#i have at least one more round of barkeepers friend on this pot

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

im done cleaning things with speciality cleaners now thank you!!!! (i am not done)

[obanaispy]

tear you apart - biker!toji x barkeep y/n.

part one.

word count: 1.1k

a/n: this will be a 4 part fic! this part is mostly prologue so it’s tame but the next will contain smut. i suggest listening to ‘tear you apart’ by she wants revenge or ‘nothing burns like the cold’ by snoh whilst reading. thanks you for the support and please leave comments!

18+ mdni

Fuck. How did you end up here again?

Face pressed against the bathroom sink, arms held behind your back as Toji brought you to yet another orgasm. The bar had been closed for about 30 and he had made use of each and every minute.

Pulling up your pants, you peer at him through the mirror reflection— eyes rolling at his smug expression.Toji walks behind you, allowing for his arms to wrap around your waist, lips brushing against your ear as he speaks.

“I thought you weren’t fucking with me anymore..”

Scoffing, you push him off, a smirk tugging at your lips. See, you already knew he was right.. but, there’s no need to admit such a thing. “Maybe..” you finally speak up, fixing your clothes as you head for the door— “..I was in a giving mood today”.

The look you spotted on his face as you gave one last glance back just screamed that he knew you were lying. Mans could read you like you’ve spent an eternity in the palm of his hand. That's one of the many things you enjoyed about him,sadly..

Plus, his dick was big.

“You sure you don’t need me to follow you home? Make sure you’re safe?” Toji questioned, following right behind you as you made your way outside. You chuckle, unlocking your car door— “promise i’m fine. Thanks for the offer”. Backing away with his arms up, he finally mounted his bike— buckling on his helmet. “Text me, sweetheart.” he yelled over the noise of his cycle, to which you replied with a singular thumbs up.

Yet somehow, he’s there at 3am, arms holding you against his chest.

You weren’t entirely sure on how it got to this point. Let’s see.. maybe a walk down the timeline will help give a bit of understanding.

You’ve been working at this bar for about 4 years— snagging the job at the ripe age of 20 because your grandparents owned the place. About two years ago, they kicked the bucket and left you an entire business to run. As if he was a gift from the universe— Toji appeared at that time!

.. Now looking back, he honestly was a curse.

Anyways, you guys hit it off, he helped you through the loss and soon you grew to be close friends. About a year ago, a makeout session went too far and..you woke up snuggled in his comforter. Fun right?

Present day. Here you are trying to cut ties because you’re catching feelings and that was NOT your plan. You came for dick..pull it together.

You had agreed to Toji driving you to the bar today. Grabbing your belongings, you hopped out the door spotting him waiting on his bike right in front of your driveway. Making sure the door was locked, you head down to where he was, giving a brief hello as you slung yourself on the seat space behind him.

“No kiss today? you must be committed” he joked, beginning to take off once you gave a grunt in response.

The ride was quiet for the most part. You guys hummed together and you tried your best not to think about how good he smelled. You could tell he had been using that cologne you gifted him.

It seemed like his scent followed you, dancing at your nose during your entire shift. “Shawty had to have put a spell on me..” you mumble, dishing out yet another round of drinks to the loud men crowding your bar. You recognized a few of them from Toji’s little gang— Gojo and Getou being the most familiar.

“Yo Y/n, don’t forget about me when you’re finally done with Toji” Gojo called out as you placed his drink in front of him with a raised brow. “Now what if he heard you saying that? Better calm yourself” you shoot back, dapping Getou up as you both laughed at the way Gojo’s face dropped.

As if he was summoned by the mention of his name, Toji walked in, immediately dapping up what felt like the entire building before ending at the boys sitting at the bar. “Y’all better not have my sweetheart working too hard” he warned playfully, a wink being given to you. Already having his regular ready, you slid it in front of him with a chuckle— “i’m always workin’ too hard”.

“You wouldn’t have to if you took up my offer.”

Yeah yeah it is true that Toji has offered countless times to take care of you until death but, you didn’t want to owe him one thing. Plus, no one knew how to run this joint like you did.. at least that's what you told him each time he offered.

Closing time came and a tipsy Getou carried out a plastered Gojo screaming out a “be safe!” for good measure. “Will do!” you call out, eyes landing on Toji who was cleaning off the tables with a hum. “I’m gonna help you , Y/n” he said without looking your way, almost as if he was reading your mind. Beginning to give rebuttal, you decide to not stir the pot and simply clean up your personal work area.

About an hour later, you both were heading to your vehicles as always. Before you could get into your car, Toji grabbed your arm— forcing you to look at him. “Ready to tell me what’s up?�� he questioned, voice hushed.

“What’s up?” you shoot back, choosing to stay in ignorance. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek in slight annoyance— “yeah. You’ve been actin’ strange. Won’t look me in the eye.. stopped sharing your location”. His tone held a certain worry to it.

As much as you hate to admit it— you loved that he cared enough to question it.

Breathing out, a hand comes up to fiddle your hair as you speak— “I feel like we’re getting too serious and.. I know that wasn’t our plan so.. yeah.”. Toji stood there for a moment, taking in your words. “Y/n.. you gotta communicate that with me. I cherish you more than I do us being sexual.” His hand caressed your cheek, the rough, calloused texture feeling comforting. It traveled to grip your chin, directing your head to tilt up at him.

“You’ll have to kill me to get rid of me.”

Those words replayed in your head all the way home, in the shower and even whilst you made yourself dinner. Realizing you could not even begin to focus— you finally pick up your phone to message him.

“I got more of those chips you like.”

It felt like an eternity before you heard your phone vibrate.

“gimme 10.”

[thestarburnfighter]

In Familia Virtus - Chapter 1

A Mighty Nein and OC story

Vianna Starburn was a merchant’s daughter, and she was supposed to be finding the latest town in the north east of Wildemount for her father to attempt new trade in. Trostenwald was a disappointment, and she had been preparing to leave farther north when a Tiefling, of purple skin and even more so colorful clothes, stopped her before she could mount her horse.

“Leaving this lovely town so soon? My dear, you’ve yet to see the best show they can offer!”

She had seen many swindlers and cheats before, but their demeanor was so carefree. Yes, they were definitely trying to oversell the appeal, but they weren’t looking to empty her pockets. Their smile was genuine as they bid her call them Molly, and with no true destination in mind just yet, staying one last night wouldn’t harm the family trade.

She was not quite sure what compelled her to join the people fighting. She was not a strong fighter, and everything she knew was mostly for defense. But she had a longsword and shield, and with seven other’s fighting against the sudden zombies as well, the small battle was easily won. Being told to stay in town as part of an investigation, however, was not in her plan.

Neither was engaging with this ragtag group that had officially trapped her here for Goddess knew how long. At least one of them had fled and was no where to be seen, and she knew at two had diverted back in the direction of the inn. The blue Tiefling, Jester, was quick to converse (more like talk at her) her about the towns baked goods as they passed by the bakery.

Viana made polite conversation with her as she mentioned missing the treats back in Nicodranas. She knew the bakeries very well there, and Viana was happy for the time being to talk about something of familiarity. However, the looming Crownsguard at the entrance of the inn reminded er of her current fate, and her mood turn sour. She tried to get back to her room once they all arrived back at The Nestled Nook, but they were very persistent at buying her a drink as a means to stay and talk.

The green half-orc in particular was promising a pint of her choice in the tavern, and the two Tieflings were encouraging her as well. The monk was apathetic, neither women caring much about each other’s presence, and the wizard and his friend- a goblin of all creatures, she had seen during the fight- seemed confused by her connection to them.

“I appreciate the offer, very kind indeed, but I’ve had a rather disappointing time here and would prefer to wallow in a bed rather than a drink.”

The purple Tiefling, Molly they insisted once more as she spoke, gently grabbed her hand and started to lead her to a table with the barmaid was bringing forth a round of drinks Molly had ordered just a moment earlier.

They spoke with a laugh in their voice, always ready to sell. “Come sit, please, and if you won’t allow him, allow me to get you something as an apology. You were well on your way out of here this morning, and I am the reason you’re no longer any farther.”

Viana sighed as she sat, “Very well. One drink, perhaps, will be alright. But the moment it’s done, I’m off to bed.”

“Of course dear, of course! Adelaide,” they called to the barmaid, “One last drink- a- what would you like love? Anything.”

“The Oveso is just fine.”

Mollymauk ordered it and turned his attention all on her as the group seemed to be settling with each other. The monk was almost aggressively questioning the man and goblin, with the half orc and Jester interjecting here and there.

“As we wait, tell me more about yourself, my dear. I don’t believe I’ve even gotten your name.”

They weren’t the only ones. Everyone stopped talking for just a moment to turn to her, and she realized she didn’t manage to keep close most of anyone’s name even though she had heard them a few times. She was quiet as she spoke, stomach fluttering a bit as everyone at the table looked to her.

“Well, my name is Viana Starburn. I’m going town to town on behalf of my father. He’s a merchant, and we deal mostly with craft wares. Pottery, fabrics, weavings, and such. I’m hoping we can expand here in the Empire.”

“Here in the Empire? Where are you from originally?”

“We do our trade mostly out of Palma Flora, but we live some miles from the town. It’s very small, directly south of Port Damali by ship.”

The half orc motioned to himself, “Jester and I are from the Coast as well. I’m Fjord, by the way. It’s nice to meet you. You did well with that sword.”

“Thank you, you’re not so bad yourself.”

The barmaid brought forth another round of drinks, including the wine. The monk leaned forward and introduced herself. “Name’s Beau. That’s outta Feolinn, right? Decent brand. Does your family trade wine too?”

“No, not our forte. But, the Oveso family pass by our home on their own trading route and we won’t say no to a fair trade. They’re a cheap wine anyway, and always quick to send their barrels out.” Beau seemed to like that answer as she smirked and leaned back.

The group fell back into learning about each other, and Viana quietly sipped her wine as the goblin, Nott, attempted to dazzle Jester with a money pot trick. Beau turned out to be from a wine family, and Jester was a cleric who worshipped a deity named the Traveler. When Fjord inquired about seeing a bigger magic trick, she used her God given powers and nearly set the Crownsguard on them again.

As the guards left, Viana quickly tipped back the half glass she had left and stood to leave. “As promised, thank you Mollymauk, but I do believe that signals my leave.”

“Come now, we were just getting started, and I know you were enjoying this. When was the last time you’ve had a talk with more than the barkeep? Surely you must be a bit lonely out here, alone and far from home?”

“Believe it or not, you’re not the first group of people I’ve met that’s nearly got me thrown in the local jail. My experience in the Empire hasn’t necessarily been a good time, and I’d like to make it back home without a stain on my family’s record. I doubt I can do that with any of you.”

The human man stood up, holding up his second trost, “Please, one more trick if you will. You’ll see we’re not so bad.”

Viana sighed and sat back down, earning a grin and a pat on the shoulders from Mollymauk. Caleb called for Nott to stand on the table, and began casting. Several light appeared from his hands and gently drifted over to her, covering her in golden light. She stood proudly, watching Caleb in thoughtful awe, before letting out a screeching vocal in an attempt to sing as the light surrounded her.

“The Goblight, ladies and gentlemen. The Goblight.”

From behind them, a drunk and sleepy patron called himself impressed before passing out in his glass. Viana chuckled and Fjord asked Caleb about his magic. The half orc was interested in expanding his own magic abilities, apparently having only recently learned some. Jester, despite being a cleric- was not up to show off any healing magic. With the attention off his magic, she noticed that Caleb was very quick to turn attention back onto others. He asked about Mollymauk’s plans for the next day, and they were rather melancholy in response.

“Well, they have all my things and they have all my family. I’m going to figure out what is going on. Try and find out what’s actually doing this. I assume since it’s none of us, it’s going to happen again.”

Upon hearing that statement, it was barely a thought for her to have to think. Viana placed a hand over theirs, “If it was my family’s reputation being falsely dragged through the mud, I’d do anything to set it right. I was there, and I saw, and I know at the very least you and Gustav had no part in what happened. I’ll help, if I can.”

Molly appeared shocked, “Truly? After all I’ve done to you?”

“You couldn’t have known. And if you did this to extort anymore copper from me, then you’ve failed quite miserably for you’ve now spent more than I to apologize.”

Jester leaned forward and asked, “But how can we because we can’t leave this tavern?”

Little plan was made that night as the group unofficially agreed to plan in the morning. They all head to their rooms, Beau and Jester tapering off first, Fjord and Molly next, and Viana just after them. Nott hurried on ahead, but Caleb paused her just a moment. He caught her eye, and his were a deep and sorrowful blue.

“I realized, I never got you that drink.”

“Don’t worry, one was enough for me. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Uh- Caleb. Caleb Widogast.”

“That was a neat trick Mr. Widogast, but I’ll be quite honest, it’s going to take a bit more than some magic to keep me from regretting staying a moment longer.”

He said with a smirk, “But you stayed, didn’t you?”

“Goodnight, Mr. Widogast,” she replied with a roll of her eyes.

“Goodnight, Miss Starburn,” he started to turn away but quickly turned back, “Hold on, take more? I suppose we shall continue to see more of each other then?”

“Well, you’re staying here and seemed to have already enmeshed yourself in that group despite not being under order to stay. You’ll have to stay just as long as I, right?”

She turned away before he could respond and went to settle in her room. Viana had seen eyes like his before in her travels. Sailors who had seen the darkness below the waves, merchants who had done what they needed to protect themselves on the road, her brother’s a year into his firm.

Caleb had only started to pull her in, but Molly and Jester had a hand as well. Both Tieflings had charmed her, it seemed, but even still she could feel the mischief on them. And having grown up with mischief from her siblings, she knew it would extend to this group soon enough if not already.

Reputation was the most important thing a person could have, and she was innocent in this event, and so were the rest of them. If not for them, then for herself, she would help them be absolved, and then she would continue on to Zadash.

A few moments to dress for the night, to reorganize her pack, and finally an evening prayer to Avandra for her family. She fell quickly to sleep, the slow creeping exhaustion of the day and night finally hitting her.

[amuseoffyre]

Crossing Paths - 1868 - 1941 - The Estrangement

Welp, this was kind of inevitable. I kept seeing the Crowley-slept-through-the-19th-century thing and decided to roll with it ;) This is also the biggest chapter for this story, unsurprisingly. (Feel free to poke me with any queries re. history mentioned herein)

1868 – St. James’s Park, London

The fob watch was cold and heavy.

Aziraphale glanced anxiously at it again, then looked around the park. There was no sign of Crowley anywhere. Even the ducks were peering at the angel suspiciously, as if wondering why someone would be trying conspire alone.

It was dreadfully rare for Crowley to miss a meeting at their appointed rendezvous. The demon was occasionally late, which he claimed was a default state for him and his kind. That or obsessively punctual with no middle-ground. But this was the third time in as many years.

Aziraphale pocketed his watch, then resumed feeding handfuls of seed to the ducks, but it felt automatic, rather than a pleasure today.

He could remember the last words they had exchanged and now, thinking back on them, he wondered if he – they had both been too harsh. He had panicked. What else had Crowley expected of him, asking such a ridiculous thing?

Such a demand could only have one end and Crowley was not a demon to kill, which meant there was only one use he might have for the… the requested substance. He had not seemed suicidal, but sometimes with Crowley, it was very difficult to tell what he was thinking or planning.

No. No! He couldn’t let his mind wander down those roads again. Crowley was alive. He would have known if anything had happened to him. He would have. So it followed that Crowley was either very late or simply ignoring him.

I don’t need you.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. Strange how much words could hurt as much as a blow. 

Rain started pattering down and he groped for the watch again. Almost an hour late now.

There was no point lingering in the rain. He dusted the seed off his gloves, then turned and made his way along the winding path by the pond towards the gates by Horseguards.

“Oh, I do hope he’s all right,” he murmured.

  1868 – Whitechapel, London

A sliver of daylight broke in between the curtains, cutting across the vast four-poster bed. It was the only item of furniture in the bare room apart from a small table, upon which there was a small pile of unopened letters, each one sealed with gold wax and stamped with an A. The floor was littered with bottles, some empty, some full, and the walls bare and blank except for a single drawing of an enigmatically-smiling woman.

“Gnah,” someone muttered from beneath a pile of blankets on the bed. A pale hand poke out and snapped its fingers. The curtains shifted and the daylight vanished.

A few seconds later, the pile of blankets resumed snoring.

  1871 – Holborn, London

The solitary man painted a forlorn portrait near the bar. The chair on the opposite side of the table had remained empty for much of the evening and by degrees, the man’s expression drifted from amiable to melancholic.

Theodore tapped his own glass against his lip. This was not a bar that gentlemen came to in order to sit alone. He smiled slightly, then made his way between the tables and chairs to sit down opposite the fair-haired man.

The man’s face lit up. “Crow–” He broke off, his expression giving way to misery once more. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

“I could not help but notice you seemed terribly mournful,” Theodore said with his best and most winsome smile. “Can I be the one to cheer you?”

The man stared at him blankly for a moment. He was a charming-looking fellow, pleasantly plump with round cherubic cheeks and unruly blond curls in a halo about his head. “I– I’m afraid I’m waiting for someone.”

Theodore leaned forward. “You seem to have been waiting for a devilish long time.”

The man dropped his eyes to the cup between his hands, looking even more forlorn than before. “Yes,” he agreed unhappily. “Devilish long.”

Theodore leaned back in his chair, raising a hand to catch the barkeeper’s eye. “Then I shall keep you company until your friend arrives.” He adjusted his smile to a softer one that the more sentimental and discerning gentleman usually appreciated. “I’m sure he shan’t be long.”

The man’s expression brightened a little. “That’s awfully kind of you…” He hesitated. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

That, Theodore thought triumphantly, was always a promising sign. “Theodore Lockhart,” he said, extending his hand across the table to the man.

“Az… Um… Alexander Fell.” He reached out and politely shook Theodore’s hand. “Thank you.”

Theodore laughed warmly as the barkeeper approached with a bottle of Theodore’s favourite wine. “Oh, it’s purely self-indulgence, Alexander,” he said, surprised when the man didn’t protest the use of his Christian name. “You see, I was rather lonely too.”

“Oh?” The man gave Theodore his full attention for the first time and for a moment, Theodore felt his usual manners falter. Alexander’s eyes were intense and clear as if they could see right through him. Oh, he was lovely.

Perhaps it was terribly hasty, but he reached over and covered Alexander’s hand with one of his own. “Perhaps… we can be friends?”

Alexander’s gaze dropped to their hands. His own was motionless under Theodore’s and for a moment, Theodore wondered if he had made a terrible misjudgement. Then those remarkable eyes returned to his face. “Perhaps. For now, company will be enough.”

  1871 – Whitechapel, London

The room was still dark. The frame of the painting was a little dustier. So were the blankets on the bed. A single foot poked out from beneath the covers, scalier and darker than a foot had any right to be.

 1876 – Oxford

“I knew it would impress you!”

Aziraphale smiled indulgently at his human companion. He had had several of them in the past few years, though inevitably they all drifted away. Each of them seemed to expect something of him – some ineffable thing they dared not speak of – which he lacked to means to understand or to give.

If he was to be entirely honest with himself, some small part of him was relieved.

They were sweet-natured young men, charming and enthusiastic, but they lacked something, and if they chose to withdraw from him, then he didn’t have to worry about it. It was far worse to be left behind by someone you believed had cared.

I have plenty of other people to fraternise with.

As much as he hated to admit it, he still missed the damned demon, no matter how many lovely young men he crossed paths with.

Still, Crowley was the one who had stopped responding to his messages, so eventually, Aziraphale had reached out to find every letter he had sent since that awful day in the park and turned them to ash where they lay. If Crowley was going to ignore him, then he would… just do the same thing.

So far, he had managed to go almost five years without sending any messages. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t written them. There was an embarrassingly large stack that he tried to ignore every time he sat down at his desk. But they hadn’t been sent. That was the important thing.

“The architecture has always been quite splendid,” he said as Nicodemus slipped his arm through Aziraphale’s.

Nicodemus – son of an upstanding merchant – had bumped into him when the angel had given a reading in the British Museum. It been a peculiar whim after one too many nights alone in his shop, an empty glass sitting on the table.

And so, he had done a reading of Mediaeval literature and his latest companion had attended.

He was a student at the university, in town to visit the museum, and had been appalled to hear that Aziraphale had not visited Oxford for at least twenty years. It was really closer to one-hundred and fifty, but the young man didn’t need to know that. Another peculiar whim.

Call it what it is, angel, he chided himself. A distraction.

“That’s not all I brought you here for,” Nicodemus confided, his dark eyes shining. “I have someone who is dying to meet you.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale tried to maintain his smile. More often than not, his companions’ friends had proved less than stimulating company. “And who might that be?”

For once, it was someone who proved entirely worth meeting.

The long-limbed young man unfolded from his couch as Aziraphale and Nicodemus entered. He was tall, with compelling features that were not quite handsome. His hair dark hair was tumbling about his shoulders, his clothes exquisite and far more extravagant than the average human’s.

“Oscar,” Nicodemus sounded beside himself with giddiness. “This is my… friend, Mr. Fell. Mr. Fell, this is my good chum, Oscar Wilde.”

Aziraphale offered his hand to the young man, fascinated. One could always spot an artist. They had a particular energy about them and this one… oh, he positively glowed. “A delight to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wilde.”

A flash of a smile crossed the young man’s face. “My friends,” he said, his mellifluous voice rich as honey, “call me Oscar.”

  1876 – Whitechapel, London

A spider scuttled across the pillow, scrambling over a motionless hand.

There was a quiet grumble from the depths of the bedding, then the hand moved, twitching the spider away. The same hand reached down, leaving the covers as little as possible, groping around on the floor.

It made two journeys.

One for one of the few full bottles that remained and the other for the chamber pot.

Twenty minutes later, the pile of blankets started snoring again.

  1882 – Portland Place, London

“If you’re absolutely sure I won’t be imposing?”

Lord Arthur Somerset grinned at the man sitting opposite him in the carriage. “Entering at my side? You’ll be welcomed like a Prince, Master Fell.”

The fair-haired man smiled bashfully. “Well, there’s no need for that.”

Somerset regarded him with fond amusement. The man was not a gentleman by the commonly accepted standards, but they had crossed paths at one salon or another and had fallen in together quite nicely. Fell was a little older than Somerset himself, well-spoken, eloquent and well-educated. Not the type that usually caught his eye at all.

However, he had a particular naïve charm which had fascinated the aristocrat far more than it ought to have and which vexed him even more when Fell seemed utterly oblivious to his more pressing advances.

“Ah!” Somerset declared as the carriage drew up outside the building. “Here we are.” He gave Fell a wicked smile. “You still can change your mind. I’m not here to tempt you, after all.”

Fell smiled back at him, although for a moment, it almost looked forced. “Well, I’m here now and I would quite like to see what all the fuss is about.”

Somerset stepped down from the carriage first, then offered Fell his hand to assist him down. Most other men would have recoiled or puffed up in indignation, but Fell only took his hand, smiled that charming smile of his and said “thank you” as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Somerset darted a tongue along his lower lip.

Once the man saw the inside of the club, surely he would grasp Arthur’s intentions towards him. After all, the Hundred Guineas Club had a particular kind of reputation and even someone as refreshingly innocent as Fell couldn’t fail to notice that.

He offered Fell his arm. “Will you join me, then?”

Fell’s smile creased lines into the softness of his face. “I would be delighted.”

   1882 – Whitechapel, London

One of the pillows had ended up on the floor. A foot was resting on the other. The owner of the foot was buried back under the wine-stained blankets. His head hadn’t emerged for almost six months.

  1900 – Paris

“Oh, my dear…”

Oscar forced his eyes open, though it took what little strength he had left. The door had not opened, nor had he heard the ascent of anyone upon the creaking staircase, but a man was seated by him on the very lip of the bed, his ageless face stricken with grief.

“Mr. Fell,” he breathed, every word a throbbing blade through his skull. “A pleasure.”

The man leaned closer, gathering up Oscar’s hand to his breast as if to keep him from slipping from the mortal coil. “I ought to have come sooner,” he said, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “It has all been so dreadful and then I heard you were ill…”

Oscar closed his eyes, drawing a slow and aching breath. “Nonsense,” he murmured. “I could not ask that of you.”

Fell laid his hand, light as featherdown, on Oscar’s chest and for a moment, the pain in his head receded like a wave ebbing from the shore. “All the same,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

It was if the chill of the damp little room had been swept away. There was comfort and warmth of a sort that Oscar had only ever written, thrumming through his weary body down to his bones, brushing aside all shame and bitterness and anger.

He opened his eyes to look at Fell.

Even though the room was dark, the windows shuttered against the winter’s bitter cold, Fell shone as bright as a sun.

“Who are you?” Oscar breathed, unable to tear his eyes away. “What are you?”

Fell – if that was even his name – smiled his heart-breakingly beautiful smile. “I’m your friend,” he whispered.

And behind him, wings of purest divine light unfurled and, for the last moments of his life, Oscar could swear he looked upon the face of Heaven.

  1900 – Whitechapel, London

Someone had decided that the property must be empty after so many years. Made sense. No one had come or gone in almost half a century. Who wouldn’t try and break into a place like that and see if they couldn’t steal a bit more space for themselves and their family.

The bold – and stupid – intruder went in bravely enough.

When he came out, he was grey-faced, his hair turned white as snow, and for seventh months, he didn’t say a word.

And when he finally spoke, he only had two words.

“Stay away.”

  1916 – Verdun-sur-Meuse

It would have been a lovely summer’s afternoon, if not for the bombardment.

Aziraphale had always hated battlefields, but with every leap forward in the weapons of war, they became more bloody and terrible. The best he could do was offer flickers of hope and once in a while, a whisper of a miracle. They were becoming fewer and further between as hope faltered and the mud churned up, scarlet and black and rotting.

He had broken his promise to himself.

He had tried his utmost to be resolved, to show Crowley that he was neither needed nor wanted, but Lord, he was so very tired.

He had written. Once in 1914, when he felt the tremors through Europe of the coming war, then again after Ypres. And then, every battle, he had sat among the soldiers on either side, scratching letters, sending them with a prayer that they would reach him.

A dozen letters, maybe more, and not a single response.

He had hoped that Crowley would remember all the battlefields they had walked before. There had been so many. It felt strange to face a battle without the demon there, picking at him, teasing him and making faces at him from the opposite side.

Aziraphale turned his face towards the sun, where it was peeping over the edge of the trench.

Was it too much to hope that their friendship counted for something? He was so sure it had. Surely… surely, such a little argument couldn’t undo all those centuries and millennia? Yes, Crowley could be stubborn, but surely not that stubborn.

He rubbed at his eyes, sunspots dancing behind his lids, then sighed and miracled up another piece of paper.

It’s lovely here today. It reminds me of Noricum in the summer. Do you remember that siege? Those damned boars? Less Celts, although it smells about the same. If you have a little time–

He gazed down at the paper, then crushed it in his hand.

So many letters and no response. Why expect one now?

Further down the trench, there was a shout and the soldiers started mobilising. Aziraphale got back to his feet, aching with fatigue. It was going to be a long year.

 1917 – Whitechapel

The blankets had disintegrated and been replaced with newer, bigger ones. There were more crates of wine on the floor. Possibly miracled. He wasn’t sure. Didn’t really care, as long as the world stayed nice and fuzzy and quiet and with no stupid thoughts about any stupid angels and their stupid stupid moral high grounds.

Crowley shoved his head deeper under the pillows.

He didn’t hear the whisper of the neglected, dusty pile of letters slipping over on the table and spilling onto the floor.

  1941 – Soho, London

Aziraphale straightened his tie and smoothed the lines of his coat.

As much as he hated to admitted, there was something invigorating about playing against type.

It was – he was absolutely certain – nothing to do with almost a millennia of performing both temptations and blessings. No. Certainly not. But who wouldn’t like to outwit the latest evil to rise from the mind of humanity?

It was a gloomy night, the moon a thin crescent. The perfect night for villainy and mischief.

He smiled as he picked up the bundle of books. Or for thwarting it.

  1941 – Whitechapel

Two years was a hell of a long time to try and shake a hangover.

‘Parently, there was in fact a threshold for the amount of booze a single demon could imbibe without being physically capable of willing himself sober. That had been a long bugger of a lesson to live through.

Still, it’d given him a bit of time to catch up on things he’d missed while he was having a nap.

There’d been a few wars. One bloody big one from the sound of it. ‘Great’. Humans always did like to use weird words to describe awful things. Not that he felt guilty about leaving the angel in the deep end. Nope. Not at all. Wasn’t like they’d done a mess of wars together.

Weren’t even any messages from the bastard. Not one.

Okay, yeah, there were some suspiciously papery-looking piles of ash on his table and his floor, but Az– the angel would never destroy the written word. S’like an allergic reaction. He’d probably come out in hives over it.

Crowley rubbed at his eyes again. They felt like they’d been replaced with two dusty snooker balls, grating against the inside of his eyelids.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” He focussed all his wobbly power inwards, around the still thumping headache, and almost cried – in a very cool and manly way – when he felt the alcohol finally seeping out of his system. The pain in his head vanished and the world stopped spinning just enough for him to sag with relief. “Thank G– er… me.”

It took another couple of hours before his brain felt like it wasn’t about to dribble out of his ear.

It was another three before – just out of morbid curiosity – he let his awareness stretch out. Not because he wanted to check on him or anything, but just to see where the stupid angel was.

Huh.

In the city. North bank of the Thames. In a bloody church of all places.

Crowley paused, frowning.

Carefully, he let his power do a rerun through his sodden corporation, because he couldn’t be sensing what his still-kind-of-pickled brain was telling him was there. Then he focussed on the church and the other people inside it. Their souls had a very, very familiar flavour and he risked a taste of their intentions.

“Oh holy fuck!”

  1941 – Soho, London

Aziraphale had been quiet for the whole drive back to his shop.

Crowley wasn’t sure what he could say.

The minute he saw his bloody stupid angel standing in the church – even though he was surrounded by Nazis and had a gun pointed at him – all the anger he’d been trying to drown out with far, far, far too much alcohol evaporated like it had never been there.

Even if Aziraphale had seemed annoyed to see him, even if he’d been forced to dance about like an idiot to avoid getting his feet burned, even if they’d parted on bad terms, all he could think about was the fact that Aziraphale would be all right.

And his books, of course. He would have been useless if he’d lost his books. Probably even done something as stupid as get infinitely drunk and unconscious for a few decades.

Still, eighty years was a long time. They hadn’t been apart for that long, not for millennia, and finding the words to fill in the gap seemed impossible.

“Here we are then,” he finally broke the silence as he pulled up outside the shop. He’d even driven a bit slower than usual, but that was mostly because of bombs. Almost mostly. Partly.

Aziraphale didn’t immediately move to get out. “Crowley,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands, which were wrapped around the handle of the stolen Nazi case which he had on his lap.

“Yeah?”

“Where… where were you?”

Crowley fiddled with the steering wheel of the Bentley. “Um.”

Aziraphale took a small, quiet breath. “It– I was worried.”

“Ohhhh…” Crowley winced, trying his best to sound casual. “You know me. I keep out of trouble.”

“Yes.” He heard the rustle of fabric and turned his head to find Aziraphale gazing at him. God, he’d missed that stupid bloody angel. “I remember.” Aziraphale looked like he was trying not to cry, a weak smile crossing his lips. “Did you have a good time?”

Enough alcohol to resink the Titanic. Miserably hiding away from everything and everyone. Avoiding the only person who had ever given a shit about him.

For once, he didn’t want to bluff and act like everything was fine. “No.” He tried to force a smile. “It was rubbish.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked back down at the case. “Would– I have a bottle of Chateau-neuf–”

The thought of any more drinks made Crowley’s stomach twist. “No.”

The angel’s face fell. “Oh.”

God, he hated seeing him like that, especially when they were finally finding their way back to some kind of truce.

“I had a rough couple of… decades…” He winced again. “No wine, yeah? Maybe – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – a cup of tea?”

It was as if he’d switched a light on behind Aziraphale’s eyes. “Oh, that would be lovely. I may even have some biscuits.”

Crowley couldn’t help laughing at that. “Of course you do.” He pushed his door open. “C’mon then, angel.”

When Aziraphale beamed at him, he couldn’t keep from smiling in response.

[viscer-aa]

Scrapped HSFBL Prologue 🍑🦷

[heres the prologue I scrapped and had to rewrite the backstory. Ive figured out what i want for the new one so have no fear ill be rewriting this soon]

Prologue

The inn was warm and merry. The fire crackled brightly in its place, lapping the pot of stew, whose aroma hung in the air with the ale and sweat from the dancers. The bard played a jaunty tune on his flute as a woman with a tambourine spun and tapped her feet to the tune, the little bells on her fur coat jingling. A man approached her, swaying as he stepped, taking her free hand in an attempt to dance with her, only for her to scoff and push the drunken man back into his seat by the fire. His comrades roared with laughter, spilling their drinks on the wood floor. The barkeep would’ve scolded them for this, if she too wasn’t laughing.

“Blimey Gunter, what did ye think was gonna ‘appen?” A bearded man to his right hiccuped, slapping his companion on the back. Gunter shoved back causing the man to drop his drink, ale soaking into his blood-splattered boots. The bearded man froze, then gasped dramatically. “You bastard!” He cried accusingly, a grin spreading over his features despite himself. He lunged at his friend, pulling him into a headlock and digging his knuckles into his scalp. Gunter coughed and grabbed at the arm, but was weak from laughter. His companion howled, “Are ye tired from th’ wench earlier? Ye’r hardly strugglin’!”

Gunter scoffed, “Ah please, as if you’re any trouble after such a docile vamp like that!” and dropped his own mug in favor of wrapping his arms tight around his friend’s middle and slamming him onto the ground. The barkeep hollered over the din.

“Oi! boys! Knock it off!”

“Ease up, Hilda!” The dancer smiled, still tapping on her tambourine. "You shouldn't be too hard on them, they're heroes after all!"

"No hero of mine goes around vanquishing floors!" Hilda bit back, stern demeanor ruined by a bubble of laughter. The other patrons watching the spectacle laughed and laughed. After watching Gunter deliver a swift elbow to the other’s stomach, a fellow hunter decided that that was enough and pulled the two off of each other and back onto their chairs. “Thank you Magni!” Magni smiled warmly at the barkeep with a nod of his red head.

A fourth hunter seated on Magni’s left punched his arm. “If you get any sweeter on that girl I think I’ll vomit!” Laughter flared up again as Magni’s face went as red as his hair. Hilda chuckled and smiled warmly.

“Well I’m sweet on him too, seeing as he’s the only one with any manners among you.” Magni turned even redder than his hair at that. A fifth voice spoke up from the front of their circle facing the fire, which cast long shadows over his face. His beetle-black eyes dimly reflected the glow of his pipe.

“Watch yourself, boy,” He spoke in a voice cracked and worn with age. “Quick love like this only makes one stupid. I would think you’d be smarter considering what just happened with Kieran.” Any residual bits of laughter were sucked up as the old hunter took a drag from his pipe. Magni’s face went back to its usual pale, though he felt nearly green with sick at the implication of the words. The smell of the fire was suddenly heavy.

“... Poor Kieran.” He muttered, barely over the crackling of the fire. The fourth hunter reached over and patted his shoulder.

“It had to be done, you know that.”

Magni’s face scrunched up in distress, then released in a sad huff. “I know, I know,” he sighed and wrung his hands. “It just that I’d never seen Kieran happier.”

The older man held no such sentiment. “That monster bewitched him. He’ll be right in no time now that she’s gone,” He said, punctuating the statement with another puff of his pipe.

Gunter, ever the optimist, let out a hearty laugh and patted Magni on the shoulder. “Hear that?” He shouted. “He’ll be right as rain in no time!” He leaned in close and whispered, or at least tried the best a drunk man could to whisper. “Here, I know just what you need to lift your spirits. Hilda! Another round!” He turned and yelled across the tavern.

“I think you’ve had more than enough ale-” Magni began.

“Nonsense! There’s no such thing as ‘enough ale’!”

And with that, the jovial atmosphere was restored as Hilda loaded up the rusted metal tray with tankards. “If you spill another mug, Gunter, I’m going to make you sleep outside with the horses.” Passing them out to the five hunters, she leaned in close and whispered to Magni. “When you decide to turn in, perhaps you’d like to come join me? Take your mind off of things?” To which Magni was immediately bright red. “Just a thought,” Hilda winked, and walked back over to the bar.

The hunter on Magni’s left nearly fell out of his chair from laughing so hard as the bard began a love song on his flute. The old man huffed and muttered through his pipe.

“I see you’re pointedly ignoring my advice.”

The hunter, now actually on the floor, wheezed out between giggles. “You said it yourself old man; Kieran was just under a spell from that witch! Magni will be just fine, unless Hilda’s secretly a vampire or something.”

The bearded man spoke up. “I would hope not. I warded this place myself.”

“Hilda!” The man on the floor called out, “We don’t have to worry about you bewitching anyone, do we?”

“Igni, all you have to worry about is what I’ll do to Gunter if he spills any more of my ale.”

“Well said!” Igni raised up his mug and took a hearty swig, effectively spilling the entire thing on his face, inciting a harsh yell from the barkeep. Gunter prodded him to get back up as the bearded man leaned forward towards the old man.

“Say, Ragnvaldr,” he began. “How long will it be ‘til this spell on th’ boy wears off?”

Ragnvaldr sprinkled more tobacco into his pipe. “It should’ve worn off after we killed the vampire.”

Magni shifted in his seat uncomfortably, scratching at his beard in thought. “...Where is Kieran, anyway? It’s been so long.”

“Aye, it has,” The bearded man agreed. “Th’ hell has he been up to?”

After a few flicks of a lighter and a long drag, Ragnvaldr sighed out, “He’s working as a sawyer. Last I’d heard he was headed to Stoclyn on business, but he should be getting back about now.” Igni finally sat up, intrigued, after effectively ignoring Gunter’s attempts to get him up.

“Shouldn’t we be looking for him, then?”

“Calm down, son,” Ragnvaldr chided as he nudged Igni all the way up with his boot. “I left a note at his home telling him where we are. If everything went well, he should be on his way now.” Igni settled back into his seat with a contented sigh, flashing a smile at Magni, who was positively beaming.

With the tension in the air properly dispelled, the night continued on filled with joyous music, gripping stories, and delighted cheers. Gunter had finally gotten his dance with the tambourine woman (albeit mostly out of her pitying him,) as the others regaled in the evening pleasantries. Ragnvaldr sat still in his chair with his pipe, yet looked on his companions with a sort of fatherly fondness in his dark eyes. The hours had melted away by the time the door to the inn swung open with a thundering crash and the whipping of the winter wind. A woman swaddled in a cloak next to the door muttered a complaint about the cold. All eyes turned towards to see. Magni and Igni leapt out of their seats eagerly to catch sight of the newcomer.

In the doorway stood a dark figure, short and stocky, dark hair and coat peppered white with snow. The firelight didn’t reach his sunken eyes.

“Kieran?” Igni called out. The figure didn’t answer, and instead stood there, expression unreadable.

Ragnvaldr slowly stood and turned towards the man. He smiled warmly at him, black eyes brimming with tears. “Welcome back, son,” He spoke softly.

“Danika,” Kieran whispered; an empty sound as if he hadn’t even heard Ragnvaldr.

The elder hunter tensed up momentarily, then sighed and moved to wrap his arms around the boy in a comforting embrace.

[and then we were gonna have a very dramatic “you killed my wife!!!” deal and the hunters try to argue that Danika never loved Kieran and only bewitched him and Kieran was gonna deliver some badass line like “i’ve never been more sober in my life” and kill everyone in the inn with a hatchet, end prologue]

[fontainebleau22]

Oooh could you do a directors commentary for A Scent of Lavender? I'd love to hear one for the scene that starts with ‘I’ll need to pass on this hand,’ and the scene right after from '‘I’ll need to pass on this hand,’ up until 'No harm, then'. And also to hear any background info on how you chose the idea, and what kind of research you might have done for it!

Thank you so much for the ask, and sorry it took me a while to get around to it! I really enjoyed thinking about this, though it’s pretty long.

‘I’ll need to pass on this hand,’ says Goodnight,pushing back his chair.

I agonised alot about the change of tense between the Goody/Billy story (present) and Tess’sstory (past), but there was just no other way to do it that I could find. And,as I said elsewhere, if it’s good enough for Dickens in Bleak House then it’s good enough for me.

MacClaren scowls. ‘Not thinking of quitting on us?’Goodnight’s luck’s been good, or his companions’ attention poor, and he’sclaimed a steady run of pots, but he’s sharp enough to realise that MacClarenhas thrown in several likely hands, encouraging a less wary player to thinkhimself better than he was: he’ll expect to recoup his losses and more as theliquor flows and the evening progresses.

There’s a lotof Deadwood behind this fic, and whileMacClaren is just an extra, for the scene as a whole I had in mind some of thepermanent poker players who figure as extras in Deadwood.

Goodnight holds up his hands placatingly. ‘A call tothe outhouse: I’m not done yet.’

He takes his time out back, then once the game hasre-engaged MacClaren’s attention, he slips back to the bar to find Billy. Thisis one of the many advantages of a partner he’d found; too often before when hewas gambling the drink and the company would go to his head, and what he wonwhile the evening was young he’d lose or drink away later on. Now he can quietlypass a handful of notes and coins to Billy, always clear-minded and precise nomatter how much he’s drunk, and know that they’ll wake up in profit. To hissurprise, though, Billy’s abandoned his station at the bar and is sitting at atable with one of the girls, apparently in lively conversation.

At first he’s simply taken aback: this is the firsttime in the months they’ve spent together that he’s seen his new partner showany interest in female company. But it’s human nature, after all, and Billy’s aman; maybe he’s been holding back since they partnered up. On the heels ofsurprise follows a wave of self-reproach. They’ve always shared a room; theysettled into that early without debate to save money and trouble both, butmaybe Billy’s felt it to be more of a constraint than he liked to consider.

This isprobably my unspoken headcanon that Goody is actually a pretty selfish person,or at least a person who finds little interest in anyone else around him, apartfrom Billy, and at this stage in their partnership his bubble of self-obsessionis just starting to expand to enclose Billy in it.

Their partnership has been lucrative, and they’vemoved from wariness to something he’d like to call friendship: he enjoysBilly’s companionship and he hopes that’s reciprocated. If it raises feelingsin him that he thought were long dead, if he’d like to offer more, much more,mesmerised from that first meeting by his fine-boned face, his dark eyes, thestrength and lightning-fast reflexes he wears so lightly, well, Goodnight keepsthat locked away inside.

OK, here’s why Iwas annoyed with the comments I got about Goody being too passive and subordinateto Billy in his emotions in this fic. There is a power imbalance between them, of coursethere is – Goody is white, educated, respected and if not wealthy himself,comes from a wealthy background, while Billy is poor, a member of a despisedminority, without family in the US and owning only what he stands up in. Ofcourse Goody is going to be incredibly tentative in expressing his feelings,even if he thinks they might be reciprocated: as I read it, he has to let Billy come to him rather than theother way around.

But he’s welcomed their growing intimacy, two againsta hostile world, without thought, and now, it seems, here’s proof he was wrong.

The girl’s not exactly sitting in Billy’s lap:they’re just talking, a respectable distance apart, but even so he doesn’t feelhe wants to interrupt. Looking at her, Goodnight thinks he recognises the girlwho spoke to him earlier, and he wonders, why this one? She’s pretty, as far ashe’s any judge, doll-like, her fair hair curled into ringlets; none of thegirls here are overdressed, but though her clothes are plain – a red skirt andstriped camisole, stockings and boots – there’s something neater about her thanthe others he can see in their rumpled blouses and torn lace. No jewellery,none of them has that, but she’s tied a dark velvet ribbon round her throatthat emphasises her pale colouring.

Gosh, with OCsyou have to describe what they look like! It was actually quite interesting todescribe Billy and Goody as Tess sees them as well, with how wealthy they lookto the fore because that’s her professional concern.

She’s as good as Billy could find in a place likethis, and she’s obviously working to please him, leaning closer with her eyeson his face. May be that’s all it is – a woman who’ll take him seriously. Shesays something that makes Billy laugh, his smile flashing bright, andGoodnight’s honest enough to admit that the tightening in his chest isjealousy; but that’s his problem, and his alone.

‘Your friend there seems to have taken a shine toTessie.’

Goodnight wheels, alert to the mocking edge to thecomment, and finds himself confronting a long-haired man propped idly againstthe bar. At first sight he’s smartly-dressed, exuding self-confidence, but acloser look reveals that his pin-striped suit is shiny in places, the seamsfraying, and the collar greasy.

It’s AlSwearengen from Deadwood! If I’mbeing honest, it pretty much is, though Adams isn’t as ruthless as Swearengen.The suit’s the same, though.

He tips his head back and gives Goodnight aconsidering look. ‘Other pimps might take exception to a Chinaman making freewith their women, but me – live and let live, that’s what I say, right, Amos?’

There is alittle subplot in Deadwood aboutChinese prostitutes being imported for the Chinese community, and I wanted tomake the point that it’s significant Billy is being accepted at this point,even if grudgingly.

The burly barkeep grunts in response: from his mannerhis employer’s used to being agreed with.

And look, there’s Dan Dority behind the bar!

‘Wouldn’t exactly be making free, though, would he?’observes Goodnight, ‘I’m sure your associates would see to that,’ and isrewarded by a splutter as the man chokes on his whiskey.

‘Fair point,’ concedes the man, ‘and money’s whatmakes this nation of ours great, who’s to care whose hands it passes through.’He sticks out a hand. ‘Silas Adams, proprietor. I understand I’m making theacquaintance of the famous Goodnight Robicheaux.’

‘Pleasure’s mine,’ says Goodnight as Adams attemptsto crush his knuckles.

Adams signals for drinks for both of them. ‘On thehouse.’ He raises his glass. ‘Don’t get so many of note passing through here.’

Another ticfrom Deadwood – Al is always pouringpeople free drinks to put them into his debt.

From the corner of his eye Goodnight can seeMacClaren’s glare, but there’s little he can do if the boss is in the mood totalk. ‘Impressive place for a small town,’ he observes: it is striking, thedécor and the games and the girls in what appears to be a glorified tradingpost.

Adams taps the side of his nose. ‘Entertainment’s thebusiness to be in.’ He looks around himself, to see that his underlings arepaying attention: here’s a man who enjoys the sound of his own voice. ‘Honestday’s toil is good for the character, they say. But two things that never goout of fashion are drink and pussy, and the man who sells those won’t ever beshort of custom.’

He relaxes against the bar as he elaborates. ‘When Istarted out here all I had was a shack with a tarp for a roof, and me to sweepthe floor and pour the drinks and run the whores; but I was the only bar intown, and the miners, they came pushing and shoving to get in through the door.So I got a bigger joint, and I sold so much liquor that the company sent up themirror for free.’ He nods at the fancy glass behind the bar. ‘And when moregirls came along, I took them under my care and pretty soon I was the biggestowner in town.’ He strokes his moustache, preening: big fish in a small pond,thinks Goodnight.

OK, Adams getsto spread himself here, but the point I was trying to make is that it genuinelyis an impressive achievement: Adams is boastful, but he has put in the hardwork to make his saloon a success. It’s too simple to say that he’s just anexploitative owner – he is exploitative, but a lot of what he says about beingthe only person who’ll employ a woman down on her luck is actually true, and helooks after the girls well as long as they’re useful to him.

‘Took them under my care’ is also deliberate - it’s an unpleasant thought, but what would happen to someone like Jilly, who’s mentally chllenged, at that period if she didn’t have an employer to take her on, even if he exploits her? (It’s another echo of Swearengen in a way, as he keeps the physically-disabled Jewel on in his saloon, though as a maid of all work and for rather more selfless reasons.) Adams isn’t a nice guy, but he’s neither as brutal as the miners nor as purity-obsessed as the respectable townsfolk.

‘Can a man enquire as to the nature of your businesshere? You and your – associate?’ Adam’s manner is still satirical, butGoodnight senses there’s not much between taking Billy’s money and throwing himout into the street. Or trying to. He smiles: he’ll do this a thousandtimes if it’ll lift a fraction of the burden Billy carries.

‘Entertainment’s our business too,’ he says, and seesAdams stiffen: not a man who likes competition. ‘We’ll stage a few contests, ifthere’s the interest: shooting, fighting. Always men who like to test theirskills.’

Adams narrows his eyes, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Handyin a fight, is he?’ He puts up his fists in a boxer’s stance and feints a fewpunches. ‘My fighting days are long past, but Amos here might be able to giveyour pard a run for his money.’

Goodnight doubts it, in a fair fight: weight’s noadvantage against Billy. But he gets the impression that a fair fight’s notwhat this Adams is interested in.

‘In a fairfight, which Dan and I try to avoid…’ There really is a lot of Deadwood in this scene!

Still, he shrugs. ‘He can try and welcome. We’ll setup tomorrow. Town this size, I expect there’ll be some takers.’

‘And that’s all your business here?’ Adams is lookingat him keenly. ‘Clean out the sapheads and move on?’ What’s he afraid of?

Someone with abetter name than him muscling in on his hard-won business, and once again, youcan’t really blame him.

‘Earn a little, spend a little,’ says Goodnight, ‘wedon’t aim to settle.’

That seems to satisfy him. ‘Long as you do yourspending here at the day’s end, we’ll have no argument.’ He puts his glass downand nods at Amos for another.

‘On me,’ says Goodnight. Won’t do to be in thisman’s debt.

–

It’s a while before he can extricate himself fromAdams’ company, and by the time he does Billy’s gone upstairs; Goodnight startsto head after him, but as he puts his foot on the first step the thoughtfreezes him. Did he take the girl up there with him? He scans the room asunobtrusively as he can, and no, there she is, leaning on the shoulder of a fatman in a high collar. He knows he shouldn’t feel relieved, thumping up thestair and along to their room, but he does.

In their room Billy’s already stowed their gearneatly, razor and soap laid out next to the basin, Goodnight’s bag on the bedby the door; he’s claimed the bed nearer the wall for himself. He’s sittingcross-legged, attending to his knives, running the sharpening stone carefullydown a blade; there’s a plate on the floor next to his feet, empty but forcrumbs, and another on the chest with a hunk of bread and cheese.

I wrote thisscene first just with the conversation between them, and later revised it withall the little touches to show how they look out for each other: at this stage intheir relationship they’re still working out how it benefits them both, in waysunexpected as well as expected, and I wanted to show that as well as theawkwardness.

It’s an easy familiarity that does as much to groundGoodnight as the conversation and backup; too often in the past the oppressivesilence of a grubby anonymous room has driven him downstairs again to drinkuntil he no longer cared, but now he’s warmed by Billy’s wordless forethought.

He hangs his coat on the bedpost and empties thepockets, piling the coins and notes on the bedcover. ‘Come out ahead?’ asksBilly.

‘War stories helped,’ admits Goodnight. ‘Don’t thinkthey were all for my quitting, but the boss here got talking to me at the barso they couldn’t complain.’

‘That Adams?’ asks Billy over the regular stroke ofthe stone; he’ll need them sharp tomorrow, but Goodnight knows by now that hefinds the nightly ritual soothing, honing and polishing, turning each blade inhis hands then laying it down in a neat line: it brings calm to his face andeases the stiffness from his posture.

‘Likes the sound of his own voice.’ He pretends toignore Billy’s glance of amusement. ‘Wanted to sound me out a bit, wonderingwhy we’re here. Think he’s anxious about protecting his turf.’

‘King of a dunghill,’ says Billy dismissively.

This one mademe think of Firefly, when River says ‘Sadlittle king of a sad little hill’ to Badger.

Goodnight stacks the money on the chest next to thebasin and rolls up his sleeves to wash. ‘Seems to have it pretty much sewn uphere, only saloon in town and a couple of heavies to keep it that way.’

‘Wonder if that’s his only business: girl I wastalking to said there’ve been attacks on the road out: couple of times wealthytypes passed through and found themselves looking down a gun a few days later.’

Al Swearengenagain, with his road agents. Really there’s nothing of my own in this fic!

‘Worth knowing.’ Goodnight shucks his vest and bootsand stretches out his legs on the bed, plate in hand: the noise of the saloonbelow is still loud, but he’s had enough of spinning tales and playing up tohis reputation. Drunk enough too.

As he settles to eat Goodnight says carefully, ‘I sawyou talking with her: if you want – I mean, up here, I can make myself scarcefor a while.’

‘No need,’ says Billy shortly; he doesn’t look upfrom his polishing.

‘No trouble for me to take off,’ insists Goodnight.It’s the first time Billy’s given any indication of an interest: if they’re tobe a partnership, best get it all out into the open. ‘Or if you’d prefer we canget two rooms, money’s not tight just now.’ Perhaps he’s shy about it: it’s notas though the subject’s ever come up, and maybe that’s his own fault – he’d lethimself assume that Billy found the same satisfaction in their company as hedoes. But he’s sensitive enough to see that if Billy’s race is enough to causetrouble in a bar then the question of women is bound to be a thorny one. So ifthis one’s willing, maybe in private, it’s not his business to stand in theway. ‘Man has his wants.’

I’m quite proudof this exchange, Goody being delicate with lots of half-sentences.

Billy stands up and picks up his belt to slot theknives one by one into their sheaths. He’s not looking at Goodnight. ‘I don’twant.’

Goodnight swallows down the awkwardness: he’sdetermined not to let this spoil the friendship they’ve built. ‘Money’s there,no problem if you need a little extra to buy her something pretty.’

Billy turns to face him, face set and hard to read.‘I don’t, OK?’ Goodnight can’t fathom why he’s being so hostile. ‘You don’t, doyou? She was making up to you first and you didn’t take her up on it.’

‘Ain’t what I’m looking for,’ says Goodnight, andit’s a phrase he’s practised over the years. He puts down his plate. Plenty ofreasons a man might avoid prostitutes: morality, fear of disease, faith to apartner lost … turning down an advance in a saloon isn’t cause for suspicion.‘But no reason I should put my notions onto you.’

And here’s thedifference between them that’s going to come out later – Goody sees the girlsjust as ‘prostitutes’, women he’s not interested in, whereas Billy sees Tess asan individual. Goody is going to grow into this attitude as he gets to knowthem, but right now his attitude is very top-down; Billy’s is bottom-up, seeingthe girls as people just like himself.

Billy sits down on the bed again facing him. ‘I don’twant to bring her up here. I wouldn’t do that to anyone, make them do it formoney, or because their boss tells them to.’ His fierce expression forbidsquestioning. ‘We were just talking: it’s what she’s supposed to do. About whatwe do, a bit, and about how it is for them here.’

The girls? Goodnight can’t say he’s ever given itmuch thought – girls in a saloon are just part of the setting, young, old, somepretty and some not, all friendly and all available, all to be politelydeflected and check your pockets afterward.

I did wonderabout this, because it seems unlikely to a modern eye – did he really never thinkabout the women? But Goody, as I said, isn’t for me very interested in peopleoutside himself, and most men of that period, insofar as they thought aboutprostitutes at all, either despised them or pitied them. And really what I wantedto do was interrogate our own attitudes as consumers of Westerns – who thinksabout the women in the saloon? The ones in M7 don’t even have names, they’re justwindow dressing for the genre, and we never think about them as individuals:the woman massaging Faraday’s shoulders in the opening scene, the woman in theboots at Volcano Springs, the woman in the coach who Faraday winks at – who werethey? What were their lives like?

‘No harm, then,’ he says, fetching out his notebook;Billy lights a cigarette and stretches out at full length with a satisfiedsigh, and companionable silence fills the room, shouts and music coming faintlyfrom below.

 I really enjoyed the chance to think about this, so thanks again!

[jotawakening-blog]

3 Fentuary, 5A 169: Berries At Last!

I start the day off today making breakfast for my host, Unferth: he’s having some trouble getting out of bed, it would seem, and would really rather someone else make it for him.  That’s fair enough, I guess, given that he was dragooned into hosting me by the local authorities, so I whip up some eggs and, since he had asked me last night, bring out Minou.  Unferth offhandedly strokes Minou as she comes by and starts telling me about his cat.  Its name is Bob, he says, but he’s gone missing recently.  He hasn’t been back for a week!  I happen to be wearing my catspeak amulet— I still haven’t taken it off since the desert adventure— and hear Minou express her annoyance with Unferth’s worry: she’s sure Bob can take care of himself.  Without thinking, I tell her it’s OK: he’s clearly in distress.  Unferth gives me a very confused look.  ‘Um… never mind’, I tell him, and, to allay his suspicions that I’m a bit touched in the head, tell him I’ll help.

Unferth thanks me, and says Bob usually comes back at least once a week, usually on Ivanday.  This week, however Bob didn’t come back.  Minou thinks Unferth is full of shit, but I feel obliged to help, if only because I’ve stayed in this guy’s house at the military’s say-so.  Anyway, the guy tells me, he’s got a friend named Hild, who lives just down the road and is cleverer than he is (to which Minou comments that anyone would be cleverer).  I should talk to her and see if she can think of something.

I visit Hild, and present her with the situation: I’m trying to find Unferth’s cat.  Minou thinks this is ridiculous: Unferth is Bob’s human!  To my great surprise, Hild tells me Minou is right: humans misinterpret their role relative to cats.  I ask her if she understood what Minou said, and she confirms that she did, indeed.  While I try to wrap my head around that, Minou picks up the story: Bob didn’t come home this week.  Hild agrees that this is not like Bob, and starts to wonder what the matter may be.  Minou thinks the story is simple: he’s out there somewhere trying to get laid.  Nevertheless, Hild says, it would be wise to check up on him.  In fact, she could enchant my amulet of catspeak to act as a compass pointing me in Bob’s general direction.  For this, she will need five death runes.  By sheer chance, I got exactly that number of death runes from some enemy or other in the Taverley dungeon and still have them in my pack.  I hand the runes over, and Hild enchants the amulet.  Once she hands it back to me, I try it out: Bob, I find, is somewhere to the south-east.  Okay, I shall keep an eye out the next time I go out that way, which should be pretty soon, actually.

Soon, but not now, because I have one more thing I must do around here, and that is to see if the white pearl fruit the mountain tribe needs grow on White Wolf Mountain.  It’s one of the tallest mountains in Gielinor, and covered in snow year-round, so if the berries grow anywhere, it’s probably there.  I make my way up the trail toward the summit, which leads through a small cave.  On the far side of the cave, I find something curious: three trapdoors in the ground, all locked from below.  I wonder what is or was down there?  Moving on, I get waylaid by some wolves, and, once I’ve taken care of them, I keep walking until I see something curious: a gnome glider, all ready to go and open for passengers.  There’s a catch, though: Glough, boss of Gnome Air, still hasn’t relaxed his restriction on human passengers.  Anyway, beside the glider, I notice an interesting-looking bush, with fruit— yes!— the size and shape of white pearls!  I try picking them, but the bush is thorny, and despite my batwing gloves I succeed only in hurting myself.  No matter: a quick trip to Burthorpe to pick up leather gloves from the bank solves that problem, and I collect enough fruit to provide the seeds for a food supply for the tribe.  Nor is that all: in addition, I have the good luck to find another of those weird rocks/statue pieces that keep cropping up.

Well, that’s all the business I had in Burthorpe.  The next piece of my plan involves a trip to Karamja, where the last bars on my bar-hopping list are located.  Also, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to check on the natives and see if they need anything else.  I shall get there via Port Sarim, and while I’m there, I shall go to the jeweller’s and see what the Lady of the Lake expects of me.  Okay then, Remora’s necklace, take me away!

Once in Port Sarim, I duly head to the jeweller’s, but before I can enter, I am accosted by a beggar.  He tells me his family is starving and all he wants is a simple oaf of bread.  I tell him I’ve no bread on me right now, but that he should sit tight and I’ll get him some.  You see, one of the goblins I killed on my approach to Port Sarim from the White Knights’ encampment by the grotworm chasm had on him some bread dough, which I bake on the range in the house next door into a proper loaf.  Hopefully doing so will have cleansed all the goblin germs on it…

Whether it has or it hasn’t, the beggar thinks it’s a great loaf.  He thanks me for my charity… and the air around him shimmers, as he transforms into the Lady of the Lake!  So that was her test!  And here I was thinking there would be more to come.  She pulls from a scabbard at her side a magnificent longsword.  This must be Excalibur!  Before I can thank her or anything, she vanishes, presumably back to her lake.  That leaves me with all the tools I will need to rescue Merlin from his prison.  Excellent!

But, as I said, I will be taking the slightly roundabout way back to Kandarin, through Karamja.  I take the ferry from Sarim to Musa Point, where I stop at the bar and show the bartender my bar crawl scorecard.  He offers me an Ape Bite Liqueur, made from local bananas!  I try it… and it actually tastes really nice!  I don’t get too drunk from it, either!  I guess there are exceptions to every rule!

To continue the bar crawl, I travel westward to Brimhaven, where the Dead Man’s Chest awaits.  In this house of dubious repute, I go up to the bar and ask the eyepatched waiter for whatever it is he offers bar crawl participants.  He hands me a glass of what he calls ‘supergrog’, which is super indeed: my head spins for a good few minutes, and when I look up at the barkeep to see if he’s signing my card, I see two barkeeps signing two cards!  Hard stuff, this.

As I’m drinking, I somehow get into conversation with one of the natives, a Karamjan tribesman who looks slightly out of place in this pirate port.  I ask him what he’s doing here, and he replies that he’s Kangai Mau, of the Rantuki Tribe, and he’s in town to hire someone good at sneaking and thievery for an important task.  Drunk as I am, I agree without any reservations to help.  Kangai tells me what I need to steal is his tribe’s sacred totem, which was stolen by a Kandarinian noble, Lord Handelmort, for his personal museum.  With drunken bravado, feeling for the injustice that has befallen his tribe, I tell him I shall get it back, no problem.

While still not quite sober, I continue on, going not south to Tai Bwo Wannai, but actually north to the peninsula.  I recall there being large deposits of precious metals there, and drunk me is inspired by the opportunity to find silver for that tiara I’m planning to make!  Sadly, there is no silver to be found there, but I’m not disappointed: there’s gold, and I dig some up!

I think I know where to find silver, though: volcanoes bring lots of ore to the surface, and the Tzhaar city should accordingly be a solid place to look.  Also, I do need to stop by a bank: in case the natives are still rebuilding, I should probably grab my machete and have it ready to go.  Also, I need to shed some weight in my pack, so I replace the magical runes, and indeed all my mage gear, with archery equipment, including my new and very exotic swamp lizard goop gun.

As I trek toward the volcano, a pirate I vaguely remember, from the ruins under Brimhaven that have been converted into a giant, um, jungle gym (I think her name is Jackie) tells me she’s got an offer she can’t refuse for me: a pair of gloves of fine local make that ‘fell off the back of a boat’.  To sweeten the pot for me, she tells me if I take them she will pull some strings to give me a discount on the ferries to and from the island, as well as an ample supply of free pineapples from some guy named Dell’Monty.  Oh, she also throws in a spirit lamp, which, when I inhale from it, shows me flashes of mining techniques.  That… sounds shady, but I figure I can take most any pirate that comes knocking for them, so I agree to her offer, thank her, and move on.

In the city under the volcano, I do exactly what I said I would: a gear swap, and a search for some silver.  This I find, thanks in part to the visions the lamp gave me: they were, I forgot to mention, centred on the mines right here in the TzHaar city, and I’m even able to refine the ore into a bar of silver on the TzHaar lava forge near the main plaza.  There is no anvil in town, because the TzHaar have their own ways of metalcrafting, but I seem to recall there being one in Tai Bwo Wannai that I could probably use.

When I get to Tai Bwo Wannai, I realise I was being stupid: you can’t craft a fine item like a tiara by bashing it out on an anvil: you need to cast it, rather. Well, that was a waste of time, but no matter: when I get to Ardougne, I shall make the tiara on the forge there.  For now, there’s plenty to be done around here, because as it turns out, a powerful storm blew through the area a few days ago, undoing much of the progress we made in getting the town back in order. Thankfully, I think I can spend a couple days here helping out, and following the villagers’ example I grab hold of my gem-bladed machete and begin hacking at the jungle.

The work this time is only slightly less backbreaking than I remember it being, and I spend the rest of the day hacking away at a patch of jungle and getting attacked periodically by jungle critters, without much success in clearing the brush.  Still, any progress is better than none, and my other commitments aren’t so urgent that I can’t afford to spend a few days here, helping out.  And in exchange, I get the tribe’s wonderful hospitality.  It’ll be a nice change of pace, that’s for sure!