how much of it was sheer, unadulterated mental exhaustion on her part. She was so tired. Tired of getting flashes of her brother's bloodied body every time she glanced at the doorway leading down to the dungeon. Tired of seeing her parents mangled corpses’ every time she met Dr. Ripley’s eye. Tired of sharp slaps when she let the wrong thing slip off her tongue. Tired, tired, tired. Better to leave it all behind. Better to let it fade away. She was a Briarwood. That was the reality.

She learned much, in those five years in that dark, bloody castle. How could she not? Every day was a lesson, every day was a test. Failing meant dying. She would not fail.

Maybe if Percy had come any later than not too long after that realization, she would have been too far gone to be saved. He came months later, but what were months when she had spent years in the dark? He had failed to pull her from the snow once, this time he dragged her from the cold and she was almost warm again.

It was strange to have been stuck in the dark recesses of the castle, something more than lonely, something more than lost, and then to suddenly be shoved into the light. Be faced with a brightness that hurt her eyes and left her feeling blinded and stumbling for something to grab hold of. But she was strong, and she was resilient, and she was her mothers daughter. She would not succumb to this darkness inside of her, this persistent voice that sounded like some odd mix of her own and the whispered, sultry tone of Delilah Briarwood. It crooned, it cried, it begged for a bone to be thrown its way. If she paid it no mind, it would slowly wither and die. She held her head high, lifted her chin even when she faced her captors, refused to cry when the nightmares came after years of silent nights. There was nothing she could do about the pain that continued to rack through her body now that she was coming to.

She was essentially a child leader. She saw the looks from other council members, the sideways glances of even her own citizens. She was barely grown. It showed in her face. She’d always had full cheeks, but as a child that was normal. Now, when she’d gotten older and lost her baby fat, she’d held the youth of her face. She looked like a child, felt like a child especially when she was surrounded by so many politicians with years of experience, but she refused to let her intimidation show. She was firm, strong in a way that brought others comfort. Whitestone was in her hands and her knees were shaking under its weight. But she had yet to crumple, even through all of her pain, and this weight would not break her. She gained respect every day that passed by and when Percy returned for good, she had grown from a step below a child queen to a ruler who knew how to hold her shoulders just so, how to shake a hand the correct way, how to smile while appearing confident but not overbearing. She learned many things, after the Briarwoods.

You learn things, when you are trapped and have been trapped for a long, long time. You learn or you break. Cassandra was lost, and lonely, and yes, quite a bit broken, but Pelor help her, she refused to shatter.

He surprised her with a hug, when he arrived. She had been resting in her room after the ordeal with Vecna and being… well, you know, killed . She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a little shook but surprisingly, she was very calm. Her body was tired but her mind was alert. The only reason she was in bed at all was because her maid, Margie, had taken one look at Cassandra upon her return and said she looked like absolute hell and needed to be taken care of at once. Cass relented and let herself be bathed and fed and dressed in her night clothes despite the early hour. She sat upright in her bed, flipping absently through some book about the history of taxation in Tal’dorei which had been recommended to her by a council member. It was incredibly boring and her eyes only took in every other word or so. It was a welcome intrusion, then, when there was a knock on the door and she could gratefully dogear the page.

“Come in!” she called, grabbing her blankets in preparation to cover herself if need be. But when her brother cracked the door open, she let the blanket fall and stood immediately. She hovered there for a moment, halfway between sitting and standing, as she stared at her brother. He looked more shaken than her, dirt caked and bone tired. He looked wrecked and like he had just arrived back home moments ago.

Nobody spoke for a moment. Then he made several long strides (he was quite tall, with long gangly legs that she remembered Julius had teased him about) to meet her at the edge of her bed. He did not speak, barely met her eye before tugging her into a messy but not unwelcome hug. A little shocked, for Percival was not one to veer on the side of physical affection, it took her a moment to reciprocate. But when she finally came to her senses, she wrapped her arms around his neck, placed a comforting hand on the back of his neck and felt him shaking just a little under her palm.

It did not last long, even when he was in a particularly touchy feely mood, it didn’t seem like it stayed around for very long. He pulled back, looking at her with eyes that mirrored hers to the point where it was uncanny. How she’d forgotten how similar the De Rolo children were. Beautiful children, all lined up prim and proper. Each ball they went to, they were praised. The seven of them were the bright stars of Whitestone, though some were brighter than others. Now, just two remaining, she found herself looking into his eyes and seeing herself reflected back. Pained. Afraid. Lonely, but learning to love again.

“I…” he licked his lips. “I’m glad you’re alright, sister.”

She nodded. “And I you.”

He let go of her shoulders which he had been holding tightly. “I have to go to Vex. I’ll be back to discuss. Have a well needed talk. Maybe over tea. I swear.”

She smiled and voiced her assent. Of course, they would. Of course, they needed to catch up. Wonderful idea, Percival. Looking forward to it, Percival.

The next day came. She saw him over breakfast and she put on her practiced smile for her overwhelmed brother and a grieving Vex’ahlia. She was good at this; putting on a facade, knowing what people wanted to see and adjusting based on their reactions. It was easy. She had done it for years, shoved down her fears so that she wouldn’t be questioned, disguised her thoughts and covered her emotions in layers of small talk and politeness.

They did not have that discussion over tea that day. Nor the next. Nor the next week.

They talked, of course they talked. But it was always in surface level ways. She knew that he wanted to see deeper, to look at her and be able to understand her. But she didn’t even understand herself. Days, then weeks passed and she was spending more and more time absorbed by her work. This was what she had to do. Spent hours in her office, locked away until she barely saw the sun anymore. Give her a project, she got it done in a day. Give her something to do, she finished it in record time. For the first time, she was good at something that didn’t hurt anybody.

The bliss of finally being of use lasted maybe two months into the year after the defeat of Vecna. Percy and Vex were busy as usual, but now more than ever because of the baby. Their child wasn’t due for many months but the couple was determined to get everything done as soon as possible, to prepare and plan every instance. The nursery was ready and waiting for the child not long after Vex began to show. Cass was one of the first to know, as the only other family member who lived with them. She was happy for them, she really was, but there was a twinge in her heart when they came to her with grins on their faces and brightness in their eyes. This child would continue the line of the De Rolos, this child would honor them. For years, Cassandra had lived out of the belief that she was the last of her kind. That she was the last of her family and therefore needed to survive. She was not the last. The line would continue without her.

The bliss of being constantly busy ended over breakfast. Vex was rambling about the gift that Pike had sent over, some baby rattle that Cassandra had yet to see, and Percival was nodding along, listening intently. Her brother’s wife was still obviously in mourning, there were bags under her eyes and more often than not, Cassandra saw her looking in the mirror and cringing away. She empathized; there is nothing more difficult than being unable to look at yourself without remembering all that you have lost. But she had Percival, and she had all of her family, that was enough to keep her going. She still smiled and laughed daily, that consoled them all.

The door to the dining hall opened with a creak, the three of them looked up from their food. Vex’s words were cut off immediately as a guard entered the room and left the door ajar before opening his mouth to speak.

“We've captured somebody on the outskirts of the forest, a man who we suspect assisted the Briarwoods in the coup against the De Rolos.” Cassandra's eyes immediately found Percival’s, they were wide and blue and determined. She and him stood at the same time, pushing their chairs back and starting towards the guard. Cassandra glanced over her shoulder and saw Vex, standing as well and grabbing Percy’s hand. He gave her a glance, pressed a kiss to their entwined fingers as they walked to meet Cassandra at the door. He did not reach for Cassandra, he had that expression on his face, one that she only saw every once in a while when a memory resurfaced. She couldn’t do anything to make it go away, the memory would still exist. They would always exist.

They followed the guard down the hall, silence filling their chests. It was pressing, suffocating but Cass was good at miming the act of breathing. She kept her eyes forward, ignoring the memories that appeared in her peripheral vision. The 13 year old with dark hair curling behind an old set of armor and sobbing into her skirts. The maid tried to clean up the blood that was smeared on the floor with a mop. It had stained the carpet. She’s pretty sure the Briarwoods burned it. This castle was filled with ghosts and in her day to day, she was usually able to ignore them or avoid them entirely. But this short walk to the dungeons was the worst it had been in years. Hearing the name “Briarwood” out loud had made it so the halls had awakened again, the memories that had faded somewhat into the background reappearing with a fervor.

They walked through the castle, making their way to the stairs that lead to the dungeons. As they descended the stairs, she heard Percy let out a tiny, almost imperceptible shaky breath. Yes, this was where he had spent most of his time between the attack and his escape. She tried not to remember in detail what she had found when she’d come to break them free. She wanted to turn around and comfort him but Percy was often not one to openly accept comfort, maybe just from Vex. Maybe he’d accept some from her but not when they were in front of a guard. It would feel too intimate to him, and to Cassandra as well if she was being honest.

The guard led them to the small series of cells until they were standing in front of a small, shadowed cell. Whoever was inside was shrouded in darkness and none of them (except perhaps Vex'ahlia, with her elven blood) could make out the prisoner. The guard lit a torch and suddenly they were all flooded in golden light. Cassandra blinked at it, leaning forward slightly to get a better look at the figure that was curled against the stone wall. He was stripped to his basic layers, ragged looking tunic and pants, bare socks riddled with holes. His hair was long, blonde, matted and unkempt. He looked like one of the poor civilians she used to see all over the place years ago, before Whitestone rose again. She almost let pity bloom in her chest before she remembered why he was in this cell. No pity would be born on this day.

Moments passed, and she was close to saying something to get his attention, before he lifted his head. His face appeared out of the shadows and was flooded with light.

And suddenly, she was a child again.

She was 8 years old and laughing because one of the guards was playing with her, holding her doll high above her head and she was jumping to try and get it back. He was tall and smiled at her.

You see, the De Rolos were a powerful family, yes, but they were a family nonetheless. They valued every member of their staff, they were as close as family with many of them. And most of them loved the family right back. Cassandra had a few vague memories of being held on a maid’s hip and walked around the castle, her thumb in her mouth. Of playing tag with the cook’s children. And of this. Of a relatively young guard teasing her.

There was more. As there always was.

She was 11 and the guard was still around. He worked for them for as long as she could remember. He helped her with her studies when she became frustrated. He pointed out her mistakes and worked through them with her. He was kind to the spaz of a girl that she was.

He gave her candy. Snuck them from the kitchens and slipped them to her when no one was looking.

She was 13. She was crying. Screaming. Begging for her father. And he was… looking at her. The man who had been kind to her since she was small. He was looking at her and she realized, probably for the first time, that there was nobody left to save her. His eyes were brown, and they were empty, and he stared at her for many moments. He opened his mouth, and for a second, for one beautiful second, Cassandra thought he was going to call for the people holding her down to let her go. Her friend. Almost a member of their family; he had been loyal to them for years . But when he spoke, it was nothing. He turned to Lord Briarwood and asked what his next order was. She could hear them clearly as anything.

“Dr. Ripley needs assistance. Go to the dungeons and see what she needs.”  And he left without sparing her another glance.

He was there. For the first three of those five years, he was there. There were a few times, in the beginning, when she had tried to get him to help her. She learned quickly there was, and to her it seemed like there had never been, no affection for her or her family. He left, after a few years, and she can’t quite remember how, maybe from the snooping into Ripley’s journals she often did, or just from an overheard conversation, that he was the one who slaughtered Whitney. That he was the one who assisted Ripley in the torture of her siblings. She had no affection for him after that. The memories from her childhood tasted like bile, and to her chagrin, the faint flavor of lemon candies.

“Luther.”

She took a few steps forward, her hand coming to rest on one of the bars of the cage. She could look through them easier this way, see his face and every angle in it. Every line and wrinkle, every twist in his expression.

He tilted his head to the side, recognition flooding his eyes after a few moments of tense silence. His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Cassandra.”

She stood there, clenching her hands around the bars to keep them from visibly shaking. She had never experienced anything like the pounding in her mind, the undeniable flood of feeling that coursed through her entire body. She did not like it; didn’t like the way she no longer had control over her limbs. She knew that her voice would shake if she tried to speak at this moment, so she kept her lips pressed together and body stiff.

Percy stepped forward next to her. The last of the De Rolos, side by side.

Luther did smile now. “Ah- Percival. I barely recognize you. Though I heard a few stories about you… thought they were false, of course. Why would that boy I knew be traveling with- what was it- Vox Machina ?”

His tone felt too casual, as if they were three acquaintances just getting caught up on each other's lives after years of separation. Percy was frowning, his eyebrows furrowed. “I remember you. I remember what you did.”

Luther’s smile falters. “Yes. The Briarwoods were quite the villains, weren’t they?”

Percy shifted his weight from foot to foot. “‘Villains’? That’s quite a perspective change, sir.”

He shook his head. “They had control of me. They had control of us all. I wish I could’ve done more, but alas, I-”

“Liar .” Cassandra found her voice without meaning to. The word came out strangled and snarling, like a wild animal fighting against its captor.

His eyes turned to hers again, he blinked slowly, so docile, so calm. It only made her rage even more. “I remember you so well. I desperately wish I could’ve saved you.”

“You’re a liar.” she breathed, her voice coming out a whisper but it felt like a shout. She took a step back from the bars and turned to the guard. “Let him out, keep him in chains but lead him out with us. I want to see him up close.”

“Cass-” Percy’s voice came from behind her, she held up a hand to stop him. It was enough to silence him, and he did not speak or protest as the guards fiddled with his keys and opened the door to the cell. Luther was unchained from the wall, but the cuffs keeping his wrists behind him stayed on. Cassandra pointed to the ground in front of her silently, and he was led there, standing before her.

“On your knees.” she ordered, using the same tone she’d use in a meeting with politicians. Luther looked at all the while, he stumbled a little as he dropped to his knees in front of her. She stared at him. He was older now, many years had passed since she had last seen him, but so many that she couldn’t take his face now and warp it into the expressions of the man she knew back then. He had broken his nose since leaving Whitestone, and his hair was thinner than it had been.

“Do you remember,” she began, her voice unshaken now. “The day you buried Whitney?”

He shook his head. She clenched her fist.

“No?” he shook his head again. “Let me paint you a picture.”

She took a step forward until she was just a few inches away from him. In the last moment before speaking, she reached forward and took a fistful of his hair, yanking it back so that he was looking right up at her. She might be small but from this angle, he needed to crane his neck to look directly at her. She made sure he was staring into her blue, De Rolo eyes. She wanted to make him see them all, make him see the children who once ran through the halls, the leaders who ruled so peacefully; see the people he helped to slaughter.

“There’s a reason you don’t remember.” she said a little too sharply and a little too loudly, so that when the words came out it sounded a little unhinged in her anger. “You took her down from the tree, I’m sure you remember this. You took them all down from the tree, you can say more than I can what you did with the rest of them, but Whit, she was still in one piece. Remember? Remember how you killed her? And what did you do with that little girl’s body, long after she was gone? Bury her respectfully? Burn her and spread her ashes in the garden? I know how the Briarwoods worked, Luther, they don’t control you all the time. I watched you do it.”

He swallowed under her gaze, trying to turn his eyes away from her eyes but she ripped hard at his hair so that he winced and his eyes watered. But he looked at her again.

“What did you do?” she asked, not really asking. She was ordering again.

“I-I don’t remember.”

“I know you do. I broke a lot of rules to try to reach you, to try and get your attention outside the castle, but instead I watched you. What did you do?”

His eyes were watering more now but it was something else besides the pain making him do it. His whole body shook. “Cut her hair. Took her clothes. Sold it.”

None of the others had salvageable clothes or hair, Cassandra had realized back then. They had been covered in blood, ripped apart, unclean and unprofitable. But Whitney, she had been killed the most cleanly. Not the most mercifully, of course not, none of them were capable of mercy. But Whit still looked most like herself and that was dainty, pretty, clean. They took even that away from her. Cut off her long curls until she had shorter hair than father’s. Took her clothes so that she had no dignity, even in death. And then, only then, could her sister be taken back to where the rest of her deceased family was. It had stuck with Cassandra, for the rest of her life. The way the men had talked and even laughed as they did this to a child. She couldn’t hear a lot from her hiding spot but she could see their faces and that was enough. It was mind control. And she still didn’t know why they were so horrible. She had more nightmares about that memory than any other.

“Why did you do it?” She knew her voice sounded more hysterical than she would like it to but the image of her sister’s white corse floated over her vision. “Why? Why us?”

He did not answer for a long time. “Gold lined our pockets for what we did.”

“No.” she bit out. “Why did you hate us?”

He looked at her with dull eyes, his eyes were still half full with tears but his eyes held hers with no emotion in them. “No ruler is well loved by all. We did what we wanted, for the first time in years. The children were just in the crossfire… we got carried away.”

She leaned back, letting go of his hair. Carried away. Carried away .

She didn’t even try to stop herself. Her punch was filled with a power she didn’t know she had. She swung hard and hit him square in the jaw, the momentum carrying his body to the ground as he was unprepared for the hit. When she saw the blood on his cheek she realized that she had hit him with the hand that she wore her ring with the Whitestone crest on it. Poetic in an odd way. She did not regret the gash that she had left on his face. She hoped it scarred, hoped it would stay there forever.

There was a ringing silence as she shook out her fingers that buzzed with the impact.

“Give me a reason not to slit your throat.” she let her left hand rest on the blade that hung on her belt. “Because there has not been a word out of your mouth that has convinced me you are deserving of another minute of life.”

“I wasn’t in control-”

She wrapped her hand around the hilt of the sword.

“I could’ve killed you, I could’ve-”

Pulling the blade out, she watched the torch light glint off the blade. Metal is oddly beautiful, especially when the promise of vengeance sits on its tip.

“I’ll do anything, I’ve become a better man!”

Cassandra placed the tip of the blade on his throat. Over the past few years she had gotten to be far more skilled with a blade. Thanks to Vex’s tutelage and her own determination to defend herself against any sort of danger, by now she could join Vox Machina and hold her own. But this was not a test of skill by any means, he was directly in front of her, chained and shaking out of fear. It felt good that he was so afraid that tears started rolling down his cheeks, that she held power over him. It felt good to be powerful. Never in her life had she been this strong in the face of somebody she used to fear.

“Cassandra!” Percy’s voice was the only barrier between her and slicing this man’s body in two.

“Brother, shut up.” she bit out. She felt a hand on her shoulder and tried to shrug it off but he stayed firm.

“I know what you are feeling. I truly do. And if I were myself at any other time in my life, I would be right next to you. But I can’t let you do this, Cass.” His voice was the most sincere she had heard him in a long time. The softest he had ever been in her direction since they had defeated Vecna.

“Yes, you can.” she said, pressing the blade in a little harder so that a dot of blood appeared right between his collarbones. “You can step back and be silent for once.”

“He can’t and neither will I.” Cassandra let out a half sigh, half laugh, as Vex’s voice joined alongside Percy’s. “Darling, you need to give me the sword.”

“You can’t take this away from me.” she snapped. “Just let me have this one thing.”

In her peripheral, Percy was standing there, hand on her shoulder and face dead serious. But on her other side, she could see his younger, crumpled, bloodied body. The body she had seen and thought he was gone like the rest of them until she saw his rising and falling chest.

“I can’t.” he said softly.

“You can. You can . He let them destroy us, Percy. He killed Whitney. He helped Ripley. He’s one of them. Why do you get to kill them all and I get nothing? Let me have something for once in my life!” she let her voice rise, finally, shouting at him even though he was right by her. She wanted to scream. To cry. To beg for her family even though her only family was right here.

“I wish I could.” His voice was so eerily calm, so sad in a way that made her want to shove him away even harder. “I need you to put the sword down, Cass. Or I’ll have to do something I don’t want to.”

“I hate you.” she said, staring directly at Luther but not sure who exactly she was saying it at. She knew that she sounded like a petulant child who wasn’t getting what they wanted and was throwing a fit but her whole body trembled with need . She needed to destroy this physical manifestation of everything the Briarwoods did to her. She needed to hurt him in a way she couldn’t hurt them. Killing Delilah wasn’t enough to quell this need in her soul. She needed more.

“He deserves it.” she argued, her hand that held the word trembling.

“He does.” Percy agreed. “But I will not let you become what I was on the path to. I swear to all the gods, I know what you’re feeling intimately. Killing this man will not make things better. Give Vex the sword.”

She felt tears sliding down her cheeks. “I can still see them.”

“I know.”

A hand that wasn’t Percy’s gently pried her fingers off of the hilt of the sword. She let it happen.

“I’m so tired, Percy.”

“I know.”

And then the sword was out of her grip, and she let out a strangled sob as she shoved Luther hard in the chest. It sent him tumbling back to the ground, onto his back, his hands still behind his back. Leaving him completely vulnerable. But her hands were empty, and the world wasn’t fair, and she could barely see him through the wall of tears obscuring her vision.

She placed a knee on his sternum, leaning into it enough to hurt. Tears dripped off her chin and landed on his face. She wanted to kill almost more than she had ever wanted anything.

“This world will be brighter when you are gone.” She spoke impressively clearly considering all that she was feeling. “And I will be that much happier.”

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. She did not let him speak, when he opened his mouth to say something, she pressed harder onto his chest and shortened his breath. He simply let out a pained squeak and she let herself smirk in satisfaction. She straightened back up, adjusting her blouse before turning back to the guard that had led them to the dungeons in the first place. Her cheeks were still soaked with tears, she didn’t bother to wipe them away. They would dry eventually.

“I want him chained, hands and legs, and gagged until his trial date. Thank you.” the guard nodded his head in confirmation, his eyes just a little wide. No doubt in shock at the display from his ruler he had just witnessed. She knew that she should care that he had just seen her at her weakest but she couldn’t be bothered to. All she could do was watch as she made sure he was bound correctly back in his cage before turning on her heel and climbing the steps back up into the corridors. Her body felt hollow, each movement felt like a ghost inhabiting her body.

She made it maybe fifteen paces before Percy caught up to her, grabbing her upper arm and turning her to look at him. She didn’t speak first, her face spoke enough for her. For the first time, Percy really saw her. It was like he hadn’t truly looked at her in months. She looked wrecked, cheeks splotched and wet. But more than that. There were dark bags under her eyes, a hollowness in those eyes and she looked exactly as she had said. Tired. Just exhausted to a point where anyone else would be dead on their feet.

“It’s alright.” it was all he could think to say. What was he supposed to console her with? There was nothing good about the situation they had found themselves in. He tugged her into a messy, awkward hug. “It’s alright, Cassie.”

She buried her face into his chest, breathing in the scent of her brother. Black powder and the hint of Vex’s perfume and smoke. He was so much taller than her, all legs and arms. Her body didn’t fit quite right into his like it felt like it should. In all books, when people were family or close to family, they fit together like puzzle pieces. Their hugs felt just right. This didn’t feel perfect, it wasn’t “just” right but it was definitely right. There would be an indent on her face from pressing her face into a button on his vest but she was caring less and less about dignity. It had been so long since she’d properly hugged Percy and he hadn’t had to rush away for whatever reason. He held her for a long, long time. She got the impression that he had decided in his mind that he would not be the first to pull away.

Eventually, one of them had to and Cassandra pushed off him with a sigh. She saw Vex hovering a little ways away, trying to look like she wasn’t watching but glancing over every once in a while. Percy was looking at her fondly but with worry in his eyes. She reached up and brushed hair off of his forehead, distracted by the hair that had almost fallen into his eyes. He needed a haircut.

“I’ll be alright, Percival.” she murmured. “I promise. You don’t need to worry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t. You have to let me help you now. Let us help you.”

“My darkness is not your darkness.” she told him. “We are not the same.”

“I know,” he said earnestly. “But you’re my sister. And I will not be able to go on if I don’t help you now.”

She pursed her lips, looking away. “I know.”

“Cassandra?” She lifted her eyes back up to his. “I care about you. Very much.”

“And I you.” she said, the response she always said in response to intimate speeches.

“What he’s trying to say is that he loves you dearly.” Vex had walked up to them now, standing beside Percy and looking at Cassandra with a knowing look in her eye. “Right, Percy?”

Percy tucked his chin against his chest for a second, smiling. “Right. Love you, sister.”

She hadn’t heard that in a long time either. “I-I love you too.”

It almost felt wrong on her tongue. And she hated that it felt wrong. Hated that she was so unpracticed in love that she didn’t know the correct way to say it. That the cadence of her words was all wrong. That her tone wasn’t sincere enough.

“You look a mess, dear.” Vex was the first to speak after a bit of a silence, she wrapped an arm around Cassandra’s shoulders and started walking them down the hall. “Come. Let’s go for a walk, hm?”

So Cassandra let herself be led through the halls and into the gardens. With her sister-in-law on one arm and her brother on the other, she felt fully secure. Each step forward brought her closer to herself and though she was still shaking with anger, her hands itching for the hilt of the sword Vex had left behind, her mind scrambling to cope with all that happened in the last twenty minutes. She let herself be led around by her loved ones, Vex at one point pressing a kiss to her cheek and smiling before turning forwards again and continuing on with some story about Trinket. She did feel loved and was surprised to find that after months of being holed up in her office, it was nice to step out into the sun and breathe.

That night, when she lay in her bed wide awake, she wondered what exactly the darkness in her chest was. Percy had Orthax in him whispering desires of vengeance into his ear, urging him to do horrible things. But she had no monster inside her. She had no odd dreams and no voice in her ear telling to cut that man’s head off. She had wanted that, herself, her mind. It had been her own desires and need to quell that need inside her, not some outside force. Did that make her worse than him? She did not think herself a terrible person for having the desire to hurt those who had hurt her worse. But even Percy had let his revenge empty from his body when Orthax had left.

She pulled herself out of bed, walked barefoot down the hall, down all the steps until she reached the door that led into Percy’s workshop. At this time of night, it was a toss up on where he would be. Sometimes Vex was able to drag him to bed at a decent time but still, even with the pressure from her and Cassandra, more often than not Percy could be found bent over some contraption he was spending far too many hours perfecting. She knocked on the door and when she didn’t hear an answer, gently turned the doorknob and peaked inside.

He was there, so absorbed in his work that he didn’t hear her knock. She stepped inside, and it was only when she closed the door that he lifted his head and turned around. Confusion immediately knitted his eyebrows together. Seeing her in her nightgown, hair completely down and loose around her face, no shoes on her feet, was probably the oddest thing he had seen in awhile. Cassandra almost never let her appearances slip on purpose, and the few times she did were either accidental or something forced her to. Her skirts always had no wrinkles in them, her sleeves always buttoned, her hair made just so. But she had come to him, vulnerable and looking so very not-Cassandra.

“Cassandra.” he said, meeting her gaze. “What can I do for you?”

“Might I just sit and watch for a bit?” she asked.

He blinked, taken aback before rushing to answer. “Uh- yes. Yes, of course.”

He grabbed a stool and placed it next to his work table, patting it awkwardly. “Come sit.”

She did. Lifted herself up and watched him work on some clock-like machinery. She was fascinated by his work, even if she didn’t completely understand. Sitting here with the heat of the furnace close and only Percy’s soft humming, she felt more calm than she had in a while. Especially not after how emotionally taxing the day had been. She wanted to ask about what he was doing but didn’t want to break the silence, and anyways, she was too caught up in her own thoughts to be able to follow any complicated explanation at the moment.

“Percy?” she said after a long time of just silent working. He hummed in response, a confirmation that he had heard and was listening. “Did you still… want to hurt people, after Orthax? Want to kill those who forced us to lose everyone?”

His hands stopped moving and he let them rest on the table, completely still. He stayed that way for an uncomfortably long amount of time, letting the silence stretch and stretch until she felt it was going to snap. Instead of breaking it with a word, he let out a heavy sigh. Leaning his head back so that he could look up at the ceiling.

“It’s a good question.” He finally said. “The thing about Orthax, about the darkness, is that it didn’t create the want in my mind. He didn’t make me want to murder those people, Cass, I wanted to. I want to. He gave me the tools and then it was just a matter of me saying yes. In the state I was in… of course, I said yes.”

She nodded along, listening intently. “But after. What about after he was gone?” He tapped his fingers on the table, chewing on his bottom lip. “I think… I think by that point I had gone so far for my revenge, I had experienced it to the point where I was both satisfied and hungry. I knew I had done what I set out to do, but part of me still wanted more. I knew then, and it was only thanks to my friends that I was able to, that revenge was not what would fix me. As much as they deserve it. As much as I wanted to make them hurt for what they did. It was not what would bring me joy.”

He looked over at her then, her pale skin golden from the small lamps that were littered around the room and the fiery furnace. He considered her for a few moments, taking in his baby sister who he had had no idea how to approach all of these months. He had been so afraid that she would realize that she hated him for leaving her behind, that she had grown so far away from him that there was no closing that gap. He looked at her, and the white streaks in her hair that would always remind them of what she had gone through, and saw himself reflected back. It was too hard to explain, even to himself. But in her eyes, if he looked deep enough he could see that hunger that had drawn him to Orthax in the first place. In the set of her frown, in the clench of her fist. His sister was strong, she had always been that way. Her darkness would not overcome her.

“I truly wish I could let you kill him,” he said with a humorless chuckle when she did not respond right away. “But this world doesn’t need another De Rolo on a destructive streak.”

She cracked a smile at that. “Yes, from what I hear, that would not be the brightest idea.”

She was breaking inside, a little. Cassandra De Rolo, strong, fearless, always held her head up high, had cracks spreading through her chest. She was afraid they would show on her face. She wanted nothing more than to burn and burn and burn until she felt happy or she was gone completely. She wanted so much. So much she couldn’t have. But one thing she could have, she wanted. So she did it.

She reached for Percy, placing her open palm on the table as an invitation. He reached and took it with both of his, holding it tightly. She whispered to him, even though there was no one else around, “I hate that it’s just us. I hate the quiet.”

He nodded. “I do too.”

“It was awful, when you were gone after the Briarwoods.” she told him, for the first time. Admitting something she knew he didn’t want to hear. “I was… lonely. So lonely, Percy. In this cursed castle, having to remember-”

He squeezed her hand tightly when her voice started to have an edge again. She had lived her entire life in this castle, she had known it in its prime, she had known it in its darkest hour, and she would know it for the rest of her life. It was the hardest thing, every morning, to get up and face the rooms where she faced horrors for five years. And when it was over, it was still as if she had to face them every day. She hated it, seeing their faces, seeing the bodies hanging from the Sun Tree. There was nothing from her to do but move through each day and ignore the painful chasm in her chest.

“I’m here now. Vex is here now. We’re not going away.” he told her. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

She wanted to cry again but instead she half smiled. Lovely to hear him say that, lovely to hear his voice at all. She needed to treasure that more often. For years, she had thought she was alone, the last of the De Rolos. And finally, her brother sat before her once again, he was at her disposal all of the time and yet she didn't hold him tightly everyday, she didn’t treasure his every word. But maybe that was a good thing. It meant they were healing. It meant that they had become a normal part of each other's routine again. She didn’t need to hold every moment with him dear because they had years to find happy moments with each other. It brought her some peace, to remember they had so much time. The clock did not feel as if it was ticking down every second anymore, and they could breathe in these minutes of silence.

“I’m very tired.” she told him finally. He slackened his grip on her hand, but still held it loosely with one of his.

“Let’s get you to bed, mother would be so unhappy with the hour.” Despite the pang of sadness the mention of their mother brought her, she laughed.

“She would, wouldn’t she?” she replied. She made him turn off the furnace and put all his things away before they walked out of the workshop, in the hopes that would force him into bed. They walked through the dark hallways, Cassandra’s arm looped through Percy’s. He brought her back to her room, opening the door and leading her inside. She hadn’t known Percy to ever be the most affectionate person but over the last few months it was like he was practicing for his child. Giving more hugs, giving more kind words, going out of his way to make his intent clear. It made her proud, made her happy, that her brother was healing alongside all of his friends. She felt left behind sometimes, that he was making strides in his journey to happiness and she had inherited his gloom. But it still made her happier, when he sat down on the bed next to her and pinched her cheek playfully, the way he used to when she was a child. He’d been only a few years older than her, but old enough to tease her and remind her he was the elder of the two.

“Goodnight, Cassandra.” he said as he got up. “Sleep well.”

“Sleep well.” she repeated as he left and closed the door softly. The room felt fuller now than it had when she had left to find Percy. Warmer.

After she blew out all her candles, she laid in the dark, staring up into the expanse of her ceiling. The darkness felt heavy after all the discussion from the day. It was closing in on her and she closed her eyes to fight against it, now looking at the back of eyelids instead of her pitch black room. Maybe it was her subconscious or maybe it was her tired mind beginning to descend into dreams or maybe those are the same things but regardless, moments passed and then, clear as day, she heard the woman who had ruined it all.

“You could’ve been my daughter.” Lady Briarwood crooned in a sing-song voice. That voice that had been used against Cassandra for so many years, that voice that had haunted her dreams, and her waking hours, and never seemed to leave even when she was alone.

She was a De Rolo. She tried to scream it but her throat wouldn’t work, her mouth wouldn’t work.

I am a De Rolo .

She would wake up tomorrow and she would still be a De Rolo. She had always been. Even when there was nothing to keep her chained to her family, she had this castle, she had their memories, and she would not let them go. She planned on living a long life, one that honored her family in every decision she made. She wanted to make them proud, make her living family proud, and make her home a home for the continuation of their line. There was so much to do and every day she had to remind herself she had time. Beautiful, sweet time. And when Delilah’s voice grew stronger in her head sometimes, she would turn her head and Percy would be there. If the ghosts got a little too strong, she’d turn her cheek. The visions didn’t go away, how could they, after all of these years of persisting and festering in her head? But she lived with them.

She hurt. She’d always hurt, she supposed.

She was broken but not shattered. She refused to shatter. That would have to be enough until she was whole again.

[shireness-says]

Seeking Shelter, Seeking Solace [1/3]

Summary: 1895. Emma Swan answers an ad in the paper from a man looking for a wife in order to flee Boston - only to arrive in rural Storybrooke, Minnesota and discover that her intended husband is dead. Left with no other options, Emma takes a position at the local tavern alongside the sullen, dark-haired barkeep with demons of his own. But what will she do when the forces she’s worked so hard to escape reappear in the new life she’s building, forcing her to turn to this unlikely savior for aid? ~8.6k. Rated M for suggestive content. Also on Ao3.

~~~~~

A/N: Every year, my mother insists we watch “Sarah, Plain and Tall” because she thinks it’s a great tradition and doesn’t quite understand that she’s the only one that loves it. So last time, I plotted this in my head instead of watching: CS fic inspired by that story. 

Thanks, as always, go to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan​. 

Tagging the interested parties (and let me know if you’re one of those!): @welllpthisishappening​, @thisonesatellite​, @let-it-raines​, @kmomof4​, @scientificapricot​, @ohmightydevviepuu​, @profdanglaisstuff​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @superchocovian​, @teamhook​, @optomisticgirl​, @winterbaby89​, @searchingwardrobes​, @katie-dub​, @snowbellewells​, @spartanguard​, @phiralovesloki​, @initiala​​, @revanmeetra87​​, @quirkykayleetam​​, @captain-emmajones​​, @hollyethecurious​​, @officerrogers​​, @lfh1226-linda, @jrob64, @therooksshiningknight.

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Emma can’t help but fidget in her seat as her train tears across the Midwestern landscape. Though this was her choice, she still can’t help but be nervous; after all, this is a very different world from Boston, the only home she’s ever known. She’s used to bustling streets and the lap of the waves against the docks at the harbor, not these miles after miles of plains and crop fields. It’s almost enough to make her second guess this whole thing.

It’s not a mistake though, she knows. She’d needed to get out of Boston, as quickly as possible, and this had been the best of a variety of bad options. Emma has never been particularly romantic, even as a little girl, but in the few imaginings she’d allowed herself of her future, answering a newspaper ad for a wife had never factored in. Then again, her fantasies had never anticipated the particular situation she’s trying to escape: a man who wouldn’t hear no, who was willing to pursue her relentlessly, from city to city, always a threat on her tail. The security of marriage, and of distance, had only made sense. And then again, she’s never been sentimental ; true love isn’t something she anticipated in a union, or even particularly believed in, for that matter. 

The man she’s travelling to meet seems kind, she consoles herself with knowing. Emma hadn’t been particularly picky in selecting a man from the handful of querants in the paper, but Graham Humbert seems to be a good one. He’s the sheriff of a small town in Minnesota, who found himself lonely and wanting companionship.

I can darn my own socks and cook my own dinner, though neither with any exemplary skill, he had written. I’m not looking for someone to look after me in that way, regardless of what my friends’ wives think; I’d hire a lady to do the cleaning if that was the issue. I’m searching for someone to speak with at the end of a long day, someone to listen and to laugh with. I don’t believe myself to be a sweeping romantic, but I will be happy to give and receive a kind of gentle affection. Maybe we can come to love each other in time; I would be happy with that too, though I am not counting on it. 

She’d liked that about him, that amiable practicality so evident even in his letters. It’s what had made her agree to travel to Minnesota with the intent to marry him, really - the feeling that they viewed a union in the same way. There will be a trial period, of course, a month during which to decide whether the two of them will suit each other before anything is formalized - but Emma is determined to make it work. What other choice does she have?

The train will be pulling into Storybrooke soon - a tiny dot on the map, where Emma doubts anyone else will be alighting. All of her belongings have been tightly packed into two measly carpetbags in order to, hopefully, start a new life. Maybe it’s foolish, but Emma had splurged on a new, sleek jacket before she’d left the city, a cheery blue to pair with her navy skirt and white blouse in an attempt to impress. Mostly, she wants to look neat more than anything else: a capable woman, one who won’t be afraid to adapt to a new life with a minimum of fuss, one who won’t make Sheriff Humbert’s life more difficult. Pretty is of secondary concern.

She sees the town coming long before the train pulls into the tiny station, roofs and chimneys rising above the flat landscape and copious corn fields. Somewhere in this state, she knows, are hundreds and thousands of lakes; however, they’re nowhere to be seen here. Storybrooke itself is a bare cluster of buildings seeming to group around a single main street, with homesteads and farm plots doubtlessly stretching out to the surrounding area. It’s a whole different world from what she’s used to, but that’s the entire point, really; no one will think to look for her here, in the rural midwest as the wife of a sheriff. 

When the train finally pulls into what passes for a station, a single cramped building with barely enough room for a ticket office and a luggage closet, a man is waiting on the platform, sheltered from the late-spring sun by an awning off the station roof. The star-shaped badge on his coat and the way he shifts nervously from foot to foot make Emma think this must be the anticipated Sheriff Humbert. His hair is rather more golden than the sandy blonde-brown color Mr. Humbert had tried to describe in his letters, but Emma supposes that’s to be expected. She likely didn’t give a perfect description of her appearance either. 

Quickly, she gathers her bags and alights to the station platform with the assistance of a young porter. The man waiting quickly doffs his hat, playing with the brim in another nervous gesture. “Miss Swan?”

Carefully, Emma arranges her face into something she hopes passes as an amiable smile. “Yes, that’s me. And you’ll be Sheriff Humbert, I presume?”

“I - well, no,” the man who isn’t Graham Humbert stutters out. “I’m David Nolan, actually. One of the deputies here.”

Unexpected - but there are countless excellent reasons that Deputy Nolan might be sent instead. Trouble can happen even in a small town, dozens of minor disputes that can somehow only be settled by the sheriff himself. “In that case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nolan. I must admit, I was expecting Mr. Humbert. Pardon my mistake.”

“About that —” Deputy Nolan cuts himself off, looking curiously uncomfortable. It sets Emma a bit on edge, but there’s no way to dance around it - not when she doesn’t have all the information.

“Yes?”

Deputy Nolan swallows heavily, visibly, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat again before he drags his eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Swan, but Graham - Sheriff Humbert - died two days ago.”

Of all the things she thought he might say, all the ways she imagined this might go, that certainly wasn’t one of them. 

———

“It wasn’t anything violent, or related to his job,” Deputy - well, now Sheriff Nolan tells Emma once he’s led her to a seat in Storybrooke’s one and only bar, the Sherwood Tavern. Emma finds herself grateful for the glass of dark liquor the man behind the bar slides to her without asking; after this shock, she could certainly use it. “He just collapsed. Graham had been bothered by periodic chest pains for… as long as I can remember, really. We figure it just finally caught up to him.”

Emma nods at the words, not sure what to say. It’s all jarring, really, sad for the loss of who she believes had been a good man, but it’s hard to muster much emotion. She had only known him through letters, carefully crafted missives in which they had doubtlessly both tried to show the best sides of themselves; she doesn’t have the same attachment to the man as Nolan, and everyone else in town, understandably did. Her grief is for plans and possibilities never realized, for the idea of a man instead of the genuine article. 

“We know you came out here specifically with the intent of marrying Graham. There’s not much other reason to come to Storybrooke,” Sheriff Nolan comments with a laugh. “Graham’s savings and property are set to go to the town, but we’d be happy to buy you a ticket back to Boston. It’s the least we can do, when you turn out to have come all this way for nothing but disappointment.”

It’s a kind offer, really. There’s no reason for Emma to stay, after all, and Storybrooke doesn’t have much to offer. But even if Emma hadn’t needed to escape Boston… there’s nothing there to pull her back. No family, and only a single friend. She isn’t even attached to the city, though it’s all she’s ever known. Returning to Boston would be returning to a sparse boarding house room and a life spent looking over her shoulder. Here - well, there’s no promises, but Emma would be willing to bet it’s not any worse. 

“If you don’t mind,” she responds carefully, “I’d prefer to stay. There’s nothing for me back in Boston either, believe it or not. This may not be permanent, but… for the time being, I’d prefer to stay.”

“Then we’ll be happy to welcome you.”

———

And they are. Sheriff Nolan takes her down the street to the boarding house run by a Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter over their family’s pharmacy, where both women welcome her with open arms. Ruby Lucas, the granddaughter, is tall and willowy, every inch of her full of personality, and her grandmother is a gruff old lady poorly hiding an enormous affection for her loud-spoken granddaughter. Emma can practically see the moment Mrs. Lucas - “That’s Granny to you, girl, only strangers and enemies call me Mrs. Lucas” - absorbs her into their little fold. The room they provide is small, but clean and bright; Emma is more than agreeable to the small fee she’ll owe to rent the room each month, especially knowing that breakfast and dinner are included in the rent. 

Storybrooke is exactly the quiet little town it appeared to be from the train. Besides the bar and the pharmacy and the sheriff’s station, there’s a general store and a post office, a bank and a rudimentary library. There are a handful of other buildings too - Emma’s been told that one houses the doctor’s office - but she hasn’t had cause or need to learn them. Perhaps in time, she’ll learn all the ins and outs of who belongs where in this little place. It seems inevitable; after all, that’s small town life, even when so many of the so-called residents live further out on isolated farmsteads. 

As much as Granny seems to immediately see Emma as her ward, Ruby Lucas seems to view it as her duty to introduce Emma to Storybrooke’s small social scene, and attacks the task with gusto. Even if it’s just a small circle - Mary Margaret Nolan, Sheriff Nolan’s wife; Belle Gold, the town librarian; and Elsa Jones, whose husband operates the general store - Emma finds herself somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. She’s never had this before, not really; there hadn’t been much of a chance to make friends, growing up in an orphanage. There’d only really been August, who she’s come to view more as a brother than anything else. It will take some getting used to, having this number of people eager for her company and opinion.

(There’s an argument to be made, Emma supposes, that Neal had been a friend, too - but he’d been a lover, more than that, and then he’d been gone. It’s hard to justify counting him, even in her pathetically brief list.)

“It’s so nice to have a new face about town,” Mrs. Nolan - Mary Margaret gushes as she leads Emma arm-in-arm down the street to the library. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the familiar faces of course - oh no, of course not! But it is so nice to hear new perspectives and meet new personalities, you know? Oh, I’m just so thrilled you’re here!”

It is exhausting and touching, all at once - and just another thing Emma will learn to expect in this little town, she’s sure. She’s determined.

———

When Emma decides to stay, Sheriff Nolan offers to put some of Sheriff Humbert’s assets towards paying her room and board, but Emma refuses. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the offer; it’s a nice change to have someone else trying to look out for her, even if she gets the sense that David does this for everyone. However, she never even met Graham. They’d exchanged letters, had come to a rudimentary understanding, and that was all. She has no right to lay claim to any of his money on such a flimsy connection, no matter how obligated Sheriff Nolan feels to look out for her.

Emma resolves to get a job instead, to pay her own way, and only accept the help if she’s forced to. It’s not a particularly big deal; Emma has been working in one way or another since she was a teenager. She’s worked in factories, and shops, and more recently as a secretary in a bank and then a law office. Her favorite had been the stint as a companion to a wealthy invalid. Ms. Ingrid had had a sharp tongue and had loved to turn her quiet, yet cutting comments on passersby outside her townhome’s windows, often leaving Emma in fits of laughter and the older woman with a satisfied look on her face. She’d had a fondness for Emma, too; privately, one of Ms. Ingrid’s nieces had once told Emma she had lasted longer than any of the previous companions, a small compliment she couldn’t help but treasure. She’d ultimately left, shortly before the old lady died; one of Ms. Ingrid’s sister’s husbands had been making ever-more-insistent passes Emma had been struggling to dodge, and she hadn’t been needed much as Ingrid had slowly slipped away. 

(She thinks about Ms. Ingrid often, still, and the year she’d spent in that house; sometimes, Emma thinks it was one of the only times she’s ever been purely happy.)

Her opportunities for employment are limited. The general store doesn’t need additional help, and the library is barely big enough to justify one employee, let alone two. She’d played with the idea of helping out at the Sheriff’s station; with the way Sheriff Nolan seems desperate to be of assistance, for Graham’s memory if not her own sake, she’s certain he wouldn’t mind. But the fact of the matter is that this is a tiny town, with a tiny sheriff’s office to match. What would there be to do? It’s not like Boston, where there’s enough crime to produce enough paperwork to keep her busy. Sheriff Nolan himself had said that they didn’t deal with much more than petty disagreements and the occasional barfight. Even the local pickpocket had reformed and was working at the post office, running the telegraph machine. 

Instead, she turns to the Sherwood Tavern - the one place in town she’s certain gets enough business to need help. Making inquiries, she discovers that it’s owned and operated by a pair of friends: Robin Locksley, who spends most of his time just outside of town at the horse stables he runs with his wife, and Killian Jones, the sullen, dark haired man who’d been behind the bar that first afternoon when Emma had arrived. They’re an interesting pair; Mr. Locksley is all smiles and sunshine, even with that slightly roguish grin, and happy to talk about anything, while Mr. Jones barely talks at all and smiles even less. Still, it’s obvious that the two men are friends, watching the way they work around each other in the space behind the bar. Maybe that speaks well of Mr. Jones, or poorly of Mr. Locksley; Emma thinks it’s likely the former, just based on Sheriff Nolan’s own reaction to the two men. Somehow, she doesn’t think he’d allow her to take a position at an establishment run by men he didn’t trust. 

Mr. Locksley is immediately amenable to giving Emma a position as barmaid. It’s Mr. Jones who has more questions, and evidently more hesitance. Emma isn’t sure what to make of him; he’s an attractive man, objectively, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, but his silence and moroseness are jarring, even if he seems to be a beloved member of this little town. There’s a story there, somewhere, maybe related to the scars that dominate the skin of his left hand.

“This isn’t a glamorous job, you know. It’s messy, sometimes even rowdy,” he says, studying Emma carefully where she stands in her neat skirt and shirtwaist. 

It only makes her draw up taller. “I know. I wasn’t expecting it to be. You run a bar, not a tea room.”

That gets her a faintly approving nod, at least. “Pay won’t be anything to write home about either.”

“Will it be enough to cover my room over at Granny’s?”

“Aye, it ought to be.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

When Jones finally gives his nod of approval, Locksley beams across at her. “Well, Ms. Swan, it looks like you have a job, and we have a barmaid. Welcome aboard.”

———

It is not remotely the life that Emma expected to find herself living, but it’s nice in its own way. There’s a pleasant routine to it all, of Granny fussing over her at mealtimes and Ruby dragging her out to socialize and keeping busy at the bar in the afternoons and evenings. It’s almost… cozy, she supposes the word is. The citizens of Storybrooke seem determined to absorb her into the fold and make her feel at home, and Emma even finds herself becoming fond of the regulars at the bar. There’s something constant and reassuring about Leroy’s complaints and the way Mr. Marco comes in for exactly one beer each night, no more than 30 minutes after sundown. Will Scarlet might be her favorite; he’s a mouthy bastard, a former thief who now inexplicably runs the post office and operates the telegraph line, but his particular brand of attitude amuses Emma and keeps her on her toes.

(It takes her approximately a week and one passing observation in the street for Emma to realize that he’s head over heels for Belle Gold, wife of the man who owns half the town, and most likely reformed his life for her. A brave man, too, then - or maybe just a fool. From what Emma understands, it’s a bad idea to get on the wrong side of Mr. Gold; he’s a manipulative man who always needs to be in control of everything and does not tolerate people standing up to him or encroaching upon his perceived territory. Emma imagines that Gold’s wife is very much included in that inventory.)

It’s usually just her and Jones and the other barkeep, Mr. Smee, working at the bar every day. Emma thinks Mr. Locksley - “Robin, please, I’m not the formal type” - might have been involved just as a favor to the other man; he’ll put in appearances every so often, especially when his business partner requests it, but he mostly seems happy to stay out at the horse farm he operates with his wife. There’s a story there, Emma’s sure - but she’s certain that she doesn’t yet have the right to ask. 

She doesn’t know what to make of Jones, really. He’s a meticulous man, and she thinks even a good one, based on the way he takes care of his establishment and is willing to patiently listen to various gripes from patrons at the bar as they work their problems out themselves. The sullen, quiet demeanor doesn’t seem like his natural state; sometimes, she catches his eyebrows twitching or the sides of his mouth trying to quirk up when one of the regulars says something suggestive, like it once would have been instinct to reach for innuendo or even jokes in the same way. She almost wonders if this is something of an emotional shield, an affectation he’s worn for so long that it’s become comfortable. Regardless, there must have been something in his past that led him here - something that’s emphasized by the careful way that Robin and Sheriff Nolan - David, now - treat him. 

Jones’ brother, Liam - who operates the general store and is Elsa’s husband - seems to be the only one that doesn’t indulge Killian’s reserved state. It intrigues Emma, and really reinforces her feeling that the younger man must not have always been like this. It’s somewhere between a matter of the elder Jones not having a tolerance of it, and trying to purposefully provoke the younger. 

“Is everything alright?” she dares to ask one afternoon after Liam Jones storms away from a discussion carried on in angry, hissed tones. 

“Fine. Liam’s just trying to control everything again.”

It’s probably a wonder she managed to get that much out of him. 

It’s hard, though, to be expected to spend so much time with a person and barely trading ten words in any given day. It makes the day longer, and the work harder. On a particularly slow day, when there’s barely a soul in the place and no longer even any cleaning left to do, Emma finds herself scrambling to break the silence, just to cut the boredom. 

It is a mistake. 

There’s a tattoo on his right forearm, usually covered by his shirt sleeve and just barely allowing hints of dark, swirling ink to peek through. Emma usually only sees the edges in flashes, when the sleeve of his shirt shifts just right as he reaches for something, but his sleeves are rolled nearly to his elbows tonight, revealing the whole work. It’s a detailed piece, one he must have gotten in Chicago or Minneapolis or some other city big enough to have an artist of talent. There’s certainly not a tattoo shop in Storybrooke, of all places. The swirls of black she’s caught glimpses of frame a heart with a jagged dagger through it, with a single word on a tattered scroll at the forefront.

“Who’s Milah?” she asks, instead of wiping down the tables for the twentieth time this evening. “On the tattoo.”

It’s like his whole body seizes - spine straightening, eyes shutting down, every inch of him infused with tension. It’s obvious she’s struck a nerve, one that affects his entire being.

“Someone from long ago,” he finally mutters, before stalking off to scrub imaginary grime off already-spotless tables.

It would be stupid to wonder what she did; that’s obvious to anyone with eyes. What she’s more confused about is why that particular question set him off. It’s obvious there’s a story there, one she doesn’t know but that must be central to the man he is. 

Robin is there that day, taking care of something in the small office at the back; without Emma even asking, he slides up next to Emma with an explanation.

“Milah was his fiancée,” he explains quietly. “She died, several years back, in a freak accident. He was driving her to town and the horse startled, flipping the whole wagon. It’s how he injured his hand, too.” Another question answered, then; Emma can see the way the scarred limb still pains him, seizing and spasming in ways that make him scowl deeper with irritation. 

“He wasn’t always like this,” Robin continues. “He used to be the most charming man you’d ever meet, always with a smile and some saucy comment. You’d have barely recognized him back then. It’s funny, and awful, what grief does to a man.”

And that explains a lot too - the way she sometimes sees his eyes flash or mouth pull like some half-forgotten instinct. That’s the look of a man who was broken, and who forced his pieces back together with the weakest glue, where things no longer fit together in the same way as they did before, even if all the fragments are there.

It is just another piece of the puzzle that is her silent coworker, but maybe the bit that makes it all make sense.

(Emma has never been much for guilt - but she can’t help but feel some small guilt for this.)

———

The thing about living in a small town, for better or worse, is that there are expectations. Despite its small size, there seem to be a million and five social functions in Storybrooke - church picnics and sewing circles and, tonight, a social and dance in Mr. Clark’s new barn. Emma could decline to attend, technically; it’s not as if she’s contractually obligated to make a showing. But Storybrooke is a tiny town, and Emma is the new face, and she’ll be thought of as unfriendly, even odd, if she doesn’t at least put in an appearance. Besides, everyone is going - and Ruby would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t at least make an appearance. 

So she goes. She stands with Mary Margaret and David and lets Ruby pull her along and compliments Granny on her contributions to the potluck spread. She even takes a turn around the dance floor when asked, even dares to enjoy herself a little bit. 

That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t get to be too much, however. The residents of Storybrooke are all so welcoming and well-meaning, but Emma’s spent so much of her life alone, and suddenly being inundated with all this good cheer is a particular variety of overwhelming. It’s not their fault - it’s entirely hers - but Emma can’t resist slipping out the barn doors to creep around the side, seeking a quiet and solitary moment. 

It’s not to be found, however; as Emma rounds the corner, it is easy to see Jones in the light of the nearly-full moon, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and clearly avoiding the festivities in the same way. There’s half a thought of just retreating, creeping around the other side instead, but he turns his head to meet her eyes before she has the chance.

“I’m so sorry,” she tries to apologize. “I’ll just leave you be —”

A brief smile without much feeling twitches across Jones’ face. “Hiding from the party?”

“Yes, but I can find somewhere else —”

“There’s no need. Stay.” 

Emma stays. What other choice does she have? She isn’t exactly eager to spend this time with Jones, but it would be blatantly rude to insist on leaving after he had made such a generous offer. Carefully, she props herself against the wooden wall, ignoring the way that stray splinters try to poke through her dress. 

She assumes they’ll just stand there in silence - they aren’t exactly friends, for all the time they spend together, and after the other day she’s sure he isn’t much fond of her - but Jones surprises her by breaking that silence after only a few minutes.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Swan,” he says softly, but clearly. “I’ve been less than welcoming these past weeks. I am sorry for that.”

It’s the last thing she expected him to say, and Emma has no idea how to respond. “Thank you,” she finally settles on. “I appreciate it.”

She thinks that’ll be it; that he’ll have said his piece, and they’ll go back to a more-or-less easy civility. It isn’t. “I suppose Robin, or one of the others, told you about… about Milah?” Emma nods. It’s clear this is difficult for him to speak about; she wonders a little why he’s bothering to tell her, of all people. “After she was - after she passed, I rather fell to pieces. She was gone, and the accident all but mangled my hand so it seemed like I couldn’t do much of anything with my life, and it was easier to fall into a bottle than to face my grief. Robin helped a lot, giving me something to do at the bar and eventually letting me buy into the place, but some days I still feel like all those pieces are still barely held together.”

“I understand,” Emma tells him softly, almost too softly to hear. And she does; she’d felt something of that despair when Neal had left, like she’d never find anyone or anything to compare again and there were a whole host of feelings and experiences she’d never reclaim, never experience without him. She can only imagine how much deeper that pain must run for him, when his fiancée had died and not just run away. 

“Thank you,” he says, but she can tell he doesn’t fully believe her. That’s alright; she hasn’t given him any reason to. “Anyhow. It’s been five years now, and I’m… acceptant, I suppose. I don’t anticipate being that same man I was ever again, or being able to truly move on and find someone else, but I’m not actively trying to drown all my feelings anymore, which most agree is a significant improvement.”

“Most?”

“Most,” he repeats. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mary Margaret Nolan?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Exactly. Ah. Mrs. Nolan is a very kind woman, of course. She truly does mean well, and she and David are wonderful for each other. But she is… unbearably optimistic, if I’m being blunt. Mary Margaret is of the opinion that now that I have reached an acceptance of everything that happened with Milah - everything that I lost with Milah - that it’s time I move on, and find a new ‘happy ending.’ So when you came to town - a new face, lonely, needing help…”

Emma sees exactly where this is going. “You assumed she would immediately start trying to play matchmaker.”

“Precisely. Well, not quite assumed; I’ve known Mary Margaret long enough that it was more like knew.”

“And you decided to head it off before it even started.”

“Aye. Again, I do apologize for how it means I treated you. You didn’t deserve that kind of hostility. But I didn’t want her getting any ideas about fixing us up together.”

“Then I forgive you.”

Killian stares blankly at her for a moment, clearly not quite processing her words. “Just like that?”

“You forget - I’ve met Mary Margaret too.”

His lips twitch in that almost-smile again, and Emma could swear she hears him huff out the hint of a laugh. “She is nothing if not persistent. A second chance, then?”

And Emma finds herself surprisingly happy to agree.

———

They’re still not friends, exactly. Jones isn’t exuberant, and that doesn’t change just because they had a chance to reset things behind the barn. But they’re… friendly. Amiable. Companionable. A whole host of other almost-type words. She no longer feels like he resents her very presence in his place of business, and even makes sure to make her life better in little ways, like helping her wipe down glasses and handle more belligerent patrons. She appreciates it, truly; it makes her life easier, knowing he’ll back her up, and that’s more than enough. Despite the small town-big family feel of Storybrooke, she’s still a city girl at heart who’s fine not to make best friends with everyone. She’s more than satisfied to be his employee, and nothing more; in fact, it’s a welcome change after some of the jobs she’s had.

(That’s what landed her here in the first place, after all: a man who doesn’t much care about her many, many denials.)

Even if they’re not friends, she spends enough time around the man to recognize some of his reactions, the slight variations of “sullen” that still play across his face if you’re watching closely. And as soon as Belle Gold walks in with an older man Emma can only assume is her husband, Emma sees the way that Jones’ entire body tenses up. The tension in the air is palpable between the two; even Belle shifts uncomfortably as they approach the bar.

“Could I have a small glass of beer, please?” she asks Emma softly. It’s a relief to reach for the glass instead of just waiting for whatever this is to explode. “It’s so terribly warm out there today, I found myself needing a little something to cool down.”

Beside her, her husband hasn’t broken eye contact with Jones. Emma doubts he’s fully aware of what she and Belle are doing right next to him. “You’re still here then, Jones?” he asks in an icy, sinister voice. 

“Aye.” Jones’ face is just as stony when he responds. Emma can practically see the way he vibrates with suppressed rage.

“I suppose you don’t have anywhere else to go, do you, or anyone else to chase after. No one really wants to take on a man with only one functional hand.”

“Let’s go, Robert,” Belle urges. Her beer is barely touched, but her refreshment seems forgotten as the encounter turns increasingly hostile.

Carefully, Jones sets the glass he had been holding back on the bar as the rest of the room holds its breath. Emma can see the way he flexes his scarred left hand, though she doesn’t think anyone else is playing close enough attention. “That’s true,” he says in that deadly quiet voice, “but you’re stuck here too, Gold. And we both know you’re the one who trapped me in this town.”

“Strong words from a weak man —” Mr. Gold starts to say, but his target has already stalked away towards the door Emma knows hides a staircase. Jones keeps an apartment above the premises; doubtless he’s gone there to lick his wounds. 

Belle quickly ushers her husband out after that, leaving the barely touched glass on the counter. Emma takes a long drag, not one to waste the beverage; she can’t help but hold some bitterness towards Belle for this altercation, even though she knows the woman is otherwise lovely and kind and even something like a friend to Jones. She must have known this might happen, bringing her husband in here. The man has a reputation, one that makes it hard to believe that his wife is so kind - and married to him. Besides, the whole exchange reeked of an unknown history between the two men, of so many words and actions leading to today’s explosion. 

Behind the bar, Mr. Smee - a timid man by nature, a predilection not remotely helped by these dramatics - looks anxiously between the room half-full of patrons and the door through which Jones had disappeared. It only takes a moment to realize what needs to be done - and that Emma will have to be the one to do it.

With a nod toward the bar floor for Smee, Emma quickly climbs the stairs, a glass of rum in hand. She’s noticed Jones taking a shot of the stuff when some customer is drunk enough to buy a round for everyone. If there’s ever been a time when a drink of something biting would help - well, this is probably it.

It isn’t hard to find Jones. He hasn’t even made it into his apartment proper, instead sitting propped against the wall in the hallway with his head hung between his upright knees. He looks up at the sound of her boot heels clicking on the stairs, happy to accept the proffered spirits, only to hunch back over the glass once it’s in his hands. Emma waits patiently for the explanation she knows is coming; she’s long since grown used to silence sitting between the two of them.

“He killed her,” Jones finally says, draining the remains of his rum in one swallow. “Milah. My Milah. He wanted her, but she wanted nothing to do with him, and she chose me.” He smiles softly in remembrance, a foreign look on his face from what Emma has come to know. “I could never prove it, of course. But he hated that she chose me, hated me for supposedly stealing what was his by pursuing the woman who pursued me first. And that wagon… it never should have tipped. It was sturdy, not even a year old, and the road was even. But there was a shot, fired someplace close that I could never pinpoint, and the horse startled, and the axle was apparently so weak or damaged that it broke, and by the time it was all over…”

“She was gone,” Emma supplies softly. Somehow, in the middle of all this, she’s found herself on the floor next to him. It seems like what he needs right now. 

“It was quick, at least. She broke her neck and died instantly. I just… I could never prove it, but I always knew it was Gold. The sabotage of the wagon and the shot to set everything in motion.”

It makes horrifying sense; maybe Jones is wrong, but from everything Emma has heard and seen of Mr. Gold, she wouldn’t put it past him. “And now you’re forced to see him all the time.”

“We had plans, you know,” he tells her, staring into his glass like he can make it refill by will alone. “We were going to pack up, move to Duluth or Chicago - somewhere along the Great Lakes, where I could get a job on one of the ships. But she was - she was dead, and my hand was barely functional, and when Robin offered to let me buy into the bar instead of just doing my damndest to drink myself to death… I took it.”

“And you lived.”

He snorts. “Or close enough to it.” His head falls back against the wall heavily as he sighs. “He’s gone, I imagine. I’ll come back down in a moment, I just…”

“Take all the time you need.”

(Emma knows she didn’t do anything more than listen, but there’s still a satisfaction in seeing the way he has started to pull himself back together as she traipses back down to the bar.)

———

They’re still not friends, but knowing those bits of another’s soul bonds two people together in a way that’s hard to describe. Jones is still sullen and quiet, but it’s less off-putting when Emma knows it comes from a place of pain. What matters is that Emma feels comfortable and safe here in Storybrooke and at the tavern, in the midst of these kind - and yes, in some cases morose - people. 

That all changes when a telegram arrives unexpectedly, marked urgent and portending dangers Emma had hoped she had finally escaped. 

She opens it right away, of course; there’s only one person outside of this town who knows how to reach her, and August is too busy for needless correspondence. He hadn’t even responded when she’d wired him back in Boston that first day in Storybrooke just to let him know what had happened, and that she was still staying. Him sending a message can mean nothing good.

Emma sinks onto a barstool as she reads the stark letters. Even without a mirror, she can feel the blood draining from her face as her nightmares resurface. 

Be aware Oz sniffing around STOP Hired private detective STOP Be on alert and do what you must STOP Will keep apprised STOP

Emma doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring at the little slip of paper. Somewhere, the yellow envelope it was delivered in has dropped away; she hadn’t noticed. She only comes back to herself when a firm hand shakes her shoulder.

“Swan!” Jones all but barks, jerking her back to attention and to meet his eyes. It’s evident he’s been trying to get her attention for a while; thank god there are only a scant handful of people in the bar at this early hour, though she’d rather Will Scarlet hadn’t had to see this either. “What’s the matter?” he presses ahead. “Are you alright?”

What an absolutely absurd question to ask as she sits here, white as a sheet. As much as Emma would like to deny it, claim everything is fine, she can’t. “No,” she barely manages to gasp out. 

It’s like everything around her has become a blur, like her mind can’t focus on anything but impending doom. Jones and Will Scarlett must have corralled her into the little back office; she has no memory of how she came to be sitting in the padded chair. Jones crouches by her side, his shoes lost beneath the edge of her skirt, wearing a surprisingly tender look on his face.

“This is about what you’re running from, isn’t it?” he asks in as gentle a voice as Emma’s ever heard from him. It snaps her to alertness, eyes blown wide; it’s not remotely what she expected him to say. 

“How did you know that?” she demands. Emma hasn’t told anyone in town the underlying reason why she came to this little nowhere town, and yet here Jones is talking like it’s obvious to see. 

“I recognize the look of someone with demons to hide, and to hide from,” he says softly. “You’ve met mine, Swan.”

Faced with that kind of understanding, it’s like all the pride, the reticence, the fight seeps right out of her. What’s the point? He seems to see right through her front anyways, for some reason she can’t pinpoint. 

“Yes,” she says, carefully making sure that neither her voice nor her hands tremble at the admittance. “It’s about the things I ran from in Boston.”

“Tell us.”

And she does. As Will Scarlet stands by the door and Jones moves to lean against the desk, Emma lets the whole tale unravel: about the law office in New York she’d been a secretary in, about the junior partner, Walsh Oz, who’d taken a sudden interest in her, about the way she’d left that job when he wouldn’t stop pressing his attentions on her. About how he’d found out where she lived, and forced her to move three times. About how she’d finally packed up and moved to Boston, only for him to track her there as well, showing up in the department store she worked in. How she’d gotten more and more desperate, finally seizing upon the idea of answering one of the marriage ads in the paper.

“It seemed like the perfect solution,” Emma explains. Against her will, tears have begun pooling in her eyes, and she blinks furiously to dispel them. “It’d take me so far away from Boston and New York that Walsh Oz would never track me down - and besides, I’d have a husband. It didn’t matter that I probably wouldn’t love him, I’d be safe. He wouldn’t be able to bother me anymore if I was already tied to another man.”

As Emma has told the whole sorry story, Will Scarlet has become visibly more upset in his stance by the door, bordering on fury, but Jones has remained implacably, unshakably calm. Emma appreciates it, in an odd way; it’s something stable to focus on, to keep the panic from overcoming her again. “And then you got here, and there wasn’t a husband to marry,” he says softly.

Emma nods. “I thought it would still be enough - rural Minnesota is so far from New York or Boston, you know? But now…”

“But now.” There’s something horribly ominous about his agreement. 

“At least I have August to watch out for me - my friend, almost a brother. He works for a private detective agency.” Jones probably doesn’t much care about that, but talking and explaining keeps her in the moment. It only works for so long though, as the reality of the situation sets in. “If Oz comes here… where else can I go? What am I supposed to do?”

The silence sits for a moment, Emma trying not to cry, Scarlet and Jones looking at one another as if coming up with something. The question hovers in the room, threatening to suffocate them all.

“You came here because you thought a husband could protect you?” Jones finally asks.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll marry you instead. If you like.”

It’s an absurd proposition, not least of all because Emma knows Jones may never get over his late fiancée. Beyond that… they barely know each other. They’ve worked together for two and a half months, and Emma has shared little bits of herself along the way and learned pieces of his own character, but that’s not enough to base a marriage on. But wasn’t that exactly what she was trying to do with Graham Humbert? To marry him, even though she barely knew him?

The difference, of course, is that Emma has worked alongside Jones for months, and knows this is not remotely what he’d ever planned for himself. It is much harder to go through with this when she knows that it isn’t something that both parties actively want.

“You don’t have to. I would never ask that of you,” she hurries to protest - but he’s already shaking his head.

“I know I don’t,” he tells her. “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine, and we’ll try to figure something else out. But I think it might be your best option.” Jones pauses, and his face softens. “Graham was a good man, and a good friend of mine,” he tells her quietly. “He waited a long time for me to be a better man, and do something with my life. Let me do this for him.”

And Emma agrees.

———

It is a small wedding - not that the occasion warranted anything different. They’re two people who barely aren’t strangers anymore, who hadn’t planned for this remotely or had even imagined such a possibility two days ago. 

(Technically, it’s the second time since Emma arrived in Storybrooke that two days have abruptly changed the course of her life. Maybe it’s an omen, of some sort; Emma doesn’t have the energy, or the opportunity, to pay heed to such a thought.)

They make as much of the occasion as they can when Mary Margaret and Ruby only have two days to fuss. Emma wears her nicest dress - a summery, pale blue confection that makes her look a lot more girlish and innocent than she actually is - and there are fresh flowers along the pews of the little church that match the small bouquet in her hands. Only a small number of people attend to witness - the Nolans, Jones’ brother and his wife, Robin and his wife, and Granny with Ruby - but that’s alright. Emma may not know what her soon-to-be husband’s favorite color is, or his favorite meal, or even his middle name, but she does know that they’re both somewhat solitary creatures. Neither needs a crowd, or would be comfortable with one.

There’s something oddly comforting about his presence at the end of the aisle, waiting for her in front of the reverend. He isn’t dressed particularly elaborately, but he’s taken the effort to put on a tie and coat and comb back his hair a bit, even if pieces keep popping up again. Most of all, Emma appreciates that his hands don’t tremble when they take hers. She’s terrified out of her wits about the foolishness they’ve both agreed to, but he manages to be so calm; so certain. It’s like he’s found an odd kind of purpose in doing her this favor beyond thanks, beyond reason. He’s calm when she meets him at the altar, and calm all through the short ceremony, and still calm when he slides the thin gold ring on her finger. It feels like some kind of blessing.

Before she knows it, the words are all said, and they’re moving to sign the paperwork and make this legally official. And that’s it: some of the most momentous minutes of her life are over and done, and Jones - Killian? - is leading her back down the aisle of the little church with her hand tucked into his arm, still that pillar of stability and reassurance. 

She’s married. 

———

Eventually, they find themselves back in the little apartment above the bar. Emma’s pretty flowers have been set aside, her hat carefully extricated from the pins holding it to her hair, and Killian has worked off his jacket and tie. Silence stretches between them as they sit, she in the armchair by the fire and him at the kitchen table, but it’s not yet comfortable. They don’t quite know each other enough for that. It’s like they’re in a holding pattern, both just waiting for something to give, for the other to break or break through. 

“I never expected to get married,” he finally says. Emma jerks her head to face him, but he carefully looks anywhere else, staring towards the opposite wall, fiddling with his fingers. “After Milah died… I expected I never would. That that would be it for me.”

It is not a good way to start a marriage - hearing that her new husband never wanted to get married in the first place. “I’m sorry, then. For trapping you in a marriage you never wanted.”

But he shakes his head at the words, finally meeting her eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I mean, Emma. I’m not trying to - I don’t want you to think I regret this. It is its own kind of honor, doing this for you and for Graham. Makes me feel like a better man than I’ve been in a long, long time. What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is…” He pauses, as if collecting his words. “I suppose I don’t have… expectations, so to speak, of our marriage. We get along. I think you’re a good woman, and I’ve appreciated the help in the bar. And that can be it. I’m not expecting anything more. I’m perfectly happy to have a paper marriage, companionship and nothing more, because that’s already more than I ever expected for the rest of my life.”

Ah. He’s alluding to sex. It’s kind of him to dance around this, but entirely unnecessary; delicacy has been out of the question for 8 years now, since she still thought Neal was her forever. It never really mattered for an orphan from the worst of Boston anyways. As kind as it may be, it’s unnecessary, and frankly too chivalrous for her purposes. In return, Emma chooses her words just as carefully as he did; at the beginning here, setting the stage for what may become the rest of their marriage, it seems important to do so. “Thank you, Mr. Jones —”

“Killian.”

“Killian.” He’s right; they’ve already traded vows, such as they were, after all. “Thank you, Killian - but the fact of the matter is that I need this to be a real marriage. If our marriage is to protect me the way I need it to… then I need there to be no reason for anyone to claim otherwise.”

———

They consummate their marriage that night.

It is not making love by any means, and it is not even particularly good - it’s been too long for either of them to be in practice, and too little feeling between the two of them - but there is no denying that it is a real marriage now. Emma can smell the shot of rum he drank for courage as Killian determinedly avoids her lips. His body is warm and firm above her, inside her, but there’s no feeling to it, except in the apology he mumbles against her ear when he finishes before she’s even close to satisfaction.

It is fine. It is no more than she expected.

But at least it is a union, in almost every sense of the word. 

———

(She had been anxious about this - the idea of giving her body to a man she barely knows, no matter how much she knows it to be necessary - but as mediocre as the act itself is, Emma can’t help but feel… connected, afterwards. Despite everything, he had been gentle with her, considerate. She doesn’t quite feel an affection for him - not yet, though she hopes she might one day, if this is to be the start of years to come - but it’s the first link in a bond that they’ll strengthen with time. Consummation had been a fraught decision for both of them, an emotional minefield in many ways, but they’re truly in this together now.

All things considered - she’s glad she’s in it with him.)

[mldrgrl]

Broken Things 11/24

by: mldrgrl Rating: varies by chapter, rated R overall See Chapter 1 for summary and notes

Jack Willis is buried in the boneyard outside of town a week to the day after Mulder and Katherine meet.  Mulder attends the burial, but Katherine does not.  Aside from the gravedigger and the undertaker, no one is there to pay their respects.  Mulder is only there to pay the two men for their time.    

Time has an interesting way of moving.  When Mulder met Katherine, those first few days felt like the longest of his life.  And now weeks slip by and it feels like he needs to slow things down.  He remembers telling her his priority and focus is on the ranch, nothing more, yet now that she’s here, the ranch feels secondary to him in a time where he can’t afford to be distracted.

It’s coming up on October before he knows it and he’s got to get the horses ready to ride out to Fort Worth for the postal service.  If the team he’s built up is satisfactory, there’s more work to be had and a government contract just may be forthcoming.  If that’s not enough to occupy his time, with the new land he has thanks to his wife, he hopes to start in on the expansion before winter sets in.

Katherine fits in so well it’s like he can’t remember a time when she wasn’t there.  He notices that she seems to fill a role with each of the ranch hands.  For Trevor, it’s like the mother he never had.  She darns his socks and patches the holes in his pants and reminds him to wash up for supper.  He ‘yes, ma’am’s’ her more in a day than he’s ever ‘yes, sir’d’ Mulder in five months.

Jesse and Jimmy are often good-naturedly teasing Katherine like a little sister.  They challenge her into imaginary competitions like they bet she can’t drive the carriage in a circle around the barn or they bet she can’t make as good of an apple pie as Melvin or they bet she can’t catch all the suckling pigs in under a minute.  For her part, she seems to enjoy proving them wrong.

Melvin treats Katherine almost reverently, like a father would a daughter.  He speaks of her with pride when he tells Mulder of how she handles the carriage or how she’s put logical sense into the kitchen and the cellar shelves or how she read some beautiful verses from the bible to him.  He notices that Katherine also worries over him like a devoted child as well, telling him to rest more, to sit down, not to overtax himself.

It’s been harder for Mulder to pinpoint the relationship Richard has with Katherine.  Richard keeps to himself most of the time, but he has had the occasion to observe them speaking.  One particular time, they were both crouched low and Katherine was scratching at the dirt with a stick.  Richard was nodding thoughtfully and he moved away looking as though he was in deep contemplation.  Mulder asked Katherine what they were conversing about.

“I asked him to make me a washing line on a pulley,” she said.  “I was explaining where I wanted it, the type of pulley I would need and where the loosener should be fitted.”

“I’m sure he’ll build you a very fine washing line.”

“Oh, I have no doubt.  We were trying to determine which space might maximize efficiency.  There’s a lot to think about; which way the wind is likely to blow, the position of the sun, where to keep the wash basin and ringer, for example.  He’s going to think on it.”

So, Mulder determines that Richard thinks of Katherine like a colleague or an equal.  She’s the one person he’s ever asked for advice from.  If he runs into an obstacle, he seeks her out to talk it through instead of wallowing in self-loathing.  Perhaps if the army had been populated by Katherines, Richard would still be there.

He’s been too busy to take Katherine out on another picnic, but they spend almost every evening sitting on the porch together.  She is usually sewing and he tells her stories about the constellations or reads to her from his favorite book, Gulliver’s Travels.  It’s a good thing she seems to enjoy listening because he’s never met a silence he can’t fill.

He’s packing for the trek to Fort Worth and remembers that Katherine still has his valise.  It’s late, he wonders if she might be asleep, but he can see light coming from under the door, so he knocks quietly.

“Katherine?” he calls, as soft as he can in case he might disturb her.

“You may come in,” she answers.

He opens the door and then cuts his eyes away for a moment when he sees she’s in her nightdress and a robe, sitting at the edge of the bedstead.  “Oh, uh…”

“Yes?”

He looks at her and she’s combing her hair.  He’s never seen it loose before and it’s wildly curled, like endless fiery waves over her shoulders and down her back.  She always keeps it braided and he’s surprised she’s able to tame it so well.  

“I’ll be needing my valise.”

“Oh!”  She sets the comb down on the bed and goes to the wardrobe.  “I should have returned it to you weeks ago.”

“I’ll get you one of your own in Fort Worth.”

“What would I need with a valise?”

“For traveling.”

She hands him the valise and their hands meet on the handle.  She doesn’t let go.  “Traveling?” she asks.  “Am I going somewhere?”

“Maybe one day you might like to take a trip somewhere.  We could take a trip.  A honeymoon, perhaps.”

Her brow shoots up and she releases the valise into his grip.  He feels foolish for saying such a thing and bites his lip for a moment and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “I only meant that maybe you’d like to accompany me when I need to return east some time.  We could stop in New York City.  See the electric bulbs in the park.”

“You would...you would take me east with you?  To New York City?”

“I’m needed in Boston from time to time and I would love to bring you along.”

“I would like that very much.”

“I wish I could take you with us to Fort Worth.”

“I wouldn’t be able to go anyway.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have my own valise yet.”  She smiles at him rather coquettishly and he chuckles.

“I will remedy that soon enough.  Do you think you might miss me when I’m gone?”

“I may not have time to miss you.  With half of you gone, I was planning to give the floors a good scrubbing.  Not to mention, Richard is installing my washing line and I hope to get all the bedclothes washed.  And of course there’s-”

“Alright, you can’t wait to see me gone and have me out from underfoot.”

“No, I…”  She pauses, drops her chin and cocks her head to the side just a bit.  “Keeping busy helps take my mind off things like missing people.”

He tries not to smile too broadly, but he knows the grin on his face must look foolish.  He bites his lip and nods.  “I’ll say good night, then,” he says.  “And I’ll let you get back to...your bedtime rituals.”

“Good night.  I will see you in the morning.”

He hesitates and then gestures a sort of farewell with the valise.  As he starts to close the door, he can’t help himself and he stops.  “I will miss you, in case you were wondering.”

“I suggest you try to keep yourself busy, then.”

He chuckles and closes the door behind him.

↭

Katherine is up early in the morning to make breakfast and to pack a nice noon dinner for Mulder, Jesse and Jimmy.  Richard, Trevor and Melvin will be staying behind at the ranch.  Even though she’s up before sunrise, the wagon is already packed and the horses have been saddled and hitched.  The men eat quickly, eager to set out on their journey.  Before they leave, Mulder pulls Katherine aside and gives her a bankroll.

“Don’t think I didn’t remember the first of the month is just a few days away,” he says.  “I assume you’ll want to head into town and see Mr. Skinner about the mortgage due.”

“This looks like more than we agreed to.”

“Well, call it an advance.  There’s a nice little cafe in town.  See if you can’t treat your lady friends to a noon dinner while you’re there.”

She crushes the bankroll in her fist and tries to think of a place she can keep the money safe.  He puts his hat on and then winks at her.

“Keep yourself busy,” he says, and then heads out into the morning light.  She follows to the porch to watch him go.

Jesse is driving the team of horses pulling the wagon and Jimmy rides next to him on the horse they call Faithful Jenny.  Mulder mounts Blondie and turns to give her a wave before he takes the lead on the small party and then they are off and she already feels a pang of longing for him to return.

The first two days, she keeps busy with the scrubbing she’d told him she wanted to do and prepares for a day of heavy laundry.  She helps Richard with the hanging of the washing line and with a few adjustments and tightening of the rope and pulley, it works as smoothly as she’d hoped.

On Friday, she dons the new calico skirt she’s only just finished sewing, a fresh blouse, a pair of black gloves she purchased at the mercantile but has not yet had occasion to wear, and ties on the hat that Mulder gave her the day they married.  She asks Melvin if he could hitch up the carriage for her and though she’s terribly nervous about her first foray into town by herself, she knows she can do it.  She’s put in a good amount of training with Melvin learning how to drive these last few weeks and there has to be a first time for everything.

Lady is ready and waiting with the carriage when she comes outside after having secured her money into a hidden pocket she’s sewn into her skirt.  She’s more afraid of losing the money or having it stolen off of her than she is for problems driving the carriage.

“You sure you don’t want me to ride with you?” Melvin asks.  “I can saddle up George and follow you even, if’n you’d like me to do that.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says.  “I’m just going to go to the bank and drop in on Mrs. Byers and Mrs. Doggett.  I’ve boiled some eggs and took out some canned pears.  There’s enough salt pork left to fry up.”

“Don’t worry about the kitchen today, go have yourself a nice time in town.  But, if’n you’re not back here before the sun drops west, I’m comin’ out there after you.”

“Lady, walk on now.  I’ll be back soon!”

She can scarcely believe she’s driving a carriage on her own, making her way into town, and yet she is.  Even Lady seems to sense her excitement and prances down the road in a nice, quick trot.  Katherine smiles when she passes the trees she recognizes from her picnic with Mulder.  Her arms are tired by the time she makes it into town, but she feels exhilarated by her accomplishment.

“Well done,” she tells Lady after tying her to the post and rubbing her cheek.  Lady nods and shakes her head.

The bank is busier than when she was there before.  The teller is assisting a man at the window and two others wait behind him.  One of them nods and tips his hat to her when she walks in.  She waits as well and looks past the line to see if she can spot Mr. Skinner, but his office door is closed.  She becomes a little anxious when she waits, not sure of what she is to say to the teller.  She thought she might just walk in and be able to speak with Mr. Skinner.  Soon, it’s her turn and she steps up to the window and then fumbles for the money concealed in her pocket.

“I am here to pay my mortgage due,” she says.

“Name on the account,” the teller asks.

“Um, Jack Willis, I believe.”

“One moment.”

The teller turns away and then opens a box.  He takes out a stack of small cards which he quickly shuffles through and removes one.  He returns to the window and takes up a pen that he dips in ink.

“Ten dollars and sixty cents,” he says as he’s writing on the card.

Katherine carefully counts out eleven dollars and then slides it into the tray at the window.  The teller counts it as quickly as he shuffled the cards and he puts it into another tray below the counter.  He slides forty cents change back to her and the card as well.

“Sign, please,” he says.

She hesitates with the pen in her hand.  She does not know what name to write.  Should she sign Katherine Willis, or Katherine Mulder?

“You can mark an ‘x’ if you are illiterate,” he says.

“No, I am not illiterate,” she answers.  “I was recently remarried, I am unsure if I should sign with that name.”

“Who’s your husband?”

“William Mulder.”

“Wait here.”

She begins to feel nervous all over again.  Another man has come into the bank as she’s been at the window and is now waiting for her to finish.  She doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if she should leave and come back, but the teller told her to wait and so she waits.  She starts to perspire and she loosens the tie on her hat.  She whirls around when someone says her name.

“Mrs. Mulder,” Walter Skinner says.  “I’m glad you’ve come by.”

“You are?”

“I’ll take it from here, Mr. Crawford.”  He takes the card from the counter and gestures for Katherine to go ahead of him to his office.  She returns the pen and then goes with Mr. Skinner.  He makes an imposing figure and rather reminds her of her father, which makes her all the more nervous.

“Is something the matter?” she asks, taking a seat in front of his desk.

“Not at all.  Mr. Mulder was in earlier this week before his trip out to Fort Worth.  I just have a paper here for you to sign adding you to his account.”

“Adding me to his account?  What does that mean?”

“It means you are able to make deposits or withdrawals on your husband’s account, provided we have your signature on file.”

She stares at him, incredulous.  She doesn’t even know what name she should sign with to pay her mortgage and now she’s expected to have access to a bank account?

“I have my own money here,” she says.  “I don’t think I need Mulder’s account.  Do I?”

“He added your name on Monday and asked that when you came in to make the mortgage payment that I have you sign the paperwork.”

“I must confess this is all very new to me, Mr. Skinner.  I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to sign this card as Katherine Willis or Katherine Mulder.”

“That card just keeps a record of the payments.  My teller signs it saying he received the money and you sign it saying you paid it.  You don’t have anything to worry about there, but I think that you should go ahead and sign as Katherine Mulder from now on.”

She nods and he gives her a pen to sign the card.  It’s the first time she’s written her married name on anything and it feels strange.  She never did get accustomed to being Mrs. Willis, but when Skinner had called her Mrs. Mulder earlier, she answered without hesitation.  She hands him the card and he passes her the paper she’s to sign for Mulder’s account.

“And just so you’re aware,” he says.  “I expect the transfer of your lease to be returned by next week.  It will be filed under your joint account, so be sure to request the mortgage under your own name next time.”

“I will remember.  Thank you for helping me, Mr. Skinner.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Mulder.”

She leaves the bank with much less of a triumphant feeling than she felt in successfully driving the carriage.  In fact, she feels as though she has hardly taken a breath in that whole time.  She steps down to Lady and rests her forehead against the horse’s neck and strokes her mane.

“We’ve done it,” she whispers to the horse.

“Katherine?”

Katherine steps back from the horse and turns towards the voice that called her name.  She sees Monica Doggett hurrying towards her across the dirt road, waving to her.  She waves back.

“I thought that was you,” Monica says, greeting Katherine with a warm embrace.  “It’s so good to see you.”

“Yes, you as well, Mrs. Doggett.”

“Ach, Monica, please.  Mrs. Doggett is my mother-in-law and trust me, there’s only room enough in this world for one Mrs. Doggett.”  Monica laughs and squeezes Katherine’s hands.  “What brings you to town?”

“I had a banking matter to attend to.”

“Are you here long?”

“Actually, I’m glad I ran into you.  I wasn’t sure how to find you, but I was just on my way to drop in on Susannah Byers and I thought she might know.”

“We’re down on this road if you keep going over the bridge ahead.  Can’t miss it.  If I’m not there, it’s probably because I’m running something over to John.”

“I’ll remember that.  Mulder told me there was a cafe in town and I should invite you and Susannah for a noon dinner.  I’d understand if you’re busy with chores or errands though.”

“Are you kidding?  I would love nothing more.  And if I know Susannah, she will be absolutely delighted by the offer.  Is this your carriage?  Did you drive in all on your own?”

“I did.  Though Lady did most of the work.”

“How thrilling.  Shall we?”

Katherine climbs up into the carriage and Monica hops up next to her in the passenger seat.  It takes nothing but a few minutes to end up at the mercantile and Monica steps down first and waits at the foot of the porch steps for Katherine.

John Byers is standing before a display table with a clipboard and pencil, taking notes.  He smiles when the ladies come in and puts the pencil behind his ear.

“Good morning, ladies,” he says.

“Mr. Byers,” Katherine answers.

“We’ve come to collect your wife,” Monica says.  “You won’t mind if we borrow her for a bit to have dinner at the cafe, do you?”

“Not at all.  Let me go and get her.”

“Oh, how darling.”  Monica holds up a knitted pair of baby booties that she picks up from a table.  “Sometimes I sure can’t believe my little ones used to fit into socks this small.”

“You have children?”

“Two.  Luke and Sarah.  Sarah just turned nine and Luke will be fifteen in just a couple weeks.  Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s plenty of time.  And when that time does come, I promise I’m the best midwife all of Texas has to offer.”

Katherine gives Monica a polite smile.  “I’m certain you are.”

“Oh my word, is it true?”  Susannah comes bustling into the storefront, throwing off an apron that she carelesses flings in her husband’s direction.  John catches it with one hand.  “We’re going to go out to dinner?  Is that right?  Oh, let me get my hat.  John, how could you let me walk out without my hat!  I’ll hurry back.  Don’t go nowhere you two!”

Monica laughs and then winks at Katherine.  “I told you Susannah would be delighted.”

When Susannah returns, the three ladies head out of the store and Susannah leads the way down the boardwalk to the cafe.  Katherine worries a little about leaving the horse and carriage, but Susannah tells her not to fret that it’ll be fine where it is.  They’re seated next to a window at a table for four and after ordering some cold cut sandwiches and lemonades, Susannah and Monica start to gossipping about people Katherine has never heard of.  She’s content to listen to the conversation and doesn’t mind that she isn’t required to participate.

“Oh, but listen to us,” Susannah says.  “We’re being rude.  Katherine, I haven’t even asked after your husband or how you’re faring out on the ranch.”

“Mulder is well.  He’s in Fort Worth right now to take a team of horses to the United States post office.”

“You didn’t join him?” Monica asks.  “When John and I were first married, I’m telling you he couldn’t hardly walk down the road without pulling me along.”

“I’d much rather stay behind anyway.  There’s so much to tend to at the ranch and...well, the truth of it is, I would just like to stay put for awhile.  That was one of the reasons I married Mulder in the first place.  To just...to just stay still.”

“You did a lot of traveling around with your first husband, didn’t you?” Susannah asks.

“Too much.  In four years I don’t think we were ever in the same place for more than a few weeks.  And then we ended up here and it was like there was nowhere left to go.”  

Monica nods and then she reaches across the table and puts her hands over Katherine’s. “I did have the occasion to meet Jack Willis once,” she says, petting Katherine’s hand lightly.  “He had the blackest aura I’ve ever seen.  You must have been miserable.”

“It wasn’t a very happy marriage.  I don’t know what an aura has to do with that.  I don’t even know what an aura is.”

“Oh, Lord, Monica, not the auras!”  Susannah throws her hands up, but chuckles.

“There’s a belief that all people put off energy,” Monica says.  “Like a candle putting off heat.”

“Monica is an enthusiast of alternative ideas.”

Monica laughs.  “John was posted in San Francisco for a few years and I met the most fascinating people there that believe in some of the most extraordinary things.”

“We had a preacher come through here once that called her a heretic,” Susannah adds.  “In the middle of a sermon.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have become a preacher if he didn’t want to answer questions.”

Katherine looks between the two women and shakes her head.  “Energy is the quantitative property that must be transferred to an object in order to perform work on the object,” she says.  “Like measuring the temperature required to boil water.”

Monica glances at Susannah and she shrugs.  “I don’t know what any of that means,” Susannah says.  “I just turn the stove on and wait for the bubbles.”

“Have you ever gotten a bad feeling when you meet someone for the first time?” Monica asks.  “Or even a really good feeling?”

“Yes.”

“You’re feeling their energy.  Auras are like...I suppose they’re like a way of measuring a person’s disposition.”

“I don’t know how you would measure a feeling.”

“Auras are the colors of the energy that people put off.  Some people are lucky enough to see them.”

“And you’re one of those people?”

���I am.  Anyone can see them though if they want to.  It’s about opening yourself up to possibilities.”

“How does one open oneself up to possibilities?”

“I think it starts with inner peace.  Really letting go of fear and doubt and not worrying so much about the past or the future and being extremely present in the moment.”

“I see.”

“Your husband is mostly blue, but there is some red there too.  He’s very compassionate, loyal, trustworthy, and nurturing, but also driven and hard-working.”

“I don’t really think you need an aura to tell you that.  Just as I don’t think you need an aura to tell you that Jack was surly and unpleasant.”

“No, but I could tell right away, even without knowing you, that you and Mulder belong together.  You can’t tell me you weren’t drawn to him immediately, even if you didn’t know why.”

“I was intrigued by him, I will admit that.”

“And you knew he was someone you could marry even though you’d only known him for a day.”

“But, she didn’t really have much of a choice in that,” Susannah interjects.

“I did though,” Katherine confesses.  “He offered me money for my land, land I didn’t even own, and he said he would help me start out somewhere if I wanted.”

“And you chose to marry him.”  Monica smiles.

“He was kind to me when he didn’t have to be.  I know I didn’t know hardly anything about him, but still I felt...very fond of him.”

Monica nods knowingly.  “Your auras.”

“I’m a yellow,” Susannah says.  “But, Monica, you haven’t said what Katherine is.”

“Would you like to know?”

“You might as well tell me.”

“You are almost equally tan and crystal.  Which means you’re very private, cautious and practical.  And you’re a healer.”

All of those things are true, but Monica could come by those conclusions without more than a few minutes conversation with her.  The part about being a healer though, that is a little disturbing.  The waiter comes over with their tray of sandwiches and lemonades and the conversation falls to the wayside.  Katherine wonders what color Monica is, but doesn’t want to ask, lest Monica think she somehow believes in that kind of foolishness.  People emitting colors?  How absurd.

[teacup-crow]

Things That Make it Warm

Zombies Run Secret Santa fic for @whirly-wind! Thanks for organising @runnerzero, @goblinsharkz and @notforconsumption. Spoilers up to S5M24 below the cut :)

Hi Mystery! I was so so so excited to get you because you’re always lovely about my writing, especially my Tom/Jody stuff 😍 this is the story of them getting to know each other (with a Christmas involved, because Christmas is romantic right?)

Apologies that it starts off just a LITTLE bit angsty but it’s these two and angst just happens to them. A writer can only do so much. I promise there’s festive fluff in there!

I hope you enjoy this! Merry Christmas!

((Stole the title from a Cavetown song because I hate naming things!))

*****

“Jody’s running slowly, so she’ll give ‘em a good chase.”

She almost has to swallow a laugh at Sam’s sweet admiration. Jody’s running slowly because everything hurts, because this idea is crazy, because it might be the last run ever gazing at an Abel sunrise, orange and pink flecking the horizon, and she wants to see it before-

Boom. The explosion rattles her teeth, her bones, smoke rising behind her. She doesn’t look back. She knows better.

“Miss Marsh! To me!”

Tom grabs her hand and before she can process anything at all they’re sprinting. Her heart and lungs are burning; it’s been months since she ran like this, weeks since her muscles atrophied, and the pain shoots through her legs at every step until she feels nauseous. But they’re running. At some point, she lets the bundle fall from stiff arms, a pile of empty blankets. Tom whispers something, and vanishes into the dust he created.

***

“We are not leaving you here.”

“Ian won’t kill me. He knows I still have some useful things inside my broken noggin.” His smile is lopsided, his eyes slightly glittery. Jody doesn’t know him that well, really, but that look has never been a good one on him. She pats his arm, and it dulls a little. She leaves her hand there.

“Isn’t that a reason to get you out?”

He swallows. “I can’t… I can’t promise that I’ll…”

“You saved my life. You’re coming with us.”

She knows, even though his sister might protest out loud, that Janine is grateful to her for making the call. She knows her so well she can hear that the woman’s shoulders have dropped just a bit in relief.

***

Tom likes Noah Base.

It’s warm, and enclosed, and safe. He can feel the presence of walls around him at all times. When he whistles, it echoes. It’s familiar. 

When he was younger, being inside used to bore him silly. Paperwork was the worst part of the job; as a boy, Jane did his homework more often than not. Back in Karachi, the memories warm and soft as parchment, he’d play football with the neighbourhood kids late into the night, everyone teasing but good-natured, curious about the white boy who spoke Urdu like a local. The calls of other boys’ mothers rang out as the day grew long until at last they’d scatter at the figure of his father, the ambassador cutting a long shadow across the evening, rumbling “Thomas? Thomas? Time to come home.”

A couple of years later, he lay out on the family’s broad flat roof, breathless - hiding from his sister so she wouldn’t see him crying about their parents, about being ripped away from everything and everyone they knew. Hiding from the men from the embassy, so he couldn’t hear the bad news. So they couldn’t take him to England.  Outside there were birds soaring above him, the sun shining like any other day. He didn’t have to confront reality.

And after that, inside meant dull lessons at boarding school far away from Jane, where he actually had to concentrate to keep at the top of the class, and inside meant stuffy offices with stuffy bureaucrats who would never understand the realities of field work no matter how often they were explained, and then inside was three bare walls of concrete and agony and time.

When the open air was no longer a choice, when life became nothing but a cube, six by six, lights off more often than on, inside became more comforting. There, nobody could sneak up behind him. It was easy to keep one eye open. If you stay in the corner, you’re never surrounded. It’s outside where things go horribly wrong. Outside is where the crawling men eat human flesh. Outside is where Jane and the others left him behind. 

And so, years later, England again, he’d slip off his cuffs in his new cell and finally manage to relax enough to rebuild some of his sanity. He knew now that inside isn’t the problem. Being trapped there is.

Noah Base is safe. He can map out the whole place in his head, learn fourteen different escape routes, ranked from worst to best.

Noah Base is better than safe.

Noah Base has Jody in it.

***

Jody, for one, feels cooped up.

It’s okay, at first. Things were worse than this right after the outbreak. She’d stayed in a Tube station for a couple of nights, only peeking her head above ground to try and get decent reception to call her mum. When her phone gave up the ghost, she trekked it out of London. But sometimes, especially now, she still thinks of the noise, the irrepressible heat, sickness already spreading like wildfire. 

It’s okay, at first. She knits. She stretches. Builds up her core strength again. Takes lectures on strategy. Starts to actually read Janine’s notes, to Sam’s disgust. She keeps positive as morale begins to drop, until one morning she doesn’t get out of bed at all. 

Tom arrives at her door with a plate of cold toast and strawberry jam.

“You weren’t at breakfast.”

Of course. He notices everything.

“I wasn’t hungry,” she replies, then bites her lip. If anything, the latest messages from Abel make her far too sick to eat. Steve, inexhaustibly flirtatious, convivial, suave Steve, had sounded shattered. Half-rations. Quarter-rations. Ian’s getting… more unbalanced. Kefi reckons half the town is anaemic.

“Come in if you like, I’m decent.”

“You need to eat something,” he insists, pushing the door ajar and handing the plate up to her. She sits up, back against the wall, and tries to give him a wobbly smile.

“What’s the matter, Miss Marsh?”

“I just… can’t believe we left them.”

And she bursts into tears. He pats her arm.

He doesn’t rationalise anything to her.

He thinks that, just maybe, it’s worse to be the leaver than the left.

***

She’s so strong.

He watches her with a bow and arrow hit one- two- three targets in the centre, more accurate and deadly than his own hand with a pistol. She swings up the climbing frame like a monkey, upside down and ten feet in the air. The gym in Noah Base is cramped - what isn’t? - but training is manageable with the lack of equipment to fill the space. Peter - the man who found them this place, the man with the silver tongue, the man who hurt his sister - is at the weights. He’s always in Tom’s peripheral vision; Jane only puts him there to keep an eye, he knows that.

“Whoop!” Jody swings down from the ropes triumphantly and rolls to a halt. He clicks the stopwatch.

“One-forty-seven. Your fastest time yet, Miss Marsh. That was excellent.”

“You can stop calling me that any time you like, you know.”

“Nonsense. What would I call you then?”

She looks up at him, quite serious. He’s maybe a foot taller than she is. He’s a madman. A murderer. But there’s not an ounce of fear in her gaze, not anymore. When her hair is tied back like that, he can see her face properly, the fading freckles, soft straight hair, her laughing eyes, the cleft in her chin, the birthmark on her cheek.

“...Jody’s fine, Tom.”

“I… yes.” He blinks away in embarrassment. “If you would prefer that name. Yes.”

“Not if it makes you uncomfortable. Anyway, I’m going to try that again. I just know I can beat you.”

“And then you’ll take a break?”

“We’ll see,” she grins, and jogs back to the start.

She’s not only physically strong; she’s been through so much and she hasn’t let it harden her. She looks at every new day like an opportunity, a sunrise, swallowing back the bitter pill of life with orange juice. Not like him. He’s so far past broken he doesn’t even remember what wholeness tastes like; some important part of his soul still lies in that cage, rotting. So how can he be falling in love?

***

It just doesn’t feel like Christmastime.

The last few Christmases have fallen into some kind of routine, at least. They were bare and hard but everyone was together, kids faces lighting up as they decorated the township, people working together to make it as okay as possible. A bit more frivolity, a bit more food. 

It’s December already, and nobody has even mentioned it.

Steve hasn’t sent a message in a good while, and the radio silence is making all of them itchy. Five’s been gone for weeks; Cameo’s probably dead. Everyone she cares about is probably-

“Jodes? Can you help me with this?”

It’s Tom, sprawled on his stomach on her bedroom floor, attempting to darn a sock and failing miserably. She laughs.

“They didn’t have darning as a class at Harrow?”

“Not that I remember, but I can recite some Latin at you if you’d like.” 

“That sounds extremely helpful.” She swings down from the bunk and looks closer. “Have you just been tying knots in this?”

“I was trying to…” he stares at the sock in his hands with a rueful expression. “It appears that yes, I have just been tying knots in it.”

“Okay,” she sits down cross-legged and takes it from him to start unpicking. “At least you’re honest.”

“Where did you learn to sew and knit?”

“Our church hall ran a youth club. They’d do snacks and activities after school most days, and Mum always liked us out doing something; there were four of us and she didn’t want us under her feet all afternoon. I was a big fan of the needlework table. Who knew it would come in so handy, hey?”

“I have underestimated it.” 

He rests his chin on his hands, intently watching her work. Her fingers are so small and quick compared to his. Her gaze flits between the sock and his face. It’s weathered and worn but she still sees warmth and handsomeness there, between the cracks in his scarred armour. The way he’s kept an eye on her every day since that breakfast, just to make sure she’s holding up. She shakes her head, and passes it back to him.

She can’t fall in love with Janine’s brother.

***

It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and Sam hasn’t let Five out of his sight for more than two consecutive hours since they got back to Noah Base, his hand stuck to theirs with glue. They’d normally protest this, but yet another dusting of horror and shadow under their eyes has cut their counterargument short. They nod to Jody when they see her request, and make some excuse about going to ask Janine about work assignments, hobbling a little on a twisted ankle. She appreciates it.

“Sam! Finally got you alone for a minute!”

“Jody! What can I do for you?”

He’s almost himself again, grinning at her from the chaotic comms desk that he’s tacked a bit of tinsel to. She can nearly forget the sound of his screaming last week when Five practically died in that godforsaken maze. It turns out nobody is better at picking up and piecing back together than Sam Yao.

“How did you know that… how did you…”

She pushes the door closed, and clears her throat. “How did you know that you liked Five?”

 His grin broadens. “Jody, you like someone?”

“Shut up.”

“I thought you didn’t have crushes!”

“I didn’t. I don’t. Well, maybe I do. I don’t know!”

“Well, describe it to me.”

“It’s like…” God, his smile is dopey. “Stop looking at me like that, Sam, you’re putting me off! It’s like… every time I look at him I feel warm, and the world feels a little bit softer, more yellow, and I just want to protect him. Like, I’d die happy if I knew he’d be safe. And his face. His jawline. I… you’re giggling!”

“Tell me more, tell me more!”

She lobs a stack of rotas at him half-heartedly. He ducks.

“He’s just… so clever and so kind. And he’s still hurting, and I wish he would stop.” She sighs, warming to her theme. “Janine will go mad with me if she hears about it.”

Sam’s face goes slack with shock. “Oh my God. You like Peter?”

“Jesus Christ, Sam, no! I like Tom!”

“Oh, that makes so much more sense!” He chuckles, and then adds: “You do know he’s still a bit...”

“And Five isn’t?”

It comes out defensive, and she immediately wishes she’d bit her tongue, but he doesn’t get annoyed. He shrugs. 

“You’re right, Five isn’t well either. Both of them have been through… stuff we can’t even imagine. Done things that people maybe shouldn’t forgive.”

“Who hasn’t.” Jody says darkly. 

“Exactly. Their hearts are in the right place, but… just be careful, Jodes.”

Lines like but he would never hurt me and things are different now are not lines she likes to have run through her head. She heard those lines often enough as a little girl, when her brother Cameron was still in nappies and she herself barely out of them but already knowing they were lies. Her mum’s taste in men had got better by the time she’d had the twins, but Jody didn’t forget. She’d vowed to never, ever need anyone that volatile that much. 

And yet - here she is.

“So. How’d you know you liked Five?”

“I just,” he flushes. “One day I woke up and just knew. My heart belonged to them. I couldn’t get it back. When they’re not around… it hurts.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Oh Sam, what am I going to do?”

“You could just tell him?”

“Yeah. No.” She swings around in the office chair as she talks. “What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if I make him uncomfortable? He’s going through a lot still, deep down, and I don’t want to add to it, or put him under any pressure.”

“He’s a six foot three MI6 Commander, Jodes, I somehow don’t think you’ll be pressuring him into anything.”

“I suppose... but you keep your mouth closed, no matter what, okay? I don’t want to hear this anywhere outside of this room.”

“Just tell him you like him!” Sam calls after her as she heads back down the corridor.

***

“You’re coming to me for advice about women?”

Tom’s already realised that this was probably a bad idea, but he can’t exactly back out now. “I mean? Jane likes you.”

“Janine’s Janine. She’s… well, I know she’s your sister but she’s not like other women.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, she’s…” he’s flustered. “She’s amazing.”

“And other women aren’t amazing?”

“Fair point, fair point,” he raises his hands. 

Tom runs a hand through his hair. It’s thinning. When did he get old? So much of his youth was wasted. 

“Jody is beautiful and talented and so good. She’s got this… hope about her. This luck. I feel like nothing could truly go wrong when I’m beside her.”

Peter nods. “And what does she think?”

“I have no idea, but she can do a lot better than me. She’s seen me ranting and raving out of my wits, and I’m ten years older, and… just look at me, Pete. I’m mostly scar tissue.”

Peter does, up and down.

“You’re very good looking to me, Colonel,” he winks at last. Tom snorts. Maybe the bloke isn’t so bad.

“You must have had relationships before, though? Surely? The way Janine always put it you’d think you were James Bond. A different person on your arm every day of the week.”

“I mean, I did. Of course. Lots of people. Nothing serious, but… that was so long ago. Before… before my head became a mess. When I could tell truth from lie as easy as up from down. These days, I’m not even sure if you’re in front of me. If I squint, I might lose you completely.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that. Tom’s introspective seriousness has always made him uncomfortable. 

“Anyway, enough of all that rambling. I’m going to give her this.” He proffers a wicked-looking weapon. “For Christmas, I mean. Do you think she’ll like it?”

“An automatic crossbow?” Peter whistles. “Romantic. Right up her alley. She’ll love it.”

He nods in gratitude. “I appreciate you listening. Before you ask, Janey will love the ringbinder full of poetry you put together.”

“How did you know about that!” Peter is ashen, mortified.

“The name’s Bond, James Bond.” Tom throws the line over his shoulder as he wanders away.

***

Their Christmas is a quiet one, but perhaps more festive than anyone expected. Someone dims the base’s lights with crepe paper, and Amelia emerges from her quarters with a bottle of champagne. “Not as a gift, you understand,” she impresses firmly, “but as a service to myself. Being around you lot is making me bloody miserable. Put some smiles on, for once!”

Someone else has found a flock of wild geese and thanks to Jody’s crossbow the residents of Noah Base feast like Victorian paupers made kings. Janine taps her glass, makes a speech about times being tough and the importance of finding the things to celebrate. “I salute you all for your fortitude and bravery. This time next year, we will be with our friends and families again. It’s only a matter of time before we take our home back.” She’s got good at these at this point. They all raise a cheer, at least.

 Tom and Jody talk long into the evening about everything they can think of that isn’t the last decade. Childhood stories, mostly: Tom and his football friends accidentally crashing a wedding and causing a minor diplomatic incident; the prank war with next door that Jody and her brothers got into one summer; Tom, Janine and General Bakari’s three-way chess matches; Jody nearly burning the house down attempting to make her mum breakfast in bed. Debates over Doctor Who episodes lead into arguments over the best Quality Street chocolate until they’re the last people still awake.

“D’you believe in God?” She asks, at some point, hazy under piles of blankets in front of the heater they’ve powered for the occasion. He’s wearing the new jumper she made him (“I’m sorry it’s bottle green, it was the only wool we had enough of but it’ll bring out your eyes, I reckon”) and leafing through the pamphlet of beginners knitting patterns she’d painstakingly copied out and tucked inside it. 

He chews his lip, lost in thought, his mind straying back to Algeria even as he takes her hand in the present. “No. I used to. I was a chorister when I was a boy.”

“Seriously? One of those ones in Westminster Abbey? My mum always used to listen to them!”

“Yes! I loved it!” He laughs. “Only did the Christmas service once, though. I got bronchitis the next year, and after that my voice broke. But it was the first time I started enjoying life in England. When we stepped outside after the service, that was also the first time I saw snow. I thought it was a miracle. Janey told me not to be so ridiculous, so I put a snowball down the back of her coat.”

“I can’t get over how posh you are. Did you have to wear robes?” It’s the biggest he’s seen her smile in ages. He laughs again at the look on her face.

“Yes, I had to wear robes.”

“If there are no photos left of this, I’ll never forgive your sister.”

“What about you? Why did you ask about God?”

“I don’t know: I was just wondering. True meaning of Christmas, and all that. I used to think at the start of all this that if He did exist, he must have a pretty sick sense of humour. But I’m not sure, I don’t think it’s all that black and white anymore. Maybe He’s just tired of us.”

“Perhaps He’s on a long holiday. He’ll check in next millenia. Until then, we’ll have to figure it out for ourselves.”

She falls asleep not long after that, her head on his chest. He loves her so much his ribs ache.

Maybe there is a God, if a feeling like this can exist. If the two of them can find each other, despite everything. If he can leave so much behind, and lose so much, and still be so happy.