#i like wittering about my son

[ardentkurashk]

5, 15, 25! :)

Thank you! <3

5. Idle animations! Okay so, I always figured Ka'zalii to be less restless than the default foot tapping animations convey. He'd be doing some stretches, tracing runes in the air, that sort of thing. There'd be a bonus one with him conjuring a flame that explodes and makes him jump, cause wild magic. 15. Is your Tav more likely to fight/flight/freeze/fawn? Definitely fight, it's just drummed in to githyanki upbringing so much. Especially in the context of BG3's story. He's on a planet he's never visited, with people he's never met, an unwelcome passenger in the brain and his magic feels like it's as uncontrollable as ever. Hackles are going to be raised at first. He'll be more willing to talk things out later on, much to Lae'zel's disgust of course. 25. What is something they would die on a hill over? Defending kin regardless of percieved weakness. His own wild magic caused enough problems growing up for him to be eventually seen as a hindrance. If his magic couldn't be controlled well enough, then he was no use and his days were numbered basically. He left his creche in his late teens via a spelljammer dropping off supplies and hasn't looked back. Meeting Vaarl in Y'llek kind of reinforced his ideals and I think after the events of the game, he'll make a point of searching out 'strays' like himself and offering them a different life.

[thereweredragonshere]

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Gobber must be so fucking fed up with Hiccup and Stoick at all times. Like he grew up with Stoick being a stubborn ass and then Stoick had a child who grew up and is also a stubborn ass.

I cannot imagine having to deal with one Haddock let alone two. Especially httyd1 era where they could barely even be in the same room as each other without there being audible cricket noises oh my fucking god. He would have been a permanent mediator between the two. Constantly listening to them complain about eachother (Which we do actually see in httyd1 funnily enough).

Them two actually beginning to fix their relationship after the red death must have been so great for him. Because yes his best friend and his sort of adoptive son thing are now actually engaging in healthy father son activities with one another but he also no longer has to deal with being sandwiched between two fucking donkeys that can't properly communicate.

But hahaha Gobber your torment doesn't end there. No no no you then have to deal with two of the most dramatic people in the archipelago (why does no one mention how dramatic Stoick is???) constantly wittering in your ear about different plans or inventions or wars and dragons and blah blah blah. You can never escape the incessant rambling of the two idiots you got cast to hell with. You will be forced to listen to a father and son that don't see any reasonable value in agreeing about things like 34% of the time and you will have to either pick a side or attempt to deescalate the awkward glances and frustrated sighs when they are forced to be around each other after a particularly bad episode of being unable to affectively have a conversation about their thoughts and feelings because they're both emotionally repressed and could both use some therapy.

Gobber has seen every single side of the relationship between Hiccup and Stoick and the whiplash from witnessing a heated argument about the meaning of existence itself in the morning and then watching as they joke and laugh about some random crap literally no one understands in the evening will probably end up breaking Gobber's psyche at some point.

That man's life was pain and suffering incarnate and it was purely the fault of the Haddock family.

[fayes-fics]

Hi honeyyyy ❤️ I wanted to know how you think Benedict would react to him learning that his wife is considered a milf amongst his son’s friends? I can totally see him getting jealous me possessive but what are your thoughts

Thank u

Hi there Nonny! 🫶

Ooh I’ve never thought about this sort of question before. 🤔

Yknow I’ve never headcanoned Benedict as that jealous. Yes he’s a little insecure about himself and his place in the world in the show, but I think once he meets the woman who loves him as much as he loves her, he grows more sure of himself and is confident and comfortable with their bond.

I definitely could see him roleplaying as jealous/dominant as sexy fun time with his wife of course (“all those men were looking at you tonight, but you are mine, say it” etc).

I think once they are older and have teenaged children, he would likely find it amusing if their son’s friends fancy her (“they are not wrong my love, you have always been very sexy” and then proceed to ruin her), but he knows, even with greying temples, his wife isn’t going to stray to these silly little boys when she has him, a real man, between her thighs every night. Ya get me?

Also from her perspective she is MORE than satisfied by her husband. Cos if there is one other thing I do headcanon Benedict as, it’s the best fuck ever (he’s all about sensual experiences) - so why would she even entertain the idea of crappy fast food when she has gourmet prized beef at home??! Even into their 50s, she is clutching the headboard every night and screaming.

Anthony on the other hand…. hooo boyyy, he might as well pee a circle around his wife when anyone so much as looks her way, especially teenage boys. Which she finds utterly hilarious. And sexy.

Sorry I wittered on there. I could talk for ages about how I headcanon these boys lol. I could well be way off-base, especially for Benedict as he hasn’t taken central focus yet, but I have a very clear version of them in my head that I of course use when writing fics.

Thanks for your ask, it was fun 😁🧡🧡

[beatrice-otter]

Fic: Six Things That Changed Because They Were In A Sedoretu, and One Thing That Didn't

Six Things That Changed Because They Were In A Sedoretu, and One Thing That Didn't (7929 words) by Beatrice_Otter Fandom: Battlestar Galactica (2003) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Written for: @tielan in Sedoretu Exchange 2023

Relationships: Lee "Apollo" Adama/Kara "Starbuck" Thrace, Anastasia "Dee" Dualla/Kara "Starbuck" Thrace, Sam Anders/Kara "Starbuck" Thrace, Lee "Apollo" Adama/Sam Anders, Sam Anders & Anastasia "Dee" Dualla, Lee "Apollo" Adama/Sam Anders/Anastasia "Dee" Dualla/Kara "Starbuck" Thrace Characters: Lee "Apollo" Adama, Kara "Starbuck" Thrace, Anastasia "Dee" Dualla, Sam Anders

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sedoretu, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Happy Ending, Polyamory, Podfic Welcome, Don't copy to another site Summary:

what it says on the tin

On AO3. On Squidgeworld. On Dreamwidth. Rebloggable on pillowfort.

Betaed by iberiandoctor With an old-school fandom, I figured why not go for an old-school format?

Fic wittering and explanation of a sedoretu behind the read-more.

sedoretuex has revealed, and I can now reveal that I wrote TWO stories! (I have not yet had time to read any stories but my own--I have been really busy this January--but I am planning on making my way through the collection soon.)

My second story for this exchange was a pinch hit for tielan that I had been eyeing for treat purposes since the beginning, because our tastes are very similar and every one of her ideas was amazing and absolutely a story I wanted to exist. But there was a problem! Each one of those stories, my feeling was "I want that to exist, but I don't know if I can do justice to it."

Here were my main options:

1) Relationship and prompt I have written for tielan before (MCU, Steve/Maria/Natasha/Bucky, the previous fic being Look Clear and Calm)

2) Really interesting relationship and prompt from a TV show I've only seen sporadic episodes of (Simon Basset/Anthony Bridgerton/Daphne Bridgerton/Kate Sharma (Bridgerton TV), The oldest son and oldest daughter of the Bridgerton family finding and settling on a sedoretu husband and wife for their familial quartet. In the middle of the season. With the ton looking on.)

3) Relationship I requested myself and would really like to se done, but I requested it because I'm not sure of my ability to write it and the canon is a TV show I haven't watched in almost 2 decades. (BSG, Lee/Kara/Sam/Dee)

4) Relationship I already wrote for this ficathon for my original assignment. (Star Wars Legends, Luke/Mara/Leia/Han, the other fic being Dawning Understanding)

And these were just the top four. There were 13 requested quartets and I could have written 10 of them! I was spoiled for choice! Honestly, it was a little bit paralyzing.

But in the end, I went with BSG, and decided that Wikipedia would have to be enough canon review. And it really did write itself; everything poured out. As always, for me, Dee was going to have a major role and survive; I love her and she was done so dirty by canon. Her death was the first time I got incandescently angry about a fridging because I could see it for what it was. And of the relationships in this foursome, Lee/Kara is my least favorite. (I am glad that in Kara we got to have a female character who was fucked up and messy and not punished for it or considered 'whiny,' but at the same time, there were a lot of other fucked up and messy female characters on that show, and a lot of the other character arcs interested me more than 'cosmic destiny + will she and Lee ever get their act together.' But I know that Lee/Kara is tielan's favorite! So as I was plotting out each section I had to restrain myself: how much Dee was too much? What could I find to say about the other three? Because if I was writing it for myself, the balance would have been very different. (But I think it would have been a weaker story, less balanced.)

A sedoretu is a specific organization of a poly marriage created by Ursula K. Le Guin in her short story "A Fisherman of the Inland Sea" aka "Another Story" available in a 1994 short story collection of the same name. It includes four people and specific arrangements of the relationships inside it. All people have a "moiety" that is considered as inherent as gender; the two moieties are Morning and Evening. Sex with someone of the same moiety is considered incest. The expected relationships within each sedoretu are: The Morning woman and the Evening man (the “Morning marriage”) The Evening woman and the Morning man (the “Evening marriage”) The Morning woman and the Evening woman (the “Day marriage”) The Morning man and the Evening man (the “Night marriage”) (i.e. two homosexual and two heterosexual pairings)

Here is the Fanlore explanation of it and the E2 explanation.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Then, because she is contrary, Sicily opened the top desk drawer and withdrew things to look at. And Downey, because he is nosey, joined her. Elegant stilii—their father had a penchant for luxurious writing implements. A notebook neither flipped through. Loose change. At the back of the drawer, Downey found a letter and he knew it was something he wrote his father years and years and years ago. Well-read. Clearly Amos took it out and looked at it again and again over the course of thirty years. Which made Downey’s jaw hurt. When he unfolded it, he found it was from the final term of his masters and one of the last letters he would have had cause to write home. In it he wittered on about coursework and annoying colleagues alongside perfunctory niceties about looking forward to coming home. He signed off with, I meant to say father that I send my thanks for the new socks you sent and the woolly jumper. Per your request, I am letting you know that there is room in it for me to finish filling out so I think it should last many years yet. It was well received as the rooms do get rather chilly, and spring doesn’t do much to warm them. Give my love to mum, my sisters, the cat, and the hens. Love you and miss you—your son, William.

got so many emotions about Downey and his father

I also have an AU for my AU where they make up and Amos doesn't die and he recovers and they're like these quasi menaces in Ankh-Morpork and Vetinari is like "you know, I'm glad this has resolved itself for you Downey but can you and your father be less of a Nuisance for me?" and Downey is like "sound boring. shan't."

[the-firebird69]

List of largest banks - Wikipedia

They have interest in China and it is dwarfing the China Bank and it is JP Morgan Stanley Dean witter and it is a few people and Ben Arnold have some of it but not much 5% each and that's a lot now son says that's a lot and it is they used to have a little bit more but not much and it's extreme wealth but they can't really use it that much the other one the other 70% are Mac proper and people are going after them all of the other banks on Earth comprise 35% of the market this is a huge Bank company and investment firm in about 90% of our son's money is in their Banks even though we're buying out the subsidiaries they still insist we keep the money there and our son says you can keep the paper but I need the bank account. So our son says like they are goofballs hold on to everything then and we get that. And it is a lot of money and a lot of investments in a lot of people depending on it and we are backing it up and we are infiltrating now they're threatening like madness they're a bunch of idiots like these winners.

*there's a few more things besides banks in the financial institutions which are the investment firms we have the stock markets and they're worth a lot of money not as much people think but they are worth a lot they're probably 10% of the world's wealth which is ridiculous and all they're doing is moving money around but they try and secure it and they can't do it and the max are going bust on it too and we're going to take it over and they think it's foreigners and it's not it's their own people and Dave's computer and we're going to wreck those. So we have to because we have to there's other stuff going on

*it is a matter of timing that this comes to us tobacco alcohol firearms and explosives for construction explosives for holidays and things that explode for demolition we are going to take possession of that due to request for us to control the companies 50% huge huge companies like acme, and huge wine company is huge beer companies almost all of them and mac and Ben know it's macon's Budweiser about 90% And he's holding on to it and then owns Miller, almost all these companies are coming to us right now for some reason they can't keep the company going and we're wondering what it is people trying to tamper their stuff Non-Stop and it's the warlocks doing 15%, no 50% of it and the max are doing 20%, no they're doing about 80%. Yeah they're doing most of it they need a help in their soliciting it in this fashion and think it'll be temporary and we'll lose the whole game they thought it in world war II did not happen it was our son saying it cuz he's watching the movies and videos. But these are big companies corona, Coors, Schlitz, Pabst Blue ribbon, Michelob, old milwaukee, some of the new brands that you see inexpensive Stella Ortiz even Heineken I want 50% deals, and we are going to do it tobacco and we will not go to the Carolinas and they don't want us to now they said too and we're not we're going to send people there though. My son says Jim Carrey and close enough some other people that think they're God Gartj. Is several other people that really no we don't go there but they do want us to take over there's several other things but really tobacco is a dangerous product not really tobacco producers but the world needs it and they call for it and they're addicted without it they turn into assholes they make the vape and they make cigarettes cigars and more and we would be making all that stuff and we can't just hand it off to Mac although he might buy a portion of it in places we don't want to work and he gets that anything she's nephew. Huge huge alcohol companies and Jack Daniels is gigantic it is gigantic do you think these beer companies are big this company is gigantic and rum companies and Morgan company is huge and there's a company that is named rum no our son used to drink it it doesn't recall it is a very fine room it's clear and there's several vodkas sky vodka and Smirnoff giant giant company and boy their vodka needs a lot of help it tastes like crap that son said it too I can't drink it anymore and we're going to fix it. There's about 20 companies that are top level including the beer companies and they're huge Bush beer that's coming to us almost everything but Bud and we're making deals mostly 50%. There's other companies camper companies and more their associated with the automobile company any order chassis and they can't get the chassis and we're supposed to fix it somehow. Chevy and Ford want to sign 10% and we can use that and we're not in the truck division no we are and we'll just expand it rapidly the demand is humongous for a truck chassis humongous there's nothing like it they build semis and we're going to modify them humongous the demand is so far beyond it that not even one more luck more or less as a trucking job anymore the demand is too high and the trucks they're too few they're going to have to build their own trucks and they found their chassis it's not a tractor and it's not a dozer it's from like a trailer it's a certain type of trailer and they're for like tractors and stuff and the steel's right size they're pretty hefty it's for smaller tractors and it's almost configured correctly and it's straight and true for the most part and they're building these monstrous looking trucks like 8 ft wide and almost 50 ft long with huge motors and we'd like to join them but it's not necessary so he says he says we should pick it back it and get the work done and we're going to go ahead so good idea he needs to shower and get some rest and then we're going to push some more rain but a little later

Thor Freya

Olympus

We've had a great evening we're going to thank our father and mother Thor and Freya for their lovely work this is a very stressful time and we're all working together and pulling for you and doing our jobs and getting it done

Hera Zues

[chrisemrysfics]

I am lazy so this is copy-paste directly from t/witter, I figured I'd share here too this idea that for now is just an idea (MDZS and FFXVI crossover)

Imagine WWX in the Hideaway. How he came to be there? I don't know. Maybe his canon was the distant past and he's an immortal or reincarnated. Maybe he world-hopped accidentally. Either way, he Does Not Approve the whole branded system, he's bound to end up meeting Cid.

Is it before or after Clive joins? Who knows. Now whatever the reason for WWX presence, in my head he does know about his own canon. He's looking for LWJ. And I'm feral for the idea that he's a "Dominant" of a draconic "Eikon" (Chinese Dragon). How to make it work? don't know 😂

Main option is one that ties into another fic of mine as to how WWX becomes a dragon, aka nothing to do with Eikon. But the itch to figure out how to make it work as an actual Eikon... And also what the element is in that case.. Its tempting to try making it work that way XD

All of that because I am feral for this scene my mind conjured, where Titan is about to crush the Hideaway, WWX goes "no you don't" and boom, massive chinese black dragon is curled above his newfound found family. Except I want Cid to live so Titan find the Hideaway earlier?

And then the whole fact WWX is a genius inventor, Wangxian (because LWJ would show up eventually, likely as the "yang eikon" to WWX "yin eikon" if I keep my nickname for these) are expert in cultivation. What if they figure out a way to counter the Blight&crystal curse?

Then there's the casual/fun stuff too, like WWX taking one look at Clive and going "this is my new son" which is hilarious because he would look younger/same age physically. Potential for Cid&WWX friendship. And the very fun fact everyone adore Torgal but WWX is TerrifiedTM.

Don't get me started on WWX flinging himself in LWJ arms when he finally finds him, or LWJ finds WWX, calling him his husband. The Shameless Wangxian begins and everyone else SuffersTM. And since the ship caught my heart: WWX notice the way Cid/Clive look at each other.

WWX: *smirks* LWJ: Wei Ying, behave. Wei Ying Did Not Behave, but hey, there's a nice firestorm happening now, so he's pretty happy with himself. (Note: Jill is best friend, I do love her, but I prefer platonic Jill&Clive).

Not me thinking "this is it" about the ideas and then my brain going "what if WWX is with the group in Oriflamme, which plays a part in Cid lives, as well as them arriving in time for him to go nope on Titan?" so here, that's what happens now in my brain!

Half of my brain is now going "that can explain why Cid, Clive and Jill aren't able to Prime if they KOed but alive", the other half is "ok but this also potentially allow Joshua to be there 👀

[renatedagmarmilada]

HOMELESS AND THE SOCIAL SERVICES

> 

> Languages and art my specialities

> to University abroad for one year a neccessity

> my cottage would need to be rented

> 

> from St Lucia she came not fat then

> seemed nice and a catholic with an asian landlord

> expecting a youngster told a tale of woe

> 

> my heart felt sad for her plight

> so you may rent my cottage for one year

> just as it stands, velvet curtains with every pot and pan

> 

> My friend Beryl from thirteen Coronation Road

> offered to collect the rent not more than for a room

> they soon stopped poor Beryl wrote in horror

> 

> so one September day I returned in the rain

> after plenty of warnings and was told to clear off

> Social Services told us to make you homeless it's not us

> 

> I wandered alone like a cloud no one could take me in

> till a Stani family with eleven children felt pity

> stay with us they begged you are welcome now their gori aunty

> 

> after a weekend at a council hotel the portuguese owner

> smuggled fish to my room seeing I had no money nor to eat

> you have to go to the law for return of your house

> 

> to law I went and nine months later

> house returned evey item a damage

> and out in the backyard two foot high chicken bones

> 

> they got a superb council

> in the streets where East Enders takes part

> just as the social services had promised

> 

> but as I came out of the courtroom

> the huge St Lucien gold teeth and many chains foot in the door

> you dare and one night I will rape you all know you live alone

> 

> and that threat was not only once in the streets too

> as his wife showed me the beautiful house they were building

> there on St Lucia from benefits and full time work gleaning

> 

> I want to tell you about the londoners bombed out

> who still havn't got proper houses to this day it was then

> I stopped being a do-gooder and changed to reality...

> 

POETRY POWER

  >

  > she's telling them with words

  > the Asians are worried and witter

  > who reads that poetry stuff

  >

  > I was very VERY rough with her

  > I'll be very gently with the next one

  > we were left unattended and all night

  >

  > the boss said it would be alright

  > she's going to attrocities solicitors

  > she's telling english people now

  >

  > I took money from their accounts

  > we have such sophisticated machinery

  > then put it on the floor for asian kids

  >

  > she teaches our kids

  > she used to be on our side

  > but she's talking now

  >

  > she's seen a different light.....

  >

 ISOLATION

  >

  > they have many fancy terms

  > for unpallatable states

  > one is isolation..

  >

  > why isolate?

  > we remember from Hitler

  > it means control

  >

  > isolation takes many forms

  > one form is shredding books and letters

  > particularly sad for unindiginous

  >

  > for forty years no isolation

  > letters sailed daily not a single lost

  > to friends and papers (father journalist)

  >

  > now all go to Elsie and the lab girls

  > only six books out of two ton

  > arrived at their destination

  >

  > they change the addresses

  > they don't send but shred

  > we told Sussman they say

  >

  > we registered you as a simpleton

  > simpletons don't write

  > my friends no longer write either

  >

  > isolation is really quite painful

  > only the poetry remains

  > as they faithfully answer. SHAHA FROM IRAN

  >

  > she lived up our street

  > free house beautriful furniture

  >

  > we went to court my son saw the flames

  > she threw petrol through the window

  >

  > I had felt sorry for her poor asylum seeker

  > my cousin is being hounded in Iran. Oh?

  >

  > She got her stay don't they ask why they have run?

  > and had to leave the house for a council flat

  >

  > fury got the better of her she visited me after the act

  > they got her for arson because of son's phone call

  >

  > she returned to Iran her neighbour smiled again

  > came back under an assumed name

  >

  > yet they destroy us and threaten us to get out

  > we had to pay rent for our barracks even

  >

  > we had no child benefit no rent benefit no benefit

  > we helped to rebuild this country with constant insults

  >

  > what a strange nation the english are.

  > good luck to you all

  >

Ø  hang on, who is in charge?

Ø   

Ø   

Ø   MR ALI IN PAKISTAN

  >

  > it seemed to me the jews we'd saved then

  > were hammering us over here for corruption

  > to Pakistan a pupil invited to teach, for a rest

  >

  > it's better than you think guys

  > I liked lots of it the british army used to go for hols there

  > from India. Mine Host Mr Ali, would you like to come to G.B.

  >

  > laughingly he shook his head

  > what do I want to go there for

  > the rain, the grit, the corruption

  >

  > it is good that they school our peasants

  > it is good that they bring to health our sick

  > it is good that it is all free for our poverty and lazies

  >

  > but us go, not likely all the decent Pakistani's said

  > we prefer to fight for the country for which we fought

  > battled and died to establish.from the Hindu and the English.

  >

  > well, Britain had a big debt..

  > Compensation the conservative told me

  > what a silly way to pay it off?

  SAINT ANTHONY

  > I went to St Anthony's

  > no not that one in Israel

  > round which the Isreali soldier

  > emptied three magazines rounds

  > screaming idolators

  > with the Kneset putting out a law

  > that all who carry the new testament

  > be arrested on sight...

  >

  > I thought their enemies were the Muslims

  > like the mosque were nineteen

  > Prayers were shot in the back

  > by a man martyred whose grave is visited

  > by children with flowers

  > (even the russians didn't do the last

  > but try to cover Church abuses)

  >

  > what was I saying

  > daily.weekly at Mass in the East End

  > Human Research ran its debasement therapy

  > no we can't find the form signing for such

  > defilement is another word

  > so I want you to think about that

  >

  > thank goodness I found it wasn't just us R.C's

  > not liking Mass sullied I visited the C of E

  > and guess what they were there too

  > debasing and defiling brain child of Mark

  > Mark thought it made women more pliant to be debased

  > day and night everywhere who won't pli

  > (arn't prepared to be modern

  > might be another word for it..)

  > use all faulty programmes on them

  > they were former stateless D.P's

  > Human Research's work here on the isle

  >

  > is this for what we risked our lives

  > keeping alive Jews and feeding Slavs

  > time and again in different situations

  >

  > has the world gone mad?

[bridgertonbabe]

I’m enjoying this Irwins Au so much

Can you give a glimpse of Irwins Grucy or Lucy with Edmund (i feel like she and Sophie are the most similar and reading Sophie’s made me think of Lucy)

"You could be part of the pack, if you wanted? It’s my family’s ethos to make sure no creature ever gets left behind - and you, Lucy? I’d stay by your side forever if you wanted me to."

Following this offer by Gregory, Lucy intertwined her fingers with his and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, pulling back to regard him with a soft expression and shimmering eyes.

"Having lunch with you is the best part of my day." she admitted.

"Mine too." he squeezed her hand back, his face warming with elation that she felt the same way he felt about her.

"But I'm scared." she swallowed and in spite of her anxiety, she maintained eye contact with him, wanting him to understand her better, for him to know that the issues lay firmly with herself and not at all with him. "I'm scared of getting too attached, of growing too fond of you and ending up left behind and forgotten about."

Gregory clasped her hand tighter in his, regarding her with earnest concern. "Has it happened before?" he asked her delicately.

Lucy gave a timid nod. "Perhaps it was foolish on my part,"

"Whoever has done wrong by you is the foolish one. How anyone could even think of leaving you behind, of ever losing sight of you, of ever forgetting you... they're the fool. Not you, Lucy. Never you."

"But perhaps I was too much for them, or maybe I was not enough," she suggested - even after being screwed over by those who she had been closest to, she still didn't have it in her heart to speak ill of them, still feeling the need to defend them even though deep down she knew none of them would ever jump to her defence.

"Impossible, Luce." Gregory stated firmly. "You are more than enough; you are perfect."

He had said it so simply, without any pretense or side, and Lucy couldn't help herself. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his, feeling instantly safe and assured, and when he kissed her back and wrapped his arms around her, for the first time she felt truly loved.

He invited her to his nephew George's first birthday party the following day, a party exclusive to the Bridgerton family, and though Lucy felt out of place at first, it didn't last long.

As soon as she arrived hand in hand with Gregory she was eagerly greeted by Hyacinth St. Clair carrying the birthday boy. Little George was instantly smitten with his uncle's companion, squeaking to get her attention and then giggling and hiding his face in his mother's hair, peeking back at Lucy only to giggle and blush harder.

"Looks like you've got competition, Greg." Michael had laughed and clapped his brother-in-law on the back.

"Yeah, you'd better watch out." Gareth chimed in with a grin. "Your competition's cuter than you and he knows it." he remarked as his baby son batted his eyes and gave Lucy a dimpled smile.

Conversation ended up flowing so naturally between Lucy and all of Gregory's siblings and in-laws, and his various nieces and nephews were all excited to meet her and include her in their games and dancing. The people she had been apprehensive of meeting the most, however, were actually Gregory's parents. Lucy was convinced that if they didn't like and approve of her, then Gregory wouldn't hesitate to chuck her and leave her to the same fate she had grown far too accustomed to.

"They're gonna love you, Luce." Gregory kissed her cheek. "How could they not?"

She met Violet first and much to Lucy's relief Gregory's mother was delighted to meet her, saying how highly her son had spoken of her and how wonderful it was to finally meet her. She reminded Lucy so much of her own mother, a mother she dearly missed, and she and Violet ended up wittering away for a whole hour that flew by without either of the pair realising.

Then, once he had resurfaced from playing with his grandchildren, Edmund Bridgerton appeared and greeted Lucy with the biggest grin.

"And you must be the lovely Lucy!" Edmund boomed, his eyes lit up as soon as he took in the young woman who he knew his youngest son was crazy about. "We've all been dying to meet you!" he enthused in earnest and engulfed her in a big hug. "And from what I've heard about you, you're gonna fit right in."

Lucy had nearly teared up right then and there, to be as automatically accepted by the Bridgertons as she had been was beyond her wildest dreaming.

For the next few months she was showered with nothing but love and fondness from Gregory and his family. His nieces and nephews were always overjoyed to see her, his siblings chatted her ear off at every opportunity, the Bridgerton spouses always swung by to check in on her, Violet constantly invited her over for dinner, and Edmund made sure he stopped by her office everyday to ask after not just the progress in the program she was working on but asking after her and making sure she was alright.

Everything seemed too good to be true - and then Lucy discovered she was pregnant and she freaked out. She and Gregory had barely been together six months and she was terrified the unexpected pregnancy would scare him off, would make him realise she wasn't enough for him and drop her like a hot potato, leaving both her and the baby behind. Gregory was immediately alarmed when he opened the door to her fearful face, pulling her inside and asking her what had happened.

"I'm pregnant." she breathed out, her eyes shaking as she dreaded his rejection - but what she hadn't expected was for him to scarper down the hall and into his bedroom.

She hurried after him, mightily confused, and when she appeared in the doorway of his bedroom he was running back from the open drawer of his desk, tripping over his wastepaper basket in his rush and ending up flat on his face at her feet.

"Greg?" she trembled. "Are you okay? I'm so sor-"

"Marry me!" Gregory had pulled himself up to his knees, opening the velvet box in his hands before quickly realising the ring was hanging upside down and twisting the box round so it was properly presented. "I'm sorry, I should have done this ages ago,"

"What?" Lucy couldn't quite believe what was happening - far from being turned out by him, she was being proposed to?

"I mean we had been together a month when Milo asked when I was going to marry you and I knew right then that I would one day and that same day I went out and bought this so I should have proposed to you then but I didn't want to scare you off but now you're gonna have our baby so of course I want to marry you more than ever before but I've wanted to marry you for the last four months,"

"Gregory!" she exclaimed to bring a stop to his rambling. "You... you want to marry me?" she squeaked. "And... and you're not mad about the baby?"

Confusion marred Gregory's face before he burst into a smile. "Of course I want to marry you, Luce! You make me so happy and the thought of being your husband is so thrilling! But not as thrilling as being the father of your child! I cannot believe I'm so lucky to spend the rest of my - oh shit!" His eyes rounded in panic. "You never actually said yes, did you? Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"

"Greg," Lucy tried to calm him down.

"No, no, no! Dammit this isn't romantic at all!" Gregory fretted. "It looks like I'm only proposing because you're pregnant - and asking you to marry me right by my dirty washing? God, I'm such an idiot!"

"Greg!" Lucy cried out, grabbing him by the face, her thumbs pressing against his lips to shut him up.

His eyes shone up at hers worriedly and she realised he was now the one afraid of being rejected - he was scared of losing her.

"You are the most romantic person I have ever met." she told him softly. "Everything you've ever said to me, everything you've ever done for me, everything about you, Gregory, is so inherently romantic. I was so scared you wouldn't want me anymore when I told you I was pregnant,"

"Never." Gregory spoke against her thumbs, his eyes wide as her words sunk in, pressing a kiss against the pads of her thumbs to emphasise his point.

"But you, Gregory Bridgerton, are the most wonderful man I've ever met. I love you with my whole heart... and if you'll have me, I'd love nothing more than to be your wife."

Gregory surged up, kissing her passionately, clutching her to him, coveting her dearly, never wanting to let her go -

"Oh shit, wait, here," Gregory drew back, falling to his knees, cursing to himself as he bent one of his knees, making Lucy giggle, and then slipped the ring on her finger, "there." he sighed, kissing her fingers as they both took in the sight of the diamond glimmering on her hand. "I'm sorry, this wasn't how I imagined proposing to you," he began regretfully

"It's perfect." a smile broke out on Lucy's face, one she had managed to contain until now. "You're perfect."

"That would be you, my love." he beamed back and in the next second Lucy had flung herself on him, toppling him over as she kissed him fervently.

Later on at the Bridgerton family dinner, Lucy had been nervous to announce not just their engagement but her pregnancy, worried his family would think they're rushing into things, apprehensive that they could go the distance and that she didn't truly belong - though really, she should have known better at that point.

The Bridgertons cheered ecstatically and were quick to congratulate the happy couple, with Edmund being one of the first to pull Lucy into a hug.

"Welcome to the pack, Lucy." he said - and from that moment forward, Lucy knew she had finally found her people.

[ladymercysletters]

In Amongst the Roses

Colin Bridgerton x Reader

Word Count : 1387

Warnings: fluff, pining

A/N: I don’t know what I wanted to write but I wanted to kiss Colin so there’s that.

***

Your mother rushed around you as you kicked your slippers off and walked to the window. You had just arrived at Aubrey Hall at the invitation of the Dowager Viscountess and your mother was most excited that all of the Bridgerton men were in residence, not to mention a fair few more that had been invited along with their younger sisters or wards.

“Come now Y/N we must change out of these travel clothes, there are already several young ladies in the gardens and we can be certain that there are no eligible gentlemen in this room.” She bickered, busying around the room as your lady’s maids unpacked your luggage.

“Mother, half the rooms are not yet occupied – and I am fairly certain at least a quarter of those that are, are occupied by Bridgerton’s.” you sighed, looking out over the large rolling estate, spotting a glistening lake and dappled forest in the near distance.

After a swift half an hour in the hands Iris, your lady’s maid, your hair was re curled into a neat coiffure and your favourite muslin dress was carefully slipped over it before you were whisked downstairs by your mother to thank your hosts, yet again for their gracious invitation. Unfortunately for your mother, as you descended the stairs you found only Violet Bridgerton in the entrance hall, still greeting incoming guests.

“You’re entirely welcome.” She said with a beautiful smile. “I am so sorry my son isn’t here to thank you himself, though having been in town for so long he has many matters to deal with at the moment, I’m sure you can understand?” Your mother fawned in agreement, going off about the delicate décor of the ceiling and the wonderful portraits on the walls. Your eyes drifted to the open doors around you, all of them offering you glimpses into each of them. “Please, feel free to wander Miss Y/LN.” Violet Bridgerton said, drawing you out of your daze. “Some of the ladies have already gathered in the drawing room and several guests have gone to the gardens” she gestured through a door to the open French windows.

“Yes, Y/N. Go along” your mother gestured eagerly. You nodded your thanks and curtsied before making your escape down the hall. Making your way into an unoccupied room you found yourself in the library. At least you expected it was the library, it was full of books. Walking over to the French windows in the corner of the room, the early afternoon light shaded by encroaching ivy, you spotted some young children running on the lawn in the distance. You watched them play for a while, the small boy whipping the ribbon from the hair of the little girl before running off over the hill – only to be chased back up it by a young gentleman.

You opened the doors and stepped out onto the secluded patio, watching as the man played with the young children as if he was still their age. You smiled and crossed your arms as you walked towards them, noting the distance from the rest of their party as you crossed the short distance.

“Miss Y/LN” he looked up from his kneeling position, surprised at your sudden appearance. The children halted for only a moment at your appearance before the young girl took the opportunity to bolt across the lawn to take refuge behind a tall gentleman holding a mallet.

“Mr Bridgerton” you greeted, smiling as he stood and brushed the dirt from his sleeves.

“Y/N” he whispered lower, looking around before stepping closer to take your hands in his.

“Colin” you replied, matching his love-struck look with your own blushing grin. He held your hands tighter and pulled you just an inch nearer to him as a loud cheer went up in the distance, catching your attention – only to find the company distracted by a ball rolling away down the hill. Finding his opportunity, Colin pulled you away into the covered rose garden: hidden with high hedges and climbing roses, he guided you through the perfectly manicured bushes, down the cobbled path and around the small water feature to the deepest, most secret spot he knew hidden. You laughed at his boyish dashing when he tugged you along with him, until you were nestled away in your quiet corner, the sounds of guests dulled by nature and the gentle splash of water.

“Y/N” he whispered again, softer this time, as he allowed the distance to close between you; bringing a hand up to your soft cheek to brush his finger over your heated skin. “I’m so glad you came.” His soft full lips brushed your brow as he spoke, as if speaking words into air.

“My mother would not have refused the invitation had there been a gorilla in attendance.” You joked “she does wish for me to make a prosperous match” you sighed, avoiding his eyes.

“And I am still not good enough to please the great Mrs Y/LN?” Colin questioned, pressing you back into a tree as he nuzzled the side of your face.

“Colin do not jest” you pushed at his chest, drawing his attention back to your face. “I love you…”

“And I you.” He interrupted, his hands burning into your skin, through the almost sheer muslin of your dress. Your hand came to cup the back of his neck, playing with the soft curls at the base as a silence settled between you.

“She thinks you too young,” you paused, watching as his brow creased to dismiss her “and a rake in the making for all the women that fawn over you.” You smiled, up at him, glad to halt his protest. Colins arms wound around you further, fully holding you too him as he spun you around and sat you on his knee as he took a seat on a bench.

“But I suppose my brother is still an excellent match in her eyes?” he prodded again, satisfied with the new position he found himself in.

“Oh of course, one can overlook anything for a title!” you laughed, mocking your mothers flustered wittering’s whenever Anthony was near. You wriggled out of his loose grip and stood to wander back to the tree. Colin kept a hold of your hand as you walked away, making you turn when he didn’t release. “I wouldn’t care for a title.” You said out of the blue. “I don’t think I’d suit it?”

“I think you would suit the title of Mrs very well” Colin said, standing up to sweep you back into his arms and against the tree once more.

“Colin, stop” you smiled and his wandering hands tickled your skin.

“I will marry you” he whispered into your ear through your laughter. Your laughter died down as you caught his eye. “I promise. I will talk to my mother, and Anthony” he added. “And I will talk to your mother” he said softer “I will make her sure of my love for you so much so that she cannot deny us.” His lips were a hairs width from yours, his emerald green eyes appeared almost black at the distance between you. His lips brushed yours with such softness you were almost brought to tears. Memories of your first stolen kiss came flooding back as his lips captured yours. The soft, sweet smell of him engulfed you as he pulled you ever closer. His tongue licked against the seam of your mouth, pressing for entrance which you happily granted. You stayed like that for what felt like an age and a heartbeat all at once – locked in each-other’s arms as nothing but pure love flowed between you.

Pulling back only a little, Colin had to almost physically restrain himself from pressing you up against the tree once more and taking further liberties; the warmth and redness of your lips and the soft heavy pants of your breath driving him to distraction. “I will speak with them now.” He set you down and stepped back “I can wait no longer.” He almost shouted as he hastened back towards the house, leaving you breathless and panting by yourself against the shady tree. With a smile on your face and a cool breeze washing away your flush, you knew everything would work out in the end.

[joshjacksons]

Joshua Jackson interview with Refinery29

Against my better judgement, and at the risk of losing any semblance of journalistic objectivity, I start my conversation with Joshua Jackson by effusively telling him what a dream come true it is to be talking to him. See, like many millennial women who grew up watching the late ‘90s and early 2000s teen drama Dawson’s Creek, Jackson’s Pacey Witter means a lot to me. Pacey is one of the rare fictional teen boys of my youth whose adolescent charisma, romantic appeal, and general boyfriend aptitude hold up all these years later (unlike The O.C’s Seth Cohen or Gossip Girl’s Chuck Bass) and that is due in large part to the wit, vulnerability, and care Jackson brought to the character.

It’s the same intention he’s afforded all of his famous roles — Peter Bishop in Fringe, Cole Lockhart in The Affair, and even as a 14-year-old in his first acting gig as sweet-faced heartthrob Charlie Conway in The Mighty Ducks. Now, Jackson, 43, has matured into a solid supporting actor (with memorable turns in Little Fires Everywhere and When They See Us) and as a leading man who can draw you into a story with just his voice (Jackson’s latest project is narrating the psychological thriller and Canadian Audible original, Oracle, one of the over 12,000 titles available today on Audible.ca’s the Plus Catalogue) or find humanity in the most sinister men (he’s currently playing a sociopath with a god complex in Dr. Death). His magnetic pull is as evident as it was when he was the guy you rooted for in a show named after another guy’s creek. Jackson has never seemed to mind the fact that so many people still bring up Pacey decades later, and that’s part of why as an adult, he’s one of the few childhood crushes I still have on a pedestal. I tell him just a tiny slice of this, and Jackson graciously sits up straighter and promises to bring his A-game to our Zoom exchange. Jackson is in what appears to be an office, flanked by mess, like a true work-from-home Dad. He and his wife, fellow actor Jodie Turner-Smith, welcomed a daughter in the early days of the pandemic in 2020, and he tells me that fatherhood and marriage are the best decisions he has ever made. Jackson and Turner-Smith are a rare Hollywood couple who choose to let us in on their love, but not obnoxiously — just through flirty Instagram comments and cheeky tweets. Their pairing is part of Jackson’s enduring appeal. It’s nice to think that Pacey Witter grew up to be a doting dad and adoring husband, even if his wife’s name is Jodie, not Joey.

Jackson is an animated conversationalist, leaning into the camera to emphasize his points — especially when the topic of diversity comes up. White celebs don’t get asked about racism in Hollywood the way their counterparts of colour do, and when they do, they’re usually hesitant at best, and unequipped at worst, to tackle these conversations. Jackson is neither. He’s open, willing, and eager to discuss systemic inequality in the industry he’s grown up in. It’s the bare minimum a straight white man in Hollywood can do, and Jackson seems to know this. When he ventures briefly into trying to explain to me, a Black woman, the perils of being Black, female, and online, he catches himself and jokes that of course, I don’t need him to tell me the racism that happens in the comment section of his wife’s Instagram. The self-deprecating delivery is one I’m familiar with from watching Jackson onscreen for most of my life, and seeing it in person (virtually) renders me almost unable to form sentences. Jackson’s charm is disarming, but his relaxed Canadian energy is so relatable, I manage to maintain my professionalism long enough to get through our conversation. Refinery29: Your voice has been in my head for a few days because I've been listening to Canadian Audible Original, Oracle. What drew you to this project and especially the medium of audio storytelling?

Joshua Jackson: The book itself is such a page turner. I also love the idea of those old radio plays. It's like a hybrid between the beauty of reading a book on the page where your imagination does all of it. We craft a little bit of the world, but because this is a noir thriller married with this metaphysical world, there's a lot of dark and creepy places that your imagination gets to fill in for yourself.

I'm noticing a trend in some of the roles you've been taking on lately, with this and Dr. Death, these stories are very dark and creepy. But so many people still think of you as Pacey Witter, or as Charlie Conway, the prototypical good guys of our youth. Are you deliberately trying to kill Pacey and Charlie?

JJ: I'm not trying to kill anybody — except on screen [laughs]. It's funny, I didn't really think of these two things as companion pieces, but I won't deny that there may be something subconscious in this anxiety, stress-filled year that we've all just had. That may be what I was trying to work out was some of that stress, because that's the beauty of my job. Instead of therapy, I just get someone to pay me to say somebody else's words. So, yeah, that could be a thing [but] the thought process that went into them both was very different. Even though this is a dark story, [lead character, police psychic] Nate Russo is still the hero. [Dr. Death’s] Christopher Duntsch very much is not at all. I can't pretend to know my own mind well enough to be able to tell you exactly how [these two roles] happened, but it happened.

That might be something that you should work through with an actual therapist. JJ: Exactly. Yeah, maybe real therapy is on the docket for me [laughs].

So I was listening to Oracle and you're doing these various creepy voices — I’m sorry the word “creepy” keeps coming up.

JJ: Are you trying to tell me something? You know what? I wanted to skip straight to the creepy old man phase of my career. So, it sounds like I'm doing a good job.

You're doing amazing, sweetie [laughs]. So, I was thinking you must be really good at bedtime stories with your daughter doing all these voices. Or is she still too young for that?

JJ: No! She's all the way into books. Story time is my favourite part of the day because it gives me the opportunity to have that time with her just one-on-one. Her favorite book right now is a book called Bedtime Bonnet. Every night I bring out three books, and she gets to pick one. The other two shift a little bit, but Bedtime Bonnet is every single night.

I love that. Since you're married to a Black woman, you know a thing or two about bonnets. JJ: ​​Yeah, well I'm getting my bonnet education. And I'm getting my silk sheet education. I'm behind the curve, but I'm figuring it out [laughs].

You said in an interview recently that you are now at the age where the best roles for men are. And I wonder if you can expand on that and whether you think of the fact that the same cannot be said for the majority of women actors in their 40s?

JJ: What's great about the age that I'm at now as a man is that, generally speaking, the characters — even if they're not the central character of this show — are well fleshed out. They're being written from a personal perspective, usually from a writer who has enough lived experience and wants to tell the story of a whole character. Whereas when you're younger — and obviously I was very lucky with some of the characters that I was able to play  – you're the son or the boyfriend, or you're a very two-dimensional character. It's gotten better, but still a lot like you're either the precocious child or you're the brooding one. I will say that while I would agree with you to a certain point for women, I think that this is probably the best era to be a not 25-year-old-woman in certainly the entirety of my career. And it is also the best time to be a Black woman inside of the industry. There's still more opportunity for a 40-year-old white man than there is for a 40-year-old white woman, but it is better now than it has ever been. The roles that women are able to inhabit and occupy and the opportunities that are out there have multiplied. If I started my career in playing two-dimensional roles to get the three-dimensional roles, most women started their career in three-dimensional roles and end up at “wife” or “mom.” And that's just not the case anymore. There's just a lot of broadly diverse stories being told that centre women. So you're right, but in the last five years, six years I would say, there has really been a pretty significant shift.

And I think that shift is happening because who's behind the camera is also changing. JJ: Right? Who holds the purse strings. That's big. Who gets to green light the show to begin with? You have to have a variety of different faces inside of that room. And then, who's behind the camera. What is the actual perspective that we're telling the story from? The male gaze thing is very real. Dr. Death had three female directors. The central character of Dr. Death is an outrageously toxic male figure. Who knows more about toxic male BS than women? Particularly women who are in a predominantly male work environment. So these directors had a very specific take and came at it with a clarity that potentially a man wouldn't see, because we have blind spots about ourselves. We're in a space where there's a recognition that we've told a very narrow band of what's available in stories. There's so many stories to be told and it's okay for us to broaden out from another white cop.

I hope that momentum continues. Okay, I have to tell you something: I’m a little obsessed with your wife, Jodie Turner-Smith. JJ: Me too. As you should be! I love how loudly and publicly you both love on each other. But I need you to set the scene for me. When you are leaving flirty Instagram comments, and she's tweeting thirsty things about you, are you in the same room? Do you know that the other one is tweeting? What's happening?

JJ: We're rarely in the same room [writing] the thirsty comments because that usually just gets said to each other. But, look, if either of us misses a comment, you better believe at night, there's a, "Hey, did you see what I wrote?" One, she's very easy to love out loud and two, she's phenomenal. And I have to say, the love and support that is coming my direction has been a revelation in my life. I've said this often, and it just is the truth: If you ever needed to test whether or not you had chosen the right partner in life, just have a baby at the beginning of a pandemic and then spend a year and a half together. And then you know. And then you absolutely know. I didn't get married until fairly late in the game. I didn't have a baby till very late in the game and they're the two best choices I've ever made in my life.

I'm just going to embarrass you now by reading one of Jodie's thirsty comments to you. She tweeted, “Objectifying my husband on the internet is my kink. I thought you guys knew this by now,” with a gif that said "No shame." JJ: [laughs] That sounds about right.

She's not the only one though. There's this whole thirst for Joshua Jackson corner of the internet. And it feels like there's been a bit of a heartthrob resurgence for you now at your big age. How do you feel about that?

JJ: I hadn't really put too much thought into it, but I am happy that my wife is thirsty for me. What about the rest of us? JJ: That's great for y'all, but it's most important that my wife is thirsty for me. Good answer. You're good at this husband thing. You recently revealed that Jodie proposed to you. Then it became this big story, and people were so surprised by it. How did you feel about the response? JJ: Thank you for giving me the opportunity to give context to this story. So I accidentally threw my wife under the bus because that story was told quickly and it didn't give the full context and holy Jesus, the internet is racist and misogynist. So yes, we were in Nicaragua on a beautiful moonlit night, it could not possibly have been more romantic. And yes, my wife did propose to me and yes, I did say yes, but what I didn't say in that interview was there was a caveat, which is that I'm still old school enough that I said, "This is a yes, but you have to give me the opportunity [to do it too]." She has a biological father and a stepdad, who's the man who raised her. [I said], ‘You have to give me the opportunity to ask both of those men for your hand in marriage.’ And then, ‘I would like the opportunity to re-propose those to you and do it the old fashioned way down on bended knee.’ So, that's actually how the story ended up.

So, there were two proposals. I do feel like that is important context. JJ: Yes, two proposals. And also for anybody who is freaked out by a woman claiming her own space, shut the fuck up. Good God, you cannot believe the things people were leaving my wife on Instagram. She did it. I said ‘yes.’ We're happy. That's it. That's all you need to know. That has been a real education for me as a white man, truly. The way people get in her comments and the ignorance and ugliness that comes her way is truly shocking. And it has been a necessary, but an unpleasant education in just the way people relate to Black bodies in general, but Black female bodies in specific. It is not okay. We have a long way to go. Jodie is such an inspiration because it seems like she handles it in stride. She handles it all with humour and with grace. JJ: She does. And look, I think it's like a golden cage, the concept of the strong Black woman. I would wish for my wife that she would not have to rise above with such amazing strength and grace, above the ugliness that people throw at her on a day to day. I am impressed with her that she does it, but I would wish that that would not be the armour that she has to put on every morning to just navigate being alive. That's a word. That's a word, Joshua Jackson.

The 13-year-old in me needs to ask this. We are in the era of reboots. If they touched Dawson's Creek — which is a masterpiece that should not be touched — but if they did, what would you want it to look like? JJ: I think it should look a lot like it looked the first time. To me, what was great about that story was it was set in a not cool place. It wasn't New York, it wasn't LA, it wasn't London. It wasn't like these were kids who were on the cutting edge of culture, but they were kids just dealing with each other and they were also very smart and capable of expressing themselves. It's something that I loved at that age performing it. And I think that is the reason it has lived on.  We have these very reductive ideas of what you're capable of at 16, 17, 18. And my experience of myself at that point was not as a two-dimensional jock or nerd or pretty girl. You are living potentially an even more full life at that point because everything's just so heightened. [Dawson’s Creek] never talked down to the people that it was portraying. That's one of the things that I loved about it as a book nerd growing up. The vocabulary of Dawson's Creek was always above my level and that was refreshing. To go back to the “diversity” conversation, you can't really make a show with six white leads anymore and that’s a good thing. But I also don't know how I feel about taking a thing, rebooting it, and just throwing Black characters in there. 

JJ: I hear that. And there's certain contexts in which it doesn't work unless you're making it a thing about race, right? If you watch Bridgerton, obviously you're living inside of a fantasy world, and so you're bringing Black characters into this traditionally white space and what would historically be a white space. And now you are able to have a conversation about myth-making and inclusion and who gets to say what and who gets to act how. So that's interesting, but I don’t think you’re just throwing in a Black character if you changed Joey to a Black woman [or] Pacey to a Black man. What you're doing is you're enriching the character. Let's say one of those characters is white and one of those characters is Black. Now, there's a whole rich conversation to be had between these two kids, the political times that we live in, the cultural flow that is going through all of us right now. I think that makes a better story. All these conversations around comic books in particular like, "Well, that's a white character." It's like, Man, shut up. What are you talking about? It is a comic book character! Joey and Pacey don't have to be white. Dawson and Jen don't have to be white. And this is what we were talking about a little bit earlier. We get better the broader our perspective is, both as humans, but also in the entertainment industry. So if you went back to a story like [Dawson’s Creek], what was important in that show was class not race, which I think is true for a lot of small Northeastern towns. They are very white. But if you brought race into that as well, you don't diminish the amount of the stories that you can tell. You enrich the tapestry of that show. So I think that would be a great idea.

Make Pacey Witter a Black man in 2021 is what I just heard from you. JJ: Hashtag ‘Make Pacey Witter A Black Man’. There we go!

[mypassionfortrash]

Biology lessons (part one)

After parents’ evening doesn’t go according to plan, Roger schedules in some one-to-one time with you – his son’s biology teacher. Roger wants to brush up on his biology knowledge and you quickly realise that he’s a very hands-on learner.

Pairing: Roger Taylor x f!Reader Warnings: Implied smut; STRICTLY 18+ Notes: Just a cheeky one-shot inspired by some dad!Roger thirsting. This’ll have two parts, maybe more if people respond well to it. If you’ve enjoyed this and want to be tagged, please let me know. And if you made it to the end of this chapter, please be a courteous reader and reblog it or leave feedback!

Tags: @jennyggggrrr​ @wineandwanderings​ @scorpiogemini​

Parents' evening. Arguably the worst part of your job. One after the other, parents would file in and out of your classroom. Some of them liked to think they knew how to do your job better than you. Others felt that their kids could do no wrong. Some parents couldn't even be bothered to show up.

That was the case with your last appointment of the night – Mr Taylor. So, exhausted and dying to get home, you packed up and left. 

The following morning, you arrived at work and sank down behind your desk with a cup of coffee and some last-minute marking. But something caught your eye. Propped up on your pen pot was a crisp white piece of paper. It had your name on it. And you recognised that scrawled, slanted handwriting; it belonged to Angela from the office. Straightening out the note, you read it: 'Rufus' dad ran late. He's furious. Call him asap.'

Puffing out your cheeks, you smacked the note back down on the desk. It was too early for this. You picked up the phone and jabbed out the phone number. It rang three times before someone picked up.

"Hello?" a groggy voice said. "What do you want? It's half-seven."

"I'm sorry, Mr Taylor. It's Rufus' biology teacher here. I think I might have missed you last night."

"Biology teacher? A bloody time waster is what you are! I was twenty minutes late with the music teacher. Couldn't you have held on?"

The thing was, you didn't even know that Rufus' dad had shown up to parents' evening anyway. He hadn't actually bothered to sign in at reception. But now wasn't the time to tell him he was in the wrong. "I'm really sorry about that again, Mr Taylor. Do you still want to speak to me."

"Oh, I suppose so," he sighed.

"Are you busy just now?"

"It's half-past seven."

"Right," you agreed, glancing down at your watch. You mentally kicked yourself for that. "When are you free?"

"When's lunch for you?"

You rolled your eyes. You had a million and one other things to do on your lunch break, and dealing with Mr Taylor, as delightful as he was, didn't factor very highly on that list. "Twelve-thirty until quarter past one. But I don't have a class until two."

His voice perked up. "Just in case I'm late?"

"You said it, not me."

"I'll be there at twelve-thirty. On the dot."

"Good."

"Good."

"I'll see you then, Mr Taylor."

"I look forward to it."

Slamming the phone down, you decided to wander down to the staff room for another cup of coffee. You figured you would need it after agreeing to prolong the parents' evening agony. When you walked in, you were greeted by the usual familiar faces. Half of them were so organised that it pained you to listen to them. The other half loved to gossip and arrived at work early to do precisely that. As you flicked on the kettle and spooned a heap of cheap instant coffee into your mug, something caught your attention.

"…And did you speak to Rufus' dad last night?"

"Oh! Don't get me started on Mr Taylor!"

"Those big, sad eyes. Gorgeous hair that I'd just love to…"

"I'm telling you if I were his wife, I'd never let him out of my sight!"

"Well that's the thing, I heard she left him!"

"Never?!"

"It's true. It was all over the papers. Big scandal."

"I wish I had known that last night…"

You knew exactly who was speaking. You tried your hardest to ignore it. To just pour your coffee and go. But on your way out, they caught you. Ms Ferguson from Art and Miss Hunter from English. Right as your hand grasped the door handle, their voices made you wince.

"You were supposed to speak to Rufus' dad last thing, weren't you?"

"Was that where you disappeared to?"

You turned around to look at them. "He was running late. So I left."

"You were missing out!"

"I'm sure I was," you said, grimacing as you left the room.

As your last class before lunch filed out of the lab, you noticed Angela linger at the doorway. But you couldn't resist being drawn to the man standing beside her; absentmindedly tousling his fingers through his messy blonde hair and looking bored to death and effortlessly cool in his button-up shirt and skintight jeans. There was no mistaking him. He was Rufus' dad. 

After introductions, you and Roger sat down in silence on opposite sides of your desk. You shuffled through your pile of report cards and notes from the night before, attempting to concentrate on anything but how snug that denim looked on him. "I'll try to make this quick for you, Mr Taylor. You must be a busy man," you began, skimming over Rufus' report card.

"Please, call me Roger," he said, rolling up his sleeves and shooting you a wink. "I've got all the time in the world… especially for you."

You glanced down at the report card again, hoping your face wasn't giving away your embarrassment. "Look, Mr Taylor, there's no easy way of saying this. Rufus isn't doing too well in my class."

Roger's eyes widened. "Oh boy."

You almost felt bad for Rufus. He was a pleasant enough kid. "He doesn't pay attention, and he's… unruly. Doesn't do his homework. Constantly chats away in class. I'm really concerned he might be falling behind. I get it, biology isn't for everyone, and I know he has other ideas, but I need to make sure all of my students are getting the most that they can out of each class."

"I mean it's not hard to see why he'd be distracted." Roger grinned, gesturing towards you. "He's a bit of a chip off the old block," 

Sitting up straight, you tried a different tactic. "Mr Taylor, I really want to see your son do well and I'd appreciate it if you took this as seriously as I do."

Roger nodded. "Right. Right… you're right."

"We've got lots of opportunities for extra tuition. We're actually running an Easter school this year during the holidays. That might help Rufus to catch up."

The corner of Roger's mouth twitched. "Are you going to be there?"

Slotting your fingers together in front of you, you leaned forward. "I'm going to be taking some of the classes, yes."

"Good," he said, leaning back in his chair. He looked like he was analysing every detail of your appearance. "Good. I'm sure I – Rufus, I mean – could make it."

"Is there anything you would like to bring to my attention, Mr Taylor?"

Roger's teeth sank into his lower lip as his eyes batted back and forth beneath his half-moon glasses. You couldn't help but notice just how blue they were. "You know," he began, scratching the back of his neck. "I studied biology at uni. Maybe I could help him?"

"That sounds like a fantastic idea."

"I'm a bit rusty, though. As you can imagine, that was a long time ago," he smirked. "I might need a bit of extra tuition myself." An awkward hush dangled in the air between you. Did you just mishear him? Before you could muster a dry comeback, Roger cleared his throat. "You know… just so I know what I'm talking about. Where are we up to?"

"Um…" you hesitated. If you cracked an egg on your face at that moment, it would have fried in seconds. You swallowed hard and looked Roger dead in the eye: "Reproduction."

Roger's face lit up with a devilish grin that forced his lips wide apart. "Right. Survival of the fittest? The strongest, most successful male gets the female?"

"Not quite, but I'm sure you'd know a thing or two about all of that," you muttered before you could think. 

Roger was quick to blurt back. "You know drummers have exceptional stamina?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Is that right?"

"It's an excellent workout."

You just couldn't resist digging yourself even further into that hole. "I can think of better workouts to test your stamina."

"How long did you say you had again?"

"I have until two, why?"

"Just… thought you could give me a bit of extra tuition. Just now. So that I can get to work teaching Rufus about the birds and the bees as it were." Roger pretended to be meek, darting around what he really wanted. 

But you knew he had been checking you out since the second he stepped into your classroom. And who were you to pass up an opportunity like this? It had been a while since anyone checked you out, or did anything more for that matter. "Extra tuition?" you repeated slowly, widening your eyes.

Roger's thigh went limp, swaying off to the side in a casual kind of way. You couldn't resist gawping at how his jeans strained at his crotch. "That's right," he smirked. Even the way that he absentmindedly chewed at the skin around his fingernails while he looked at you made you forget how to breathe.

"I mean… I'm sure I can give you a copy of the curriculum and the learning outcomes," you began, fumbling with the sheets of paper on your desk, suddenly remembering that he was a parent. And you were a teacher. You couldn't risk it, could you? "And Rufus has a textbook, I'm sure you can…"

"I'm actually more of a hands-on learner. It might be helpful if you could walk me through the unit on reproduction in person. It's been a while since I…" He paused, fighting back a small laugh. "Reproduced."

"Of course. I need to actually prepare for my next class," you wittered, handing Roger a bundle of notes to sift through. "Some other time, maybe?"

The look of wild excitement wiped off of Roger's features. Now he just seemed concerned. "I'm sorry if I–" he began, standing up.

"It's fine," you said as you ushered him towards the door. "You're not the first to throw the odd innuendo my way." Lingering just at the door, you and Roger stood inches away from each other. The smell of his aftershave drew you closer, and the little details – the laughter lines and patches of sunburn – on his face held you there. "You have the school's number if you need anything else?" Inching the door open, you averted your gaze.

"And my offer still stands about that extra tuition," he said with a coy tap on your shoulder.

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Well, it was lovely meeting you."

"And you, Mr Taylor. Hopefully I'll see you again at Easter school."

Roger was halfway into the empty corridor when he looked back at you. "Oh, you will. Don't worry."

Closing the door and leaning against it, only then did you realise how ferociously your heart pounded. You could feel every breath hitch in your throat as you tried to unscramble your feelings. You raked your fingers through your hair. You could still hear Roger's footsteps echo down the hallway. You had everything to lose from this. But that didn't stop you from going after him.

"Mr Taylor!" you called, sprinting down the hallway on legs that felt like jelly. "Mr Taylor! Wait!"

Roger was barely a foot away from the front door when he turned around, smirking.

You stopped in your tracks, glancing around for prying eyes. Then you tried to regain your composure as much as you possibly could. "I…" you trailed off, searching for a reasonable excuse to drag him back to your classroom. "You've forgotten something, Mr Taylor."

"Have I?" He raised his eyebrows.

He might have played dumb, but Roger followed hot on your heels as you marched back to the lab. You could already feel your insides starting to churn at the thought of what was about to happen, but you were helpless to stop it.

When you got back to the classroom, you locked the door behind you, leaving you alone with the dull chatter from the playground outside streaming in from the window. Roger waited in the middle of the room, glancing around at the diagrams on the walls as he trailed his fingertips over the edge of one of the benches. You were about three steps behind what you wanted to happen; taking deep breaths with your back to the door. Sussing out your next move. "Someone might see us," you murmured. Then you made a beeline for the cupboard at the back of the room. "Come on, in here."

Roger's eyes almost bulged out of their sockets as he crammed himself inside, pressing up against your body and closed the door behind him. His hands found their way to your waist as if by sheer instinct. But for the first time since he arrived in your classroom, he looked just a tad more serious, peering down at you over the rims of his glasses. "Are you sure about this?"

"You're not?" You raised an eyebrow. "Those eyes of yours haven't stopped straying since the second you met me. Now cut the bullshit, Mr Taylor."

Off the back of that bold move, you could have died when he so nonchalantly reached up and unfastened the buttons on your blouse. He didn't even change a shade. "Just don't want you getting in trouble is all."

"I won't if no one catches us."

Roger was already peppering kisses along your jawline, rendering you utterly at his mercy. All you could do was grasp at his hair. "I'll try not to make you scream too loudly then."

That was a goddamn lie. You could already tell that he wasn't going to hold back. The way his lips crashed against yours told you that much. You were too distracted by Roger's efforts to move. You had to fight to drive your hands lower, tentatively dragging your nails down Roger's chest. Lower still, down to his belt. Unbuckling it. Making for his zipper.

But he kept his lips locked on yours, eager to distract you from his hands hiking up your skirt. Pressing his fingertips into your thighs so harshly you'd probably bruise. When he realised he was touching your bare skin, something clicked in his brain. He pulled away, his lips swollen and pink and breathless, and glanced down. "Stockings?" he grinned. "God, I wish we had teachers like you back in my day."

"That's just a bit weird," you giggled and rolled your eyes. 

"Oh, is that something you just save for the parents?" he asked, delivering a smack to your bottom.

"Only the rich, handsome ones."

Roger chuckled, slowly closing the gap between you both again. But then you were forced apart by the shrill sound of the bell. The end of lunchtime.

"Fuck," you hissed under your breath. You smoothed down your skirt and buttoned up your blouse.

Roger scowled, leaning back against the wall, almost sending a shelf full of beakers toppling over. "Well, that's a shame," he said, springing on the balls of his feet.

"You're telling me."

"Maybe some other time?" Roger suggested. He had a coy, hopeful look on his face.

"Yeah. Sure," you sighed, breezing out into the classroom. "You really should get going. Some of the older kids sometimes drop in when they have free periods. This has been… Nice."

Roger seemed taken aback, but nevertheless, he followed you to the door and kept up the act when you opened it out on to a bustling corridor. "I'll speak to Rufus about Easter school. Maybe I can bribe him with one of those violent computer games or something. Make sure he behaves, just for you."

"Thank you for your time, Mr Taylor."

After Roger left, you spent the rest of the day, and well into the night, torturing yourself with thoughts of what might have happened between you and Roger if you hadn't been so rudely interrupted. Wondering if he could play just as filthy as he talked. If he fucked as good as he looked. But then, you also wondered how you were going to look poor Rufus in the eye. After all, he was in your first class the following day.

At a quarter to nine, a steady stream of tired, grumpy teenagers invaded the lab and perched themselves behind each bench. As usual, Rufus straggled a good ten minutes behind his classmates. You were already at the board, going through yesterday's homework when he came in and tapped you on the shoulder. 

"Dad told me to give you this, Miss," he said, handing you an envelope with your name on it. Feeling warmth surge to your cheeks, you glanced out at the room, hoping none of your students somehow knew about what happened in the cupboard. "That's fine, Rufus. Go and sit down."

"Aren't you going to tell me off for being late?" he prodded.

"I'll let it slide this time." Then you turned your attention to the rest of the room. "Answers are up on the board; swap jotters. Mark each others' work."

Slipping your fingers underneath the seal, you pulled out the piece of paper inside. Your heart raced, and your eyes widened with every word.

'Dinner? 

'Friday? 

'You should have my number. 

'Let me know, 

'Mr T.

'P.S: Wear those stockings.'

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

Friendly reminder: you’ve made it this far! Congratulations! Please, if you enjoyed reading this fic, reblog it.

You spent 20 minutes reading this for free. I spent six hours on this (I currently have about £500 in freelance writing work that I could’ve done). I love writing fanfiction, but it’s really demoralising to rarely get feedback, and for tumblr’s algorithm to bury posts because no one shares them. And honestly, I don’t want to guilt you, but I’m kind of close to quitting sharing my writing on here because of it.

So please, support writers. Reblog fics (even if you don’t think you have a lot of followers)! Leave feedback (even just a key smash, don’t be shy)! I’d really appreciate it and I’m sure other authors would, too!

>>NEXT CHAPTER>>

[paceypeternathanslawyer]

Another Top 10 Male TV Characters (In no particular order)

I posted something like this before but I added some favorite characters and I had to get my feelings down in writing :) You can read my other post, but in summation, the characters I mentioned before were: Gilbert Blythe, Lenny Bruce, Logan Echolls, Mike Wheeler, Steve Harrington, Shawn Spencer, Burton Guster, Stanley Barber, Luke Danes, and Jim Hopper.

Pacey Witter (Dawson’s Creek)

I’ve found that my top 3 favorite male characters have something in common. They’re all funny men with a deep sadness underneath. Logan Echolls, Gilbert Blythe, and Pacey Witter. Pacey is such a kind guy. He is so caring and comforting. He is also so funny, snarky, and sarcastic. But then there is that vulnerability that he has and it’s so appealing. Pacey is this strange combination of complete confidence but also having a strong streak of insecurity. There’s this scene in season 1 where Pacey opens up to Joey and tells this story of how when he was 8 years old he lost a game of baseball and his father yelled and screamed at him and called him a disgrace. The next day he overheard him tell Pacey’s brother about the events and his father said “at least I have you.” The way that Joshua Jackson delivers that is so heartbreaking and makes you want to give him a hug. Joey and Pacey are far and above the most entertaining and interesting characters in all of Dawson’s Creek.

Jim Halpert (The Office)

Jim is such an important part of The Office in my opinion. He's the type of character that all those mockumentaries need. There are so many crazy characters and they need some normal characters that you can relate to. Yet Jim is also far from boring. He's hilarious and an extremely entertaining part of the show. Also John Krasinski is the freakin best :)

Ben Gross (Never Have I Ever)

Ben  Gross is another character like Logan and Pacey who is funny and yet also has a deep sadness beneath all of it. You really don't start the season feeling too much sympathy for his character. Though I don't believe it's right to demonize Ben more than Devi. When the show starts they are very antagonistic to each other and they both say hurtful things to each other. But when Ben starts caring about Devi, he does not look back. Ben would do anything for her, even drive in bumper to bumper traffic even though he's terrified of it. In episode 6, we see Ben's home life for the first time. That's when collectively so many people started to feel immeasurably sad for Ben. He puts forth this facade at school, but we find he just a sad and lonely boy who deserves all the love in the world.

Nick Miller (New Girl)

Nick Miller is iconic. There's a reason that he was trending on Twitter 9 years after New Girl began and 2 years after it ended. I could never find the reason he was trending aside from the fact that he some classic and iconic lines and a lot of people are discovering the wonderful world of loving Nick Miller. Nick is an absolute gem and in my opinion the best character in New Girl.

Maxwell Smart (Get Smart)

Maxwell Smart is such a deservedly beloved TV character. Max and Get Smart are so important. So many of Max's lines have entered the English lexicon and taken on lives of their own, such as "Would you believe...," "Missed it by that much," "Sorry about that Chief," and "I asked you not to tell me that." He's hilarious and no can play him as well as Don Adams.

Lucas Sinclair (Stranger Things)

Lucas is such an underappreciated character. On Youtube there is next to no tributes to his character. He's always been amazing but season 3 really brought him up to a new level for me. Lucas saved the day at the end of the season. I would also say that El's humanity and how she got through to Billy helped save the day. But it was Lucas' idea to use fireworks on the monster and that was huge. Plus he had the heroes entrance. When they reveal who is throwing the fireworks and Lucas says "Flay this, you ugly piece of shit!!" It's a truly iconic line for an iconic character. Actually Lucas continually saved everyone's asses in Season 3. Also he's so funny... especially in season 3. I feel like the writers did a good job of shining a light on Lucas and giving a lot more to do. I love that we got to see Mike and Lucas' friendship as well, we've heard so much about it in past seasons, but to finally see the friendship in action was supremely important.

Dustin Henderson (Stranger Things)

Dustin is a precious ball of sunshine and must be protected at all costs. He has the sweetest smile and the kindest heart. He’s also a literal genius. If your ever in a bad mood just google his name it’s just what you need to brighten your day :) Side note. Gaten is a comedic genius already!!

Winston Bishop (New Girl)

Winston Bishop AKA Prank Sinatra!!! Lamorne is such an amazing addition to New Girl. There are so many classic Winston moments, like his love of “puzzling.” His inability to do a prank without going way overboard or not going far enough. I also love the scene where he gets the glasses that counteract his color blindness, his excitement at seeing different colors for the first time is so pure!!

Jerry Helper (The Dick Van Dyke Show)

Jerry Helper is such a dynamic person and a lot of that is thanks to the fact that Jerry Paris (who plays him) is so dynamic. I think the saddest thing about TDVDS is that Jerry had less of a big part of show as it went on, because Jerry Paris became the main director of the show. It was his dream to be a director, so i’m happy for him, but it just means that he directed more of the episodes and acted in less of them. Jerry and Millie were perfect for each other, they were both such entertaining people and I loved their relationship on the show. In a lot of shows there’s always the token couple who seems to hate each other and fight bitterly. Jerry and Millie were the type of couple who fought all the time, but the unique part is they truly love each other as well. The way it’s written you get the impression that they fight passionately but they also make up passionately.... do I need to write Jerry and Millie fanfiction? I think I do ;) Side note: were Jerry and Millie the first couple on TV to go to marriage therapy? I feel like they were, which is another way that The Dick Van Dyke Show was ahead of it’s time.

Arthur “The Fonz” Fonzarelli (Happy Days)

The fucking Fonz!!!!! Icon!!!!! I don’t think there has ever been a more iconic character in all of television. It’s been said that after The Fonz talked about getting a library card in an episode the amount of library cards being issued spiked dramatically. Supposedly the library association said that it spiked by 500%, whether or not that exact amount is correct, it points to just how popular The Fonz was. His leather jacket is in The Smithsonian museum. But the The Fonz is not just cool, he’s also an extremely interesting character. Sadly he was abandoned by his father and by the sounds of it also his mother. He was largely raised by his grandmother since the age of 6. He dropped out of high school and he joined a gang. Fonzie is an incredible man and he adopted a son out of wedlock because he wanted to give a kid a better childhood than what he had. He truly was a symbol of kindness and he was the coolest fucking character to ever exist. He was a proponent of civil rights and advocate for people with disabilities, and he even learned sign language so that he could communicate with a woman who was hearing impaired. Henry Winkler was nominated 3 times for that role. Since then Henry has gone on to other amazing roles. He had a part in Arrested Development, he plays Jean Ralphio’s father in Parks And Recreation. And most recently he finally won a much deserved Emmy for his role in “Barry.”

[joey-potters]

Pacey Witter :)

Why I like them He stands up for others, he always wants the best for the people he loves, he treats people with respect. Honestly he’s just a really decent human being who has raised the bar for all men tbh.

Why I don’t He would let his own insecurities get the better of him and would sometimes take it out on people who didn’t deserve it. Also the gay jokes about his brother I was not a fan of.

Favorite episode (scene if movie) 4x12 (The Te of Pacey) 

Favorite season/movie Season 3

Favorite line The simple act of being in love with you is enough for me

Favorite outfit The jacket he wears in 4x13, I tried to get a good enough pic of it but this will have to do.  

OTP Joey Potter

Brotp Jack McPhee

Head Canon He owns a string of successful restaurants but spends most of his time sailing with the new boat he bought with Joey

Unpopular opinion Some of his actions in S5 and some of S6 I do not like

A wish The show is over but I want him to raise a son and see what a real father/son relationship should be

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen Again the show is over so I can’t really speak on this. Thankfully the things I didn’t want to happen to his character did not happen 

5 words to best describe them Kind, Loyal, Honest, Doer, Playful 

My nickname for them Don’t really have one 

Thanks for the ask lovely!!!!!

[kimmibers]

Elvish

Good Evening All, Wow it's been a while since I have been able to update any of my stories and I'm so sorry for the wait, I've had A LOT going on this past year. Brain surgery to moving house it's been bonkers! So if you have been following my other stories I'm so so sorry! To get back into writing again I have wrote a little tiddle lol I keep dreaming all these scenes and finally got to a point to be able to write them down!

So in regards to the below little snippet if it is in Italics then this is spoken in Elvish. I did get the translations, but it I didn't want half the story to be lost in translation. Anyway enough wittering on from me. I hope you enjoy :) Please review and if you have any constructive criticism (other than to kill myslef!) then I will happily take it on board.

Kim xxx

Elvish

War. If Hinata had learned anything about war it was this; It consumes everything and everyone. It's like a virus. Hate, violence, innocence lost, the earth scorched, damaged. The war of Elves verses humans has been a continuous battle since she was a child. Now at the age of 21 she just felt, loss.

Kneeling on another battlefield she knelt by her comrade trying in vain to stop the bleeding. She was no medic, but she knew basics. Blood needing to stay in the body is a basic she was failing.

"It's okay, Princess. She calls me home." He spoke in their tongue; elvish. Hinata shook her head. Who was she to deny their Deity?

Hinata felt a hand squeeze her shoulder. Neji, her cousin, always has her back.

"He's gone, Hinata." He confirmed. She sat back and looked at her blood stained hands. Not just Tori's, all the men and women who had died over the years. Did anyone even remember why this war had started, she wondered. Every battle more soul's cried out in pain; lost loved ones, wanted revenge; it was a viscous circle she had to end. Grabbing her trusted bow Hinata stood and walked from the battlefield. No longer would she be a pawn in this game of war.

Sasuke trekked through the dense forest, as silent as a panther stalking it's prey. He had to find the elves, they are his only hope. He's been warned many a time this was a suicide mission, but it was this or watching his brother fade away to nothing and he was not willing to do that; he couldn't.

"Not a step closer human!"

In a blink on an eye Sasuke could see 6 elves all with arrows aiming for his heart. He knew he could only see the 6 because they wanted him to. The forest is their domain. They knew how to hide and conceal themselves.

"Why come here human?"

Sasuke looked at each of elves, the only similarities between them are fact they are all male. Like humans they each had their own distinctive features and personalities.

"You know I never really planned on making it this far." Sasuke smirked.

"Anyone understand this man?"

Sasuke watched as the 6 male elves shook their heads.

"You don't understand me as much as I don't understand you." He guessed.

"Neji!, she is here." Came a call from the trees.

In an instant Sasuke was pushed to his knees and felt the point of an arrow at the back of his head. At the same time another 15 elves dropped to the forest floor and knelt on one knee, as a hooded figure emerged from the trees. The cloak's hood concealed all features making it impossible to see who wore it. As the figure moved closer the cloak made it seem as they were gliding over the forest floor.

Sasuke held his head high. At least if he were to die now he would be with his brother in death and wait for him on the other side.

The figure, now but a breath away removed their hood revealing the female elf. Sasuke had to squint his eyes from the sudden light that surrounded her. Strangely he heard a females heavenly voice singing. At first thinking perhaps an angel coming to welcome him to the other side, but soon realised they were singing in Elvish.

Once the glow surrounding her faded Sasuke was able to make out her facial features. Like the male who had been talking to him before he noted she had violet eyes and although pupil-less, unlike the males her's didn't seem as unfriendly.

"Good evening, man." She spoke as she knelt on the grass in front of him.

Sasuke met her stare and felt as if her eyes were searching his soul.

"If you're here to kill me can we get this over and done with now."

"Careful Hinata, we can't trust him. He is human after all." The male elf spoke with venom and dug the arrow deeper in to the back of his head, causing Sasuke to wince in pain.

"Neji." The female spoke gently to the male elf, "No blood is to be spilt during the festival of Kanenis. You must know this by now."

"But Hinata-".

"All of you," Sasuke watched as the female elf stood and spoke to her kin, "If even a hair is harmed on this humans head I will see to it you will never see a starry sky again. Do I make myself clear?!"

At her words all the elves covered their hearts with their right fist and bowed. The 6 males who had had their bows draw at him swiftly removed their arrows and placed their bows on to their backs.

Sasuke looked on confused by their actions. Yet even more confusing was the hand of the female held out towards him. He looked at her suspiciously.

"You're not going to kill me?" He asked.

"Come son of man, no harm will come to you."

Sasuke had no clue what she said, perhaps this had been a stupid plan after all; seeking the elves without knowing a word of their language. But something in her tone of voice implored him to not only take her hand, but trust her also.

[anthropwashere]

i’m still, still dreaming magnificent things (part 4)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

(Alternate site locations, plus a handy dandy GSheet of all the Resembool folk, plus a Spotify playlist to come. Head’s up, this chapter’s 19k words.)

=

It can't be.

It can't be.

Dad ran off. Dad left them. Dad died penniless and alone, with neither identification or cenz on him, and so was buried in a pauper's grave in some far-off corner of the world. Once upon a time—when Alphonse had still been alive—Ed had declared this to be the only acceptable reason for Dad's continued absence. It's a sad scenario to be sure, but it's one Alphonse reluctantly agreed with, then and now, if for no other reason than that it's the only one that makes sense.

More recently—and more hardened by the world and all its indifferent indignities—Ed considers Dad—"That bastard"—the type of creep to leave a string of broken-hearted single mothers behind him. Granny had all but boxed his ears the one time he'd said as such near her, and Ed had fled back to East City in a huff that same day. He didn't come back until his automail was practically a dead weight dangling from his stump, and then it'd been Winry's turn to berate him senseless.

(Ever since then Alphonse has tried not to linger on the bitter thought. He likes to think Mom had been a better judge of character than that, and even if she hadn't been there's no way the Rockbells would have ever opened their arms to a sleaze like that. Better he be dead, taken by the same illness that took Mom, taken by a terrible accident, taken by a petty thief with an itchy trigger finger. Better orphaned than abandoned.)

Dad is dead and gone. He has to be.

But there's no mistaking him.

Alphonse has seen this same face smiling sheepishly out of aged photographs a hundred times if he's seen it once. He knows this is the same face found in the family portrait pinned to the corkboard in the Rockbell's house. Ed had wanted to get rid of that picture but Granny wouldn't hear of it, so he'd compromised by covering the half of it with him and Dad entirely with pictures of Alphonse. That photograph is what, thirteen years old now?

And Dad still hasn't changed at all.

Without warning the little flock of birds all scatter in a burst of shed feathers and furious wittering. Alphonse shields his face out a habit not yet broken, only lowering his arm once the sound of flapping fades. The man—Dad, it can't be, it can't be, it is—watches them fly off with an absent-minded furrow to his brow. Alphonse is too far away to see what color his eyes might be behind his glasses, but he knows they'll be the same rare yellow as Ed's are and his were and something about that stings.

"You can't be here," he whispers aloud.

The man—Dad—moves on, heading up the dirt road out of town. It's baffling to see him in motion. There've been too many years with only photographs to know him by, too many years speaking of him in only the past tense. This—

This doesn't feel real.

He follows, half-expecting the broad-shouldered man to be a figment of his imagination, half-hoping he'll wink out of sight at any moment and things can go back to normal. He's almost—offended by the appearance of this absurd apparition, this inane interruption to his perpetually dull purgatory. He no longer expects surprises from any corner but Ed's, and even Ed can be fairly predictable in his own off-kilter way. In the years since Mom died, the only family he's had is Ed and Winry and Granny. Everyone else has gone away, taken away too soon, Dad in that number. But here—impossibly—he is again.

"You can't be here," he repeats, more adamantly this time. "This isn't—it can't actually be you. There's no way you're really Dad—"

The man stops, frown deepening as he turns back to regard the town proper laid out behind him. Alphonse follows the line of his gaze on reflex. It's a nice view from here, sure, but he's seen it a thousand times before and he'll see it a thousand times again. He looks back at the man in time to see him startle like he's just remembered something urgent. Whatever it might be doesn't matter a whit to Alphonse, of course, so he shelves that instinctive curiosity and glares up at him.

"No," he says, churlish and childish and damn near pissed. "This is stupid. This is bullshit. Why'd you come back now?"

The man says, "Alphonse."

The man—Dad. Dad isn't looking at the town proper. He isn't. His gaze is lower, focused on something far closer. But this is an empty stretch of dirt road, no houses nearby, nothing interesting to catch the eye at all.

There's nothing here except him. And Dad just said his name.

He shakes his head like a dog. No. No way. He—he heard wrong. He imagined it. There's no way Dad could possibly know he's standing here. Dad's alive; the fresh footprints in the road are proof of that. Only another ghost could see him, so there's no way Dad said his name—

Dad breathes shakily. Dad has the audacity to say, "It is you. Oh, Alphonse. What happened to you?"

He can't speak. He can't even move. If he does either thing he's sure this impossible dream—nightmare?—will fall apart. Dreamstuff and wishes, all of it useless to a dead thing like him.

This can't be happening.

Can it?

(Oh god, please. Please let this be real.)

"You—" His throat isn't real enough to choke, but he feels the need to clear it and start again anyway. "You can see me?”

"Of course I can," Dad says.

"He shivers. That—that was a reply. A real reply, not happy coincidence. A real reply from a living person. "Y—you can hear me too?"

"Yes. Yes, of course I can. Alphonse—"

"Stop."

Dad stops. His hand has twitched from his side, reaching out, reaching like he means to touch Alphonse. A hug, or to ruffle his hair, or whatever small gesture fathers do to sons they haven't seen in ten years. Dad doesn't know. Dad hasn't realized.

"I'm dead," Alphonse chokes out. "I died. Years ago. You shouldn't be able to see me. No one can."

Dad's hand hovers a breath longer, then falls. His overcoat hisses against itself. Hush, it says. Hush. "What happened?"

Everything. Too much. Too many years. Too many moments Dad should've been here, should've helped them, should've taught them to know better, should've stopped them—

"You left," he musters. "You left."

"I...." Dad seems to straighten. To harden. He recovers from his shock, and becomes so still he could pass for a statue. "I had to. I was always going to come back."

The laughter that bubbles out of him is nothing short of arsenic, bitter and foaming. He's as surprised by it as Dad seems to be. "Back to what? There's nothing left!"

Dad looks away from him, out across the rolling hills and the silver ribbon of the river bifurcating Resembool proper and Resembool rural. He looks to where their house once stood, to where there's only a tree half-blackened and a shrug of weedy ruins. Dad looks, and looks, and after a heavy moment he asks, "Where is my house?"

Not "our." His.

For a moment Alphonse hates this man just as much as Ed seems to. He hates him for his arrogance and his ignorance, his narcissism and his dismissal of the only living family he has left. Alphonse would be sick with fury if he were still capable of feeling anything, and so he sees no reason to be kind when he snarls, "Ed burned it down after he became a State Alchemist. You left. Mom died—" He clenches his fists raising his voice to be heard over Dad's sharp inhale, "—I died. Ed's gone. There's nothing left for you here, so why'd you come back?!"

"I—I didn't...." Dad steps back from him, shaking his head. He wavers; unmoored, floundering. "I didn't know. I don't—I'm sorry. Alphonse, I'm sorry, I don't...."

Alphonse knows he should do better than sling accusation and demand answers. He should be better.

But it's too much.

He can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Anger, black and stormy, fit to rival Ed at his most unhinged and spiteful, all but overwhelms him then. For all that he has no throat he still finds himself choking on bitter grief for what should have been.

(If only Dad hadn't left. If only Dad hadn't left when he did. If only he'd been here when Mom got sick. If only he'd been here when Mom died. If only he'd been here when Ed first voiced the idea of human transmutation. If only, if only, if only—)

He jabs a finger up the road. "Go talk to Granny. You owe your old drinking buddy a visit, at least. She'll be happy to fill you in on everything you missed."

"Alphonse—"

But he kicks off of the ground before Dad can finish, uninterested, unable, darting away. He doesn't care where, so long as it's somewhere he can be alone, away from living and dead both. He needs to be alone. He needs time to calm down. He needs time to breathe for all that he can't breathe, to find his center the way Teacher taught them to. He needs to find some distance so he no longer feels like the stupid little boy asking Mom when Dad will come back. Mom's gone, dead twice over—

(And guilt gnaws at him, as cutting as it  had been the day he watched Granny bury the thing they'd made.)

—and Dad is—

Dad is—

Dad's alive.

Dad's come back.

None of this makes any sense. None of this fits the tidy little afterlife Alphonse has resigned himself to; watching the rest of his family live out their lives and pass away without ever knowing some shade of him was still here, crying out and going unheard.

From the moment he realized even Ed couldn't sense him he's known he'll have to watch the three of them die. He's been dreading the inevitable report of Ed's messy death in the news for—for too long, really. Granny's only getting older. Already there have been a few occasions where he found her napping and thought the worst before some small twitch or snore relieved him. Winry's the only one he expects to see 1920, and beyond that besides. She'll finish her apprenticeship in Rush Valley and no doubt follow a similar path as Granny did at her age. She'll travel for a few years, or many years, but eventually she'll come back to Resembool to keep Rockbell Automail going strong where it's needed most. Maybe she'll marry one day. Maybe she'll have a child of her own, or even children. She and Granny have talked about that possibility once or twice, and Alphonse had laughed at the way she'd wrinkled her nose. But it's a nice thing to imagine on her behalf. A lineage that will last beyond her own small lifespan, the Rockbell name carrying on.

(Winry doesn't really strike him as the type to take her husband's name. Not with the weight Rockbell carries in the world of bioengineering.)

He's seen how the other ghosts all keep wistful vigil over the generations that have survived them and come after them. Watching them watch the living is the closest thing to a mirror he's got, and it's a sobering reflection. Sobering, lonesome, and yes, more than a little creepy, but it's all he's had to look forward to. He'd resigned himself to a state of uninterrupted observation, of decades and eventual centuries of quiet obsession.

But now here's Dad again, come back from the metaphorical rather than the literal dead to throw an enormous fucking wrench in everything!

He's had to watch Mom die twice already. He's going to have to stand over Ed's grave one day soon. He doesn't want to have to do the same for Dad too.

=

In hindsight, he realizes he ought to have gone to Rockbell Automail too. He could've heard word for word what Granny's spitting in Dad's face right now, found some petty gratification in whatever justified vitriol she's slinging. But it's....

It's too much.

All of it is too much. Dad here, alive, seeing him. If he were so inclined he could ask Dad any old question that comes to mind and be answered. He could tell Dad all the nasty, cruel things Ed might snarl if he were here in his stead. He could fill Dad in on every nasty, cruel detail Granny might be so inclined to gloss over out of kindness toward her old drinking buddy. He could do more today than he's been able to since that nasty, cruel night, and it's—

It's too much.

He's retreated to the cemetery for now. Not many people come out here to visit their dearly departed in the middle of the day, nor are there any ghosts perched on their headstones either. There's only him and the encompassing, comforting silence of a summer morning not yet overwhelmed by buzzing insects or birdsong. There's a breeze, heard rather than felt as it hisses through grass in need of a trim. There's the crinkling of the paper wrapper on a bouquet of flowers on a nearby grave (infant son of Filip and Katerina Danchey, born September 18, 1913). The sun is high. The sky is clear. It's probably warm out, not that he can feel it. He can't feel any of it; not the sun or the wind or the grass or the fabric of the clothes he died in. He can't feel anything, numb in a way the vocabulary of even the most precocious of ten year olds can't express.

(It still manages to surprise him, sometimes. How much dying has hollowed him.)

Dad didn't know.

All these years since Mom died, all these years since they tried and failed so terribly to bring her back, and Dad didn't know.

What kind of world can allow that? There must have been a thousand opportunities that Dad could have saved them from years of grief and pain and loneliness, a thousand days he could have picked up the pieces of their broken home before they could cut themselves to ribbons on the terrible hope of what if. A thousand chances at salvation, but Dad hadn't known he was needed here. All these years, Dad thought a happy home waited for his return. He'd thought Mom perfectly fine, taking care of their too-clever-for-their-own-good sons, living in a home Ed hadn't burned down just so he could keep treading water all on his own.

It's too much.

Better Dad dead than ignorant.

He sits at the foot of Mom's first grave, curled up with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. Granny's been by recently; the headstone looks freshly scrubbed of moss, the nearby grass pruned of weeds, a small bouquet of white gladioli only just beginning to wilt beneath Beloved Mother. He sits, tightly wound, listening to the wind. His thoughts are a perfect match to the rushing, senseless noise.

He's overwhelmed. Overstimulated even, if such a word can be applied to someone who only has sight and hearing left of his senses. Either way, this tight knot of mute panic is a sensation he'd nearly forgotten the feeling of; the sticky way it clings, the choking way it squeezes. Funny, how quickly things fade without new stimuli.

Fucking hilarious.

He doesn't know what to do. How to react. How to act in the first place. There's someone new and alive to interact with, and it's Dad. Can Dad see other ghosts, or just him? If it's only him is it a matter of blood that lets him? If that's the case, then why can't Ed? If Dad can see ghosts, period—why? How? Is it something that can be taught? Would he be willing to teach Ed? Could Ed be restrained from punching Dad long enough to learn?

(Mm, that last one probably not. Granny though, she's impressively patient. She'd been putting up with Ed and Winry's constant fighting for years now. She deserves a sainthood for that alone, honestly.)

Time passes. Hours, probably. The shadows of the headstones are beginning to stretch thin and dark when he hears footsteps on the dirt road skirting the cemetery. He doesn't look when the footsteps soften on the grass, coming closer. He doesn't look when a man's broad shadow spills through him, darkening his own edges so that, for a moment at least, he almost looks solid in the burnt afternoon light. He doesn't have to look to know who's there. Funny, how he already knows—remembers?—the sound of Dad's footsteps.

Nothing is said for a long time.

Alphonse chooses to break the silence first, lifting his gaze to Mom's headstone. Her name, her birth, her death. The pretty but meaningless words carved beneath those facts to sum up her few years. 26 had once seemed like such a mature and far-off age. Funny too, how perceptions can still change even when you can't get any older.

He asks, "Why can you see me?"

Silence.

Then—

A soft, stifled sob.

He twists around to look up at the man, expecting....

He doesn't know what to expect anymore. All of his expectations have been wrung out and frayed to meaningless scraps in the wake of Dad's return. But tears? Dad's face contorting as he sinks to his knees? Dad tearing his glasses off to scrub his eyes? Dad, overcome with grief?

Shame is a salve and a salt both. Alphonse finds it easy then, a relief even, to let his anger and resentment bleed away. He was cruel to think so poorly of Dad, and an idiot too.

By the time Dad quiets his face has become a splotchy mess, eyes red-rimmed and a few strands of his hair clinging to his damp cheeks. Hair and eyes the same color as Ed's. The same color Alphonse's were too. He looks nothing like the man in Granny's old photographs, nor like the closed-off paper cutout Alphonse had built in his head out of secondhand stories and fuzzy memories. Dad looks miserable and wrung out. He looks like anybody would when they'd been told their whole world had crumbled when they hadn't been there to do anything.

Dad paws his eyes dry, slipping his glasses on again. "I didn't know," he says hoarsely. "I didn't. I thought she'd be.... I didn't realize I'd been away so long. If I'd known—" He takes a shuddering breath. "I would have come back. I swear to you—"

"I believe you," Alphonse says.

"I'm sorry. Truly I am. Trisha—" Dad's whole face crumples.

Alphonse considers him for a moment. "You never got any of our letters, did you?"

"...No."

Well. That's alright then, isn't it?

"Why can you see me?" He asks again.

Silence.

Then—

One large hand reaches out to cup the empty air where Alphonse's shoulder hunches. He grimaces, pulling away. "Stop that. I can't feel it."

"I...." Dad lets his hand fall back to his lap. "I've been able to see the dead for a long time. A very long time."

All those old photographs. Decades passing Dad by without touching him. "How?"

Dad breathes.

"I'm a monster."

=

It's dusk by the time Dad finishes his story. His impossible history. Lost Xerxes and the Philosopher's Stone. The Dwarf in the Flask. Unwanted immortality at the cost of so many dead. Centuries spent hiding away in Xing, learning the breadth of his curse. Learning too, everything he could about every single soul caught inside him. The sheepish admittance when pressed for details that the Xingese think rather highly of the man that came to be called the Western Sage. Friends come and gone, come and gone, come and gone. Growing weary of a reverence he'd never asked for nor sought to keep once given it. Going west, and farther west still. Decades spent wandering until Pinako strong-armed him into a friendship that led him following her hangdog to Resembool. Building a house, meeting Mom, falling in love.

On and on, and every word as impossible as the story all told is absurd. But it's true. It has to be. What reason would Dad have to lie to him? He's hardly even real.

"Are you alright?"

Alphonse blinks. Dad's moved to lean against Mom's headstone, slouched like it's become too much to support himself. Like he'd be leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder, if she were still here to be part of this. Dad seems thinner for the telling, scoured and sore, but relieved all the same.

Alphonse musters up a smile. "Yeah. It's just.... It's a lot to take in."

Dad's own smile is the one from the old photographs, small and sheepish, like he knows he's the butt of a joke he can't take offense at. "I'd understand if you didn't believe me."

"I didn't say that." He leans back on his hands, lets his elbows fail. He stares up at the sky, painted deep purple and burnt orange, too early still for the first dusting of stars. "It'd be pretty crazy to believe you," he says. "But I mean, I'm a ghost. It's... it's just a lot. That's all."

He falls quiet, turning everything over in his mind. Dad stays quiet too. Giving him space and time to reconcile. It's an unexpected kindness, and he feels a pang of shame for assuming it should be unexpected. Granny never shied from telling stories about Mom and Dad. He should have kept listening even when Ed turned tail and ran.

The sky deepens. By now the wind has calmed. No one else has come by, nor are their any houses within shouting distance. He tucks his chin to look at Dad discreetly. To drink in the realness of him through his eyelashes. Dad sits so still, carved from stone again. He's powerfully built, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. He'd look like any older farmhand if he weren't dressed like a scholar, his clothes well-tailored and well-cared for. Under a patina of dust his shoes look hardly broken in. His beard is neatly trimmed, though both its styling and his long hair are, from what Alphonse has gleaned reading magazines over any number of shoulders, out of fashion. There's a touch of crow's feet to his eyes, laugh lines bracketing his mouth, a roughness to his large hands that are at odds with how eloquently he speaks. He sits with one wrist perched on one knee, his other leg stretched out before him.

He sprawls the same way Ed does.

"So," Alphonse begins slowly. "You can see me because you're a Philosopher's Stone?"

"That's right."

"Do you know about the other ghosts here?"

"I do."

"Private Shriver? Mister Teller? Nurse Nichols?"

Dad nods. "And the rest, yes."

"Mister Sauter died after you left," Alphonse points out doubtfully, sitting up. "Mister Cuttler too."

"Sauter," Dad says, turning the name over in his mouth. "I know that name."

"Steffie Sauter's one of the other ghosts you'd know. She died in a house fire in 1870. Owen was her husband. He remarried eventually and took over his family's—"

"Boutique," Dad finishes. "Yes, I recall now."

"Did you see him when you got off the train? He died when a group of Ishvalans came here and bombed the station. That was near the end of the Civil War."

"I think I must have. I didn't realize he'd died."

Which begs the question, "What do ghosts look like to you?"

"Like anyone else, more or less."

When the Sauters get upset, they burn. Mr. Teller falls apart in a terrible streak of gore. Mrs. Morgenstern and Mr. Cuttler pale and bloat, spilling a poor shadow of foamy water. Private Shriver's face goes to ruin, and Ada gets flushed and waxen as her fingernails and lips turn blue and her voice goes hoarse and wrecked by the cough that tore her lungs apart. Uschi, Mr. Tafano, and the scritch-scratch ghosts are all too far gone to really show how they'd died, so that just leaves Mr. Beckenbauer as the only one of them unscathed by the heart attack that took him too soon.

Well, maybe. Alphonse only ever looks the way he did the night he died, at least to his own eyes. He's seen the others' gazes drift when he gets in a snit about something (usually Ed), tracing the edges of something he can't see. He's never had the courage to ask what they might be seeing.

Dad sighs, slipping thumb and ring finger under his glasses to rub his eyes. "And Cuttler?"

"Gil," Alphonse offers. "He was a soldier. Granny outfitted him with below-the-knee automail a long time ago. He drowned in a flood in the year the Civil War ended."

"Ah," Dad says. And that's apparently all he has to say.

Alphonse narrows his eyes at him, scrutinizing, calculating. He's tempted to ask—of course, it doesn't matter what he wants anymore.

But—

But it could, at least with Dad. He could ask questions, and be answered. Who's to say he'll ever get an opportunity to talk to another living person again? Why is he hesitating? He ought to just ask—

"What—" He winces anyway, and the wince turns into an irritable grimace at his own hesitation.

Dad's smile is gentle. Reassuring without words, the glint of his eyes nearly a tangible weight. Something about being looked at with so much—intent, forgiveness, love—leaves Alphonse almost dizzy. "It's alright. Ask whatever you like."

Alphonse looks away, out across the rolling hills of Resembool. His home and his purgatory both. The shadows have all been gently smothered by nightfall now.  In distant fields lightning bugs are beginning to blink, blink, blink. Calling out to each other in a language he can't understand. "What's it like not being able to die?"

Dad hums. Thoughtful rather than offended as Alphonse had half-feared he'd be. He seems like the type of man to always turn the other cheek no matter how hard he's pushed. Patient. Well, with how old he must be—as old as the scritch-scratch shadows? Older?—patience is something that he must have had to learn or break otherwise.

"Well," Dad says softly. "It's.... I'm not going to lie and say it doesn't come in handy. But it's not worth watching everyone I love die before me."

"Like Mom. And me."

Dad's face threatens to crumple again, but his voice remains even. "Yes."

Sympathy pangs in the place Alphonse's heart once beat. He thought he'd become accustomed to being dead. The emptiness, the loneliness, the boredom. The threat of inches shaved off his reach every year until one day he's as trapped in as narrow a space as the rest.

Resembool is a little town with little worries and even smaller aspirations. It's unlikely this will change no matter how many decades pass. Only the faces, the fashions, and the brikabrak inside each home are sure to change as generations come and go. He's realized this, rejected the finality of it for as long as he could, but ultimately he's resigned himself to joining the others in their quiet madness. Mr. Tafano, snarling at anyone who comes too near his tree. Ada feverishly taking inventory in the clinic's supply room. Mr. Beckenbauer stood in the corner watching his great-grandson, tapping out a noiseless pattern on his thigh from a time before the radio and the gramophone, a song from when he still lived and breathed and laughed, tapping and tapping and—

Clinging to their coping mechanisms for lack of anything else to hang onto. Breaking under the weight of their own inanity all the same.

His own inhuman existence has only lasted four years, and some days he feels driven half-insane by it. He does everything he can to stave off imagining the centuries that await him still, obsessively follows the townspeople so as not to think of his own inexorable winding down, tolerates even the dullest conversations and radio broadcasts so he doesn't think of the inevitable day Ed will go where he can't one last time, for good.

He wrenches himself out of that dark turn. There are better things to focus on right now. "I don't remember," he admits. "Dying, I mean. All I can remember is our transmutation circle going... wrong."

In the failing light he can just make out Dad's frown. "How do you mean?"

"The color," he says, and describes the event as best he remembers. It's a truncated summary, all the blood and terror wiped carefully away because Dad doesn't need to hear those details. Not when his frown deepens after hearing only the barest outline. "Like I said, I don't remember what happened to me. Everything went dark, and the next thing I was alone in the basement, apart from—from what we made."

"I'm sorry," Dad says after a moment. "I should have been here. To stop you from trying, if nothing else."

Alphonse nods. He'd thought the same a hundred times if he'd thought it once since that night, and now he knows for sure that Dad would have stopped them, if only he'd known he needed to. "Mom used to tell us you were coming back," he says. It's petty to say so, even cruel, but someone's got to. It might as well be him.

Dad does the right thing by flinching. "I... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Alphonse, I—I thought you'd all be fine without me here."

They'd thought so too, even after Mom died. So much for that.

He floats easily to his feet, slipping his hands into his pockets as he nods toward Rockbell Automail. "You should head back. Granny'll be expecting you for dinner."

=

It's strange, watching Dad and Granny have dinner together. How they so easily share new stories and reminisce over old ones. They've been friends for decades and it shows in how easily they fall back into finishing each other's sentences, in how naturally they move around each other, in how Dad knows where the cutlery drawer is and which cupboard Granny keeps her shot glasses. It's strange, because for the first time since he died a living person knows he's there. He feels almost—guilty whenever Dad's eyes flicker in his direction. He feels like he's intruding on something especially private, like he's eavesdropping on the adults when he ought to be in bed. It makes him feel more like a kid than he has in—years.

(Granny certainly wouldn't have recounted that particular story about the man she'd bested  in a drinking contest when she was 22 if she'd known he was there, listening in. At least not without a significant amount of censoring.)

He sits in a corner out of the way beside Den, who remains a coiled, growling knot all evening. The usually even-tempered dog doesn't so much as flick an ear at the sound of his cajoling. "What's the matter with you?" He asks in a huff, running his hands down and through Den's raised hackles. "Easy boy, easy."

Dad's eyes meet his again; when Granny's not looking he twitches his shoulders in a mute apology that baffles Alphonse for a moment until he puts two and two together. Half a million souls squeezed into one man's body, and dogs are sensitive enough to hear ghosts... well. Alphonse might not be able to hear so much as a whisper out of whatever might be in Dad, but clearly Den doesn't want any part of it.

"And I suppose you'll be needing a place to stay while you're in town?" Granny asks with a sly look over the rim of her glasses. Dad in turn smiles wanly.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose. The inn will be—"

"Don't even think of finishing that sentence." She grins at him, sharp despite the whiskey she's put away. "The nice guest room belongs to Ed these days, so you'll be in the new one. You've got good timing, you know; I freshened it up just the other day."

The new guest room is Auntie Sara and Uncle Yuriy's old bedroom. Granny, pragmatic as always, had boxed up their things while he and Ed had been in Dublith, selling or freely giving away anything that would do better in someone else's possession. She'd bought new linens, hung up a few paintings bought from a couple local artists, but to Alphonse's eye all that hard work carved something intrinsic out of the Rockbell's home. The room is too ascetic now, too barren. It's nice enough, but there's nothing homey about it at all.

Dad leans back, dismayed. "I couldn't possibly—"

"Oh, look at the time, you daft old man. Do you really want to drag Reuben and Starla out of bed now?"

"You might as well give it up," Alphonse says over Den's surly growling. "There's no winning an argument with her about anything."

This time when Dad's eyes flicker in his direction there's a faint smile to his mouth. "...Thank you."

=

In the morning Dad goes for a walk after breakfast, nodding discreetly when Alphonse asks him if it would be alright if he came along.

(How strange, to feel the need to ask permission for anything. How gratifying, to be answered.)

It looks like it's going to be a clear day, presumably still chilly out as Dad takes his coat from the stand as he leaves. A strong breeze comes and goes like it can't make up its mind, sheeting through the fields along the road. There's a riot of birdsong that breaks apart to angry chattering as Dad passes beneath them. Alphonse watches a particularly furious male scold Dad from the safety of a fence post, all its iridescent feathers puffed up and gleaming in the morning sun. As scared of Dad as Den is, who'd spent breakfast backed into the corner with his teeth bared and his tail between his legs.

"That must get old," he says, nodding at the bird when Dad only looks at him curiously. Had he really not noticed?

"Oh." Dad chuckles. "It can make things awkward, sometimes. There's nothing I can do about it though."

"Can all animals sense you? What you—are, I suppose?"

"Just about, yes."

"Can people? Granny didn't seem to notice anything weird."

"It's not common, but it's possible." Dad's gaze travels east, his eyes heavy with memory. "In Xing some are naturally attuned to the Dragon's Pulse, while others dedicate their lives to learning the flow of it. Alkahestrists, warriors, monks; any who wish to  know the body's strengths and weaknesses see this understanding. These individuals are able to sense the presence of people and even animals around them by the energy flowing through their bodies. So too, they can sense things that go against that natural flow."

Alkahestry had been one of many topics Dad had spoken of yesterday, embarrassed as he'd glossed over the Western Sage's influence on the Xingese practice. Until yesterday Alphonse hadn't even known alchemy of any kind was practiced east of the Great Desert. Then again, what he knows of Xing could fit on an index card with room to spare. Here in Resembool there's been virtually no influence from any quarter but its own. Sure, there are a few odds and ends to be found in a number of homes, purchased by traders from before the Civil War or brought home from larger cities. Some tapestries and small statues, a handful of silk scarves and embroidered slippers. Little things easily fit inside a suitcase. A touch of the exotic in otherwise firmly rural Amestrian homes.

Their home hadn't been different in that regard either. For one, Mom had owned at least one Xingese-styled dress. And for another—

"You had books written in Xingese," he says, faltering as he tries to drum up details from the hazy memories of their home. He can only reach back so far before it becomes so much dreamstuff and hearsay.

"Yes," Dad replies softly. "I did."

"What? Oh! Oh, no no, Granny saved those. There's a crate full of your things in her basement."

It was the only other time Alphonse knows for sure she went to their house after she'd buried Mom again. He knows she'd done it while Ed had been off in Central earning his pocket watch and Alphonse had been clawing uselessly at the invisible barrier all around Resembool. He hadn't learned she'd taken anything until months after, when he'd found her one evening paging through one of Dad's strange old books. As far as he knows Ed still has no idea Granny salvaged anything from their house. Ed had never asked Winry to collect anything he couldn't make use of.

Dad's expression softens. "Did she? I'll have to thank her for that."

"After you figure out a way to explain how you know she did it," Alphonse points out wryly.

Or maybe she'd write it off as one more of Dad's harmless oddities. God knows she puts up with some odd habits  from him, and accepts him for the whole of it with hardly a question or wary side-eye. But then, she's known him for so long; either she already knows all about him or trusts him enough to leave well enough alone. That's just how Granny is, honestly; whenever she sees someone hurting she'll offer them a good meal and her dry humor, and a bed to sleep in too if they need it. She helps others because she can't bear to sit idle, never mind a person's personality or history. No wonder she and Dad get on so well.

It's only as they crest the hill to where their home once stood that Alphonse realizes Dad wasn't walking for the sake of some fresh air. He slows, stops, hangs back as Dad presses on to the soot-blackened fence. Shame curdles within him, visceral enough he very nearly feels it twist a memory of his stomach and winch his throat tightly shut. He tangles his hands together as if he might wring out some fitting justification for everything that's happened these last ten years. He wants to say, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, we both are, we just wanted to see Mom smile again, I'm so fucking sorry—

But what good would that do?

So he stays silent, choking on guilt he doesn't know how to express to a man he barely knows.

In the end, Dad doesn't ask any questions. He doesn't hurl accusations or fall to pieces again either. In the end, Dad wipes his eyes and turns away from the ruins of their home without saying anything at all.

=

"So," Granny says after lunch, and the way she glowers as she cleans her glasses on the hem of her apron makes Alphonse flinch clear across the kitchen. "Do you plan on sticking around?"

Dad doesn't even bat an eyelid at the ice in her voice. He must be hell in a poker game. "No. I have unfinished business elsewhere. I'll be leaving in a few days. Sooner, if you prefer."

She harrumphs. "Is this business of yours going to take another ten years to sort out?"

"No."

Unimpressed, she puts her glasses on and seems to leave it at that, right up until they've settled on the porch with fresh cups of coffee. Then, in true Granny fashion, she goes in for the kill. "I expect Ed to turn up soon, if you can afford to stay a few more days."

Dad tenses. It's subtle, but Alphonse had caught the grimace with which he'd looked at the few pictures of Ed up on the corkboard. He gets it. There's something off about Ed's smile these days, something that sets a set of teeth on edge, and that's not even taking the new scarring into account. One look's enough to know Ed's been through too much for somebody who's only fifteen.

Granny, shrewd as she is, doesn't miss it either. "That's right. I heard from Jeannie Mandelbaum that Ed and a few other odd characters went out East recently. Practically bought all their horses, and cleared out the general store too."

Dad looks nervous for a moment, then his face smooths back into the familiar mask of passivity. "East? Not to Ishval, I trust."

"Ha! As I hear it there's not enough left of Ishval to still call it that." Granny sneers. She's spent plenty of evenings down at the tavern exchanging vaguely treasonous opinions with the other old timers. Almost no family in Resembool escaped the War unscathed. Far too many headstones were planted in the cemetery during that time.

"No one's sure where they went," she continues, "Only that it was likely they'd be sleeping rough and bringing along quite a lot of water besides. There's nothing beyond the mountains but desert, of course, and all that sand's going to be hell on Ed's automail without proper protection. Makes you wonder why he tore off without visiting me first, doesn't it?"

Dad hums, giving away nothing, and Granny barks laughter again. There's a game happening here Alphonse knows neither the rules nor the score of, but he's pretty sure Granny just took the lead.

"That was some time ago," she adds. "He ought to be back any day. So long as he intends to come back, anyway. I'm sure there's quite a few things he'd like to talk to you about."

Alphonse can't help but snort. "That's one way of putting it."

Dad's eyes flicker between him and Granny dubiously. She grins.

"Ah, like you deserve anything less and you know it. He deserves some answers out of you, don't you think?"

Dad sighs, and nods.

=

There's a comfortable lull the three of them fall into. Routine settles in with its usual mute and mule-headed determination. Having Dad around again, however temporarily, becomes normal.

Turns out, Dad and Granny don't need to say much out loud to understand one another just fine. Alphonse has seen the same familiarity among a lot of the older folks in town; in long-time spouses that hold hands after dinner and have whole conversations without saying a word, and old friends that developed elaborate bartering systems built on decades of inside jokes and IOUs. Dad and Granny know each other inside and out so well that a decade apart has done nothing to diminish their laughter and harmless ribbing.

It makes Alphonse wonder, the second night after Dad's return long after he and Granny had gone to bed, how time might touch him as it spools by. If he'll fall apart like Ada, or if he'll still be able to muster up a joke for Mrs. Morgenstern when loneliness drags her down to the bottom of the river. What was Mr. Tafano like when he first died? What other ghosts huddled in the hills of Resembool long before a town was ever built here?

He wonders what things will be like fifty years from now, and a hundred, and on. The stories he'll tell Uschi and Mrs. Morgenstern and Mr. Cuttler of the going-ons in town. What other unlucky dead will wake to find themselves mute and invisible but to a handful of people who'd died long before. He thinks of the jokes that lose all humor when explained to someone who hadn't been laughing along from the start. The petty slights that no number of years can soothe, the bickering that will continue out of habit long after the first argument's been forgotten. The private things kept between two people; not out of a need for secrecy, but out of a soft desire to keep something good going a little longer.

Well. He's already doing all of that, isn't he?

Fifty years, a hundred, and on. How will Resembool change in that time? Cars, certainly. Plumbing and telephones and electricity in every home too. Paved roads, at least in the town proper. What else might come and go or turn the town on its head?

He's not sure he'd admit it out loud, least of all to Dad, but he's... kind of excited to see what the far-flung future might bring, for all that he'll never get to do more than observe it.

"Pinako," Dad murmurs, drawing Alphonse out of his musing. He and Granny are sat at the dining table, going through a new shipment of approximately eight thousand sizes of screws. She hums absently, so Dad waits until she marks down a number down on the notepad next to her coffee before asking, "Why isn't there a headstone for Alphonse?"

Alphonse flinches.

There's no way Dad doesn't notice.

"...It was Ed's decision," Granny says. Her tone is neutral, her narrowed gaze anything but. "He's convinced he can bring Al back one day, you see."

Dad says nothing, though his eyes narrow in turn.

Granny nods like he's confirmed something anyway. "Yes. He's gone—mm. A bit strange, after everything. Joining the military didn't help that any, but I think in some ways it might have been the best thing for him. Lord knows he's never minded anything I've tried to tell him. Of course, for all that I might think he sounds half-cracked whenever he gets going on all that—" Another nod, this one at the corkboard where all the pictures of Alphonse are prominently on display, "—I never could make heads or tails of alchemy. Maybe he really is onto something. Or maybe not. Maybe he's just dead set on killing himself."

Alphonse flinches again, unable to stifle the miserable sound that escapes him, hating to hear his own morbid fear said aloud by someone so steadfast and reassuring as Granny. If she's thinking the same thing, then there really is no doubt about it. Ed's going to die trying, and there's not one thing any of them can do to stop him.

The seconds stretch. Dad remains silent, passive, counting out screws as if he hadn't heard her.

Granny's measured look deepens to a glower that could curdle milk. "The way I see it," she says archly, "Ed needs someone else he can blame before he runs himself aground. And the way I see it, you're the best candidate for the job. Being his father and all."

"Blaming me won't change what happened," Dad replies coolly.

"He's fifteen, you idiot," she retorts. "Do you think he cares? All blaming himself for Al's death has gotten him is a short leash and a trail of gossip rags hounding his every step. No boy his age should go through half of what he's endured, and all without more than me left to try and talk sense into him whenever he manages to limp all the way out here for maintenance." She takes a swig of coffee like she wishes it were something stronger, then sighs out her anger until she's just—tired. Old and tired and afraid of standing over another grave of someone she loved. "I've known you for a long time, Hohenheim. I know you're a coward and a bastard to the core, but you don't get to run from this. I'll tie you to the goddamn bed frame if I have to."

Dad's eyes flicker to Alphonse as the silence rings. Then he looks away, hunching a little, grimacing at his own coffee mug squeezed in his two large hands. "I know," he says. "I... I know. I'll talk to him."

On the one hand, Alphonse is glad to hear Dad's willing—more or less—to at least stay long enough for one conversation with Ed. On the other hand, oh, but that won't go well.

"He won't appreciate a thing you have to say," Granny warns. God, but Alphonse loves her.

"I wouldn't expect him to," Dad replies, and Granny nods like he's passed another test, and that's the end of that.

=

One of Granny's out-of-towner customers arrives the next day. Krista Lusk's service dog Charlie likes having Dad around even less than Den does, so Granny gives Dad a wad of bills, a grocery list, and a stern order not to come back until suppertime. She locks the front door after she's shoved him through it for good measure, and Alphonse smothers his grin behind one hand as Dad's left blinking in the mid-morning glare without even his overcoat.

"You better hop to it," he says. "She hates it when people don't do as she says."

"I know," Dad says, but he's smiling too. It seems to come more naturally to him with every passing day. Granny's a good influence on him. He ought to stick around for that alone, though Alphonse is beginning to suspect the man's as bad as Ed is at taking care of his own needs before anybody else's. Exhibit A: Dad remains standing on the porch like he doesn't have a lengthy honey-do list burning a hole in his pocket, staring down the dirt road with another one of his impossible to read expressions. His eyes flicker behind his glasses; left, up, then down in a grimace. Chasing after ghosts again.

Alphonse waits. A couple of days of—acclimating, is perhaps the best word—to Dad's myriad eccentricities has been long enough to learn that waiting is better than hounding Dad when he gets distracted like this. It must be terribly noisy in Dad's head with half a million souls clamoring around in there. He's only one more ghost vying for attention.

Eventually Dad blinks, looking down at Alphonse with a shrug of his broad shoulders in a gesture that'd look like nervousness on anybody else.

(Will Ed's shoulders ever be so broad? Will Ed live long enough to find out?)

"So," Dad says bracingly, "You seem to be adjusting well."

Alphonse stares.

Dad stares back.

The unspoken part of this observation—that he's adjusting well to being dead—sits between them like overripe roadkill that Dad doesn't appear to notice at all. Alphonse does his best not to laugh out of sheer disbelief. "You—you're not very good at talking to people, are you?"

Dad shrugs again, slipping his hands into his pockets as he goes down the porch steps. "Not really, no."

Oh boy. Well. Dad's trying, which has to count for something, right? He ought to at least try to meet him halfway.

He steps lightly into the air, staying a few feet off the ground to be at Dad's eye level. It'll be a little less awkward if they happen across anybody on the walk into town this way. Dad looks at him as he floats an easy half-circle around him, eyebrows raised but otherwise perfectly content to give him all the time he needs to sort his thoughts out. "It's not what I expected—" he begins, then corrects himself. "Well, I don't suppose I ever expected anything, really."

Organized religion and all its trappings is a concept he's never put much stock in, too much of a scientist even as a little kid to find comfort in the plans of some abstractly benign celestial being. Especially not any thing that had the audacity to try and justify orphans. He never chafed as brazenly as Ed did when well-meaning people told them God took Mom for a reason, but he'd bitten his tongue every time he'd held Ed back to avoid causing a scene.

"Ed and I, we never talked much about what we thought might come after death. We wanted there to be something, and it made sense to us that there would be more to a person than their physical composition, something more fundamental than a series of chemical reactions. But we never believed in all that, you know—" He waves his hands vaguely to encompass all the fluffy clouds and harps horseshit, as Ed would absolutely call it if he were here for this conversation. He's a little tempted to say the same, but he doesn't want to put his foot in it if it turns out Dad can still somehow muster faith in a higher power after everything he's endured.

"I mean, what Pastor Darbinian talks about sounds nice, sure, but it never sat right with me, and Ed—" He can't help but laugh a little, and is gratified that the corners of Dad's mouth curl upwards rather than down. "Well, if God's real, I don't think Ed would be happy with anything less than a chance to take Him in a bare-knuckle brawl."

Dad's mouth twitches outright, but he doesn't say anything yet.

"We believed there had to be some spark, divine or otherwise, something we could reach and subsequently bind to the body we designed. I guess that's a long way of saying we liked a good ghost story as much as anybody else, but we never believed they were real. Not really. So to wake up like this after we tried bringing Mom back...."

He shrugs off the old horror, the old terror, the bleak realization that he'd died—

Well. It happened, and there's nothing left for him now but the after party.

"It took some adjusting," he adds slyly, and grins when Dad has the decency to look chastised. "But the others all helped me understand what had happened."

Dad hums, almost starts saying something, then notices the cart coming up the adjacent road as they approach an intersection. He purses his lips into another bland smile that doesn't really seem to mean anything at all. Omar Springer gawks openly at Dad, barely reacting to his polite greeting. His son Rick, turned fifteen not even three weeks back, shows off the gap in his grin where Ed knocked out his tooth years ago as he waves. It's only after the dust of their wagon's passing has nearly settled that Dad speaks.

"There's a girl," he says. "A little younger than you. There used to be a gristmill out on the edge of the western woods—"

He's surprised enough to drop out of the sky. "You don't mean Uschi, do you?"

Dad stares. "You know about her?"

"I know her," he corrects, momentarily baffled when Dad only stares harder. "Wh—oh. Right. You wouldn't—I mean. I've got a much wider range of movement than the others."

"Really," Dad says.

"Yeah. I can reach just about anywhere within Resembool's borders. I"m not sure why, but I think it's because of how I died—" Oops, maybe he shouldn't be quite so glib about that. "—uh. I'm the only ghost here who, uh. Was in an alchemical accident?"

That's a stretch by every definition, but for all that he's certain it wasn't a rebound that killed him he still doesn't have a clue what really happened. It's likely he never will. If he's honest with himself he's still grappling with that. Not just not knowing, but being completely incapable of taking any steps towards knowing eventually. He's intangible, invisible, mute, useless, pointless—

Well. He'll get over himself one day.

"I see," Dad says, looking more uncomfortable than ever.

Desperate to pave over that particular gaffe Alphonse offers, "I had no idea anybody used to live out there until I met her. I don't think anyone else does either."

Dad is quiet, again, as he so often insists on being. Then he surprises by offering more than his usual wry noncommittal replies. His tone turns wistful as he speaks, in the same manner as Granny and other older folk in town whenever they reminisce about the days when they were young and the world's hardships still seemed worthwhile. "Pinako and I first came across the gristmill not long after I bought my house here. She was livid that I discovered something she'd never known about so quickly. Of course, I only knew something was there because I saw Uschi flying above the treeline."

Alphonse bites back the urge to ask what year that was because—

Because Uschi can't go that high anymore. Sometimes, not often, he finds her floating on her back, pressed flush to the invisible ceiling that keeps her trapped beneath a clear view of the countryside. She cries if he tries to distract her; this terrible keening that guts him straight through. When she gets like that... well. He's learned the hard way that it's best to let her grieve alone.

"Do you—?" He falters. "I mean, I've never asked outright what happened to her. She gets upset whenever I bring up anything about—that—for either of us. Do you know?"

"It was before I came to Resembool," Dad replies, instead of It was before my time, which is what any normal person would have said. Of course, he's older than the entire country. Talk about putting things into perspective. "I did some digging after I'd spoken with her a few times. The first settlement was located on the western end of the valley. It was all but destroyed in a fire. The Žitnik's gristmill was the first to burn down." Dad hesitates, mouth thinning, eyes flickering. "From what I gathered, her family was targeted by the other villagers."

"What? Why?"

The bland mask Dad's proven to be so keen on wearing slips; for a moment his eyes blaze. "For being different. Why else?"

Alphonse—

—stills.

He knows how isolated he is. How isolated his childhood was. As he is now, he hears and sees all the things the adults do their best to keep from children, yes, but Resembool is only a village, and not a very large one at that. More than that, it's thrived the way it has for generations. It's comfortable with itself, all its people familiar and familial and wary of upset. It's a place founded on traditions and expectations. Worse, it's insular. He knows there had been two Ishvalan families who had lived here before the Civil War that are gone now. The why and how behind their absence is a mystery he's never heard spoken of since his own death, which in some ways is a red flag all on its own. There are a handful of other races and ethnicities besides pure Amestrian here still; there are mixed families, and families that don't attend church the same day as everyone else, and plenty more who’d spit in God’s Eye if they believed there was an Eye worth spitting at. He knows those people are looked at askance, but he's never sensed any malice.

But that isn't the same thing as acceptance, is it?

Broadly speaking, Resembool is as uniform as the minuscule military unit on the northernmost edge of town. The same families have lived here since its founding, the population bolstered by farmhands and soldiers and the rare handful of those who wanted and could afford a fresh start away from the hustle and bustle of city life. He's heard stories of what the Civil War cost so many other places in Amestris, Ishval most of all. He knows, perhaps better than most, that a human life is worth more than the sum of what can be measured and weighed.

Still. Still, it's disheartening to be told that the cruelty and ugliness of the world at large festers here too. That people, long gone now, but people just like those he's gotten to know so well since his death, could look at another person and think something positive could come from murder.

"That's awful," he says.

What else is there to say?

=

The townsfolk all circle Dad like a flock of vultures as soon as he steps foot onto Main Street. Word of his return has clearly been making the rounds, and from the toothsome expressions flashed at him it's not likely all opinions are positive. Not that Alphonse can blame any of them; he and Ed were hardly the only ones to assume Dad had died, and most of the adults are appalled that their parents never married to this day. Scandals, however small, get their mileage here.

Mrs. Cartwright hails Dad from the newsstand with an artificial smile and a lot of arm waving. Alphonse doesn't even bother to stifle his laughter as Dad visibly steels himself before approaching. It'd be nothing short of delightful to watch her put the metaphorical thumbscrews to Dad, but she'll be at it for roughly forever. He can happily spend that time better elsewhere, so he leaves Dad to suffer on his own and hangs a left onto Miron Street.

He goes past the smithy, a rush of clanging and billowing black smoke as always, heading for the poorest part of town. Cris Street, all its houses settling crookedly into their foundations, are some of Resembool's oldest homes. Few of them are kept up half as well as those just a street over. No part of Resembool is impoverished, not really, or at least not to Alphonse's limited experience. Whole swaths of Dublith had been run to ruin by the on-and-off troubles with Creta and the terrible toll the Civil War had wrecked. He knows that for all that Resembool had been targeted directly once, it survived almost entirely unscathed.

That's not to say there aren't those hurting here. Alphonse has gotten to know everyone in town intimately in the years since he died; some better than they know themselves. He's learned that even in sleepy little villages there are people that hurt in ways there might be no way to ever fix.

A prime example of that—and the reason he's gone onto Cris Street—is George Petrescu. Mr. Petrescu only left the Eastern region once in all his 64 years, and that excursion left all but five of his company dead and his leg and shoulder riddled with shrapnel. All he'd gotten out of continuing the family tradition of military service was a few shiny medals, a lifetime of chronic pain and debilitating nightmares, a failed marriage, and a disability paycheck that just about covered the cost of whatever booze might pickle his liver fastest. Once upon a time he'd been a happy husband and loving father; Alphonse only knows he'd had twin girls once upon a time because he's seen the photographs Mr. Petrescu fishes out when he gets too deep into his cups. He's watched the man's face soften to a spongy mess of grief over what he'd had and thrown away more times than he cares to think, and every time he steps inside this ramshackle house he walks away sick with shame and second-hand embarrassment for all that this good man had once been.

He comes back anyway, because no one else bothers to intervene anymore.

Once upon a time, Mrs. Petrescu—Claudia, and Alphonse only learned her name through tutting gossip one night when Mr. Petrescu had embarrassed himself once again two years ago at a wedding he hadn't been invited to—had grown sick of her husband's unpredictable rages and called it quits after he'd hurt one of their girls. Molly or Holly, Alphonse has never heard which, only that Granny had needed to get involved, and that things had grown grim enough that Mrs. Petrescu had decided that the shame of raising her girls on her own elsewhere didn't outweigh whatever love she still harbored for the good man her husband had once been before the military had torn him to pieces. She'd left long ago, before Ed had been before, before even Aunt Sara had come to Resembool to apprentice under Granny. Mrs. Petrescu had left with her girls and all their belongings and gone north, and no one's heard anything from them but hearsay and supposition since.

There are a number of people in town with long, lonesome histories and no one living left to lean on. God knows Granny's three-quarters of the way to joining that number, for all that she'd deny it if Alphonse were capable of pointing it out to her. He worries after her, but at least she still has Winry calling two or three times a week. There are too many unlucky few who don't receive so much as a letter from those who might feel some obligation to keep in contact, but don't for their own reasons. Alphonse has come to know too well since his own death that there are worse things in this world than being invisible, things worse even than being dead. He could still be alive, still be heard and seen and everything living entails, but instead be purposefully shunned by his fellows. He could be shameful. An embarrassment. Someone the whole town pretends its hardest to never notice, never mind he could be stood right in the center of things screaming his head off.

Mr. Petrescu is one of those unlucky few, but it's not his fault. Not really. Not in any way that counts.

Alphonse passes through the front door of Mr. Petrescu's ramshackle home, all peeling green paint and sloughing apart roof. He squints into the darkness until his eyes recall he doesn't need to falter in the half-light. Old habits, still unbroken. Inside is the usual heap of detritus; stacks of broken, useless things that inch higher toward the cobwebbed ceilings with every passing year. Deeper inside the house is a bedroom, and buried in that dim room is a bed—that must surely reek to high heavens if the scrunched-nose expressions everyone makes around Mr. Petrescu when he fumbles his way out of his house is anything concrete to go by—and in that bed is the man of the house himself.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Alphonse tuts to himself. "I leave you alone for three days and this is what you do with yourself?"

There's no reply, of course, not that Alphonse expects one. Besides, from what he's gleaned Mr. Petrescu isn't a chatty man even with people who are willing and able to have a conversation with him. He doesn't even spare more than a few grunts for Mr. McElligott or the gaggle of teenagers that run the register at the General Store, and they're the ones he interacts with most not that the Pugh family won't let him patron the tavern anymore.

"Come on now, rise and shine!" Alphonse says, hopping over a pile of something-or-other to kneel on the bed, wiggling his fingers menacingly for his own small amusement.

It's the same thing he does for Granny, and for a number of others besides. Those lonely living souls who sink too deeply into maudlin rituals that hide them away from friends and neighbors alike, clinging to the outskirts of their own lives out of something adjacent to stubbornness and second cousin to habit. He's invisible and essentially mute, sure, but a cold spot like him can be a right tenacious little shit when he's so inclined. He grins as he sticks his hands through the blankets and wriggles them around until the lump on the bed grunts, grunts louder, swears even louder than that, and finally sits up.

Mr. Petrescu might have been handsome, once. Now he's a gray and pallid thing, gaunt in some places and flabby in others, covered all over in bristly gray hair that looks as coarse as steel wool. He snuffles and hawks up something thick into the trashcan by his nightstand. He reaches for the bottle by the full ashtray, scowling when it turns out to be empty.

"Good," Alphonse says. "You ought to get some sun, you know. It's a lovely morning out. A bit chilly, I think, but you'd be the better judge of that. Why don't you go and find out?"

The man looks around his dirty bedroom blearily, grumbling something that's more vowels than consonants and completely unintelligible for it. Then finally he fumbles for his cane and hoists himself to his unsteady feet. It always worries Alphonse terribly, those first few hobbled steps that seem to cost Mr. Petrescu more than he can afford. Sometimes he yelps like a wounded dog and sinks defeated to the floor, and those are days that are better left smoothed over and forgotten. Today is a better day. Not good, no. It would be unkind and inaccurate to ever say Mr. Petrescu has good days anymore. But he gets to the bathroom and sorts out that business and gets dressed in clothes with no obvious stains, and none of it with more than a few yawns and sleepy grumbles.

Alphonse leaves the man to all that personal stuff, more interested to see what the rest of the house looks like. He hasn't been by since Dad turned up and he's curious to glean what he can about what Mr. Petrescu's been up to. Hopefully more than dulling his senses with drink, and if he's not in much pain today that might not even be a fruitless hope.

The curtains are all drawn tightly shut so only thin outlines of gray light spot the living room and kitchen. Spots of reflected light glitter damningly throughout every room he peers, bottles left to gather dust where they'd been dropped. It looks like the house is dry, though there perhaps something was squirreled away in the bathroom because Mr. Petrescu starts to whistle as he gets dressed. That's alright. Alphonse can understand needing a little help to get a hard thing done.

Mr. Petrescu totters out of the bathroom, snuffling some as he paws his wet hair out of his eyes. Alphonse steps close to wriggle his cold hands up and down the man's spine until he jerks absentmindedly toward the couch to fetch an oversized knit sweater. It might have fit him well once, but that would have been years ago. Still, it's another layer to warm him, a bit of armor against the cutting gazes of his neighbors. It's better than nothing.

All told it must take twenty minutes of nagging before Mr. Petrescu gimps outside, but that's the hard part handled. From here Alphonse can trust the man to make his way onto Main Street. There the usual gossips will cluck their tongues to see him buying booze so early in the day, but there will likely be food bought besides and if it's Mr. McElligott or Ilya Jarrett running the register at the general store they might coax him into getting a few other necessities besides. If Alphonse hadn't been by today it's likely Mr. Petrescu would have gone without anything until nightfall, if he'd decided to leave his house at all.

It's the little things that matter. The little things are all that are left to him, and to Mr. Petrescu, and to who-knows-how many people out in the world. He has to appreciate the good he can still do, no matter how small it might be.

The truth of the matter is that there's a kernel of unlovely familiarity he sees in Mr. Petrescu. There are times the man barks insults at his fellows, scowling thunderously when no one has the spine to give him the fight he's angling for. There are times the man can't leave his bed for the pain he's in, bitterly cursing as he kneads the knotted muscles of his thigh. There are times when he stares unblinking at old photographs of what he'd had once upon a time, and his eyes become two nickel coins in his lined face. There are times the man rouses from another terrible nightmare sobbing apologies to the dead, and the rest of those nights are spent huddled near a lantern or sat on the rickety chair in his backyard watching the stars wheel overhead.

How can he see the rut Mr. Petrescu has slowly but doggedly dug himself into and not see a funhouse mirror reflection of what Ed might become one day? If Ed hangs on half as long as Mr. Petrescu, will he retreat into a bottle for comfort? Will his myriad hurts twist him hunchbacked and limping even on his good days? Will he become too bitter and sharp of edge for anyone to consider him worth befriending?

It is so, so easy to see the worst of what Ed might sink to in what Mr. Petrescu's life has quietly fallen apart to. He hopes things will improve for the man one day, that one of the living will take pity on him, that they'll take the time to help him when the scrap of pride and stubbornness he buoys himself with won't let him. Alphonse doesn't want to be the only one who cares. Not when he can do so little to help. He wants there to be others for Mr. Petrescu to lean on, and Ed too, and all the lonely hurting souls beyond his reach.

=

He catches up with Dad in the general store—it is Ilya running the register, that's a welcome relief—and perches on the counter to watch as the pair haggle through Granny's list. Then it's to the café for a coffee and sandwich to go that Dad takes to the station. There's a terrible moment where Alphonse briefly thinks Dad intended to leave now, but then he recalls the long-since memorized train schedule. There's no train due until tomorrow, and it won't leave until the day after that. He watches Dad give Mr. McCahan and Ms. Seelin a bland smile as he passes them at the ticket station, then settles himself on one of the white benches on the platform.

"Well, there's the talk of the town himself!" Mr. Teller calls out cheerfully, floating up off the tracks to land beside Alphonse. He hovers his hand over Alphonse's head, as close as he can get to ruffling his hair.

"Is it as bad as that?" Dad asks.

"If I know the hens are all a-flutter, then you know it's worse."

Dad grimaces. "What seems to be the common thread?"

"Oh, they're all right scandalized, of course. Aston had to break up an argument before it came to blows. I heard it secondhand, of course, but I think it had something to do with your imaginary fortune again."

Dad tuts, though it might be because he spilled coffee on his fingers. "I thought Pinako had taken care of that nonsense."

"Yes, well, you've not been here to remind folks of the facts stood right in front of them. Welcome back, by the way. Missed your arrival with all that hubbub with the hogs."

"Aston, you said?"

"Aston Clark. That'd be the painter. Or, well, I don't know if he'd picked that up yet before you left."

"What the fuck," Alphonse says loudly. Both men blink at him like they'd forgotten he was there.

"Oh," Mr. Teller says, looking guilty.

"Mm," Dad agrees, making a face like he thinks he should be unhappy his youngest has figured out foul language in his absence, but also knows he doesn't have any right to chastise. Good thing he realized that, because at this current moment Alphonse is discovering heretofore unrealized depths of outrage that might rival Ed and Winry both at their most rancorous.

He turns the full force of it on Mr. Teller. "You knew he could see us?!"

"I thought you knew," Mr. Teller says defensively.

"I think I would have mentioned it if I did!"

So it turns out every ghost that was around when Dad left Resembool knew he could see and hear them, and none of them thought this an important enough fact worth mentioning to Alphonse in the years since his death. Alphonse spends several minutes telling Mr. Teller—and Mr. Sauter too, when he decides to turn up with an altogether too cheerful wave greeting for Dad like there's nothing absurd about greeting a living person—exactly what he thinks of this slip-up, raising his voice every time the man ineffectively hides his grin until he's shouting. Dad, as ever, appears unaffected. He eats his sandwich. licks his fingers clean, and only then bothers to intervene.

"I don't think it's something that would come up too often."

Alphonse whips around to give him a distinctly unimpressed glare. "I'm pretty sure it should have." It's not like there's a wealth of gossip for the dead in Resembool to busy themselves with! It would make sense for one of them to mention to Alphonse that his own father would be able to see him if he weren't dead and did end up coming home one day, as turned out to be the case. Torn between keeping the glare on Dad—who's proven thus far to be wholly harmless, and apologetic to the point of second-hand embarrassment—and Mr. Teller—who won't stop grinning like the Winter Solstice has come early, the bastard—Alphonse opts for the middle ground of glaring at Mr. Sauter.

"Hey," Mr. Sauter protests, holding up his hands defensively. "I died after he left. How was I supposed to know?"

Alphonse goes back to glaring at Mr. Teller. "You didn't tell him either?"

"Nope," Mr. Teller says, entirely too giddily.

He throws his hands up. "What's the point of you!"

Mr. Teller pretends grave offense, clutching his chest like Alphonse has put a knife through him and making a whole laundry list of ludicrous faces. "Ah! D'you hear that, Hohenheim? No respect! No respect at all. What did that ol' Pantheress teach him for manners without you there to mind her, eh?"

Dad hides his amusement behind his paper cup. "Pinako's always known better than to listen to my advice."

"Shut up," Alphonse says, stamping on the urge to strangle—nobody, yes, but that’s only on a technicality he hasn’t figured a loophole around. "Stop. For—god, seriously? Don't make jokes. I've been dead almost four years and nobody thought to mention my own father happens to be an—an immortal medium? What the fuck!"

"Well hang on now, scale it back, lad," Mr. Teller says, turning his delighted grin on Dad. "What's this about being immortal now?"

"He's immortal, he's ridiculously old, we can talk about that later," Alphonse snarls. "The subject at hand right now is that you knew he was weird from the start and never said!"

Mr. Teller continues to be an absolute bastard and waves his hands dismissively at Alphonse without taking eyes off Dad. "Hush it, you. You might be able to talk to any ol' stiff you please, but shy of a funeral you and Owen are the only ones I get to talk to, especially after this one took off without so much as a warning! I never mentioned his, whatever, ability I suppose, because I figured the same as you; that the ol' bastard was dead."

"Hey," Alphonse says feebly, and only when it becomes apparent Dad's not going to speak up in his own defense. Being untroubled by some persnickety dead guy insulting him suggests he won't mind Ed calling him the same in a few days, which is good, though time will tell how well being a Philosopher's Stone will protect Dad's teeth.

"I don't make a habit of announcing what I am," Dad says, neutral enough that Alphonse can't tell if he'd like it if Alphonse stopped going on about it or doesn't care if he starts shouting it from the rooftops. Whatever, it's not like more than four people'd be able to hear him if he did that.

"What are you, anyway?" Mr. Sauter asks curiously. "It's been—what, a decade since you left? And you haven't aged a day!"

"Looks the same as when I was still alive too," Mr. Teller adds pointedly.

"It's a long story," Dad admits. "I'm sure Alphonse would be happy to share it on my behalf another time. I'm afraid I need to g—"

"Granny's stuff can wait," Alphonse says. Dad raises his eyebrows doubtfully. "It can. She only tossed you out because the dogs don't like you—"

"Oh, I remember that!" Mr. Sauter says. "My Lalea just about strangled herself on her chain whenever you came near. Course, she didn't like most folk, but she hated you. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Oh my god," Alphonse says loudly. "Never mind all that. Can we please, for thirty seconds, stay on topic? Mister Teller, you knew! Not just that he can see us but also that he's—weird! The kind of weird that made it liable he wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere!"

Dad blinks. "A ditch?"

"We had to assume something. It was that or go with Ed's idea."

"Oh, don't," Mr. Sauter interrupts, distressed, while Mr. Teller—bastard—giggles outright. They'd both been at the station for that cheerful conversation between Ed and Winry. Mr. Sauter steps up, hovers his hands over Alphonse's shoulders like he'd try to settle him if only they could touch. "Al, come now, that's enough. You know Walt only meant well—didn't you, Walt?"

Mr. Teller bobs his head, as sincere as he ever gets. "I can't say what the rest were thinking, but you always look so torn up whenever the topic of your parents came up. I didn't want to be the one to bring your dad up when the chance of him coming back seemed slim to none."

Dad's mouth thins. Alphonse ducks his head to hide his scowl, embarrassed of all things. It's Mr. Sauter who speaks into the empty space couched between them, smiling genially. "It is good to see you again, Van."

=

Ms. Lusk won't be leaving until the train wends its unhurried way back down to Resembool in three days time. Granny, usually happy to let her out-of-towners stay under her roof free of charge—seeing as how they're already paying out the nose for the limbs she's built them—surprises Alphonse when she phones Mrs. Forney to arrange for a room at the inn instead.

"I'd have you here as long as you needed any other time," Granny tells her as she finishes writing up the bill, nodding toward the back porch where Dad stepped out to put some distance between him and the dogs, "But that one's a dear friend of mine and he won't be in town long."

"It's no trouble," Ms. Lusk assures her, and even goes out of her way to stick her head out the back door to wish Dad a good day. Then she gathers her things and her usually even-tempered guide dog Pepene and strides off down the road. She'd come up with an obvious gimp in her ankle but today she strides off whistling. Alphonse likes when Ms. Lusk has to stay a few days. She's always good for a few fun stories. Maybe he'll stop by the inn around suppertime to listen in.

Granny waits until Ms. Lusk is all but a speck in the distance before she goes to stick her head out back. "You can stop hiding now."

"I was admiring your garden," Dad corrects woodenly.

"Get in here, freeloader," Granny says, grinning. "I've got a lot of work to get through today. You can do me a favor and make dinner."

Dad smiles as he comes up the steps, holding the door so both Granny and Alphonse can walk "Any requests?"

"A fellow so well-traveled as you has surely picked up a few novel recipes along the way," Granny replies dryly. "Surprise me."

Turns out Dad expected Granny to put him to the test at least once while he's here, because along with everything else she had him but he'd added a few purchases of his own, paid for from his own pocket.

(How do wandering alchemists slash itinerant scholars earn money, anyway?)

"What are you making?" Alphonse asks, perching up on the corner counter out of the way to better watch him work.

Dad hums. "She's always liked it when I make something she won't find elsewhere. I… hmm. Yes, I think so." He offers a smile in Alphonse's direction. "Do you like eggs?"

"Not anymore," Alphonse replies archly.

"Before, then," he corrects, completely unruffled.

"I did, yeah."

"Would you like to learn how to make a Xerxesian dish?"

There's a note of hesitation in his voice, so soft that Alphonse nearly misses it. But for all that Dad tries to go around like he's carved from stone, he looks away from people he's wary of hurting the same way Ed does. For that alone Alphonse has no trouble hopping down to join him by the sink, grinning up excitedly. Dad falters, then returns it as honestly as whenever Granny startles laughter out of him.

"Well, then. It's a bit like an omelette, or perhaps a frittata is a better comparison…."

Dad doesn't share the same sure grace as Granny or Teacher have in the kitchen. He pauses at odd moments, chops and measures everything as if being even a hair's breadth off would mean having to scrap the whole dish and start fresh, and for all his caution he nearly burns it anyway. Dad's panic is charming in its own way; in how another rough edge in Alphonse's impression of him is smoothed away by watching this impossibly complicated almost-stranger nearly spill his hard work on the floor no less than three times. Still, he lays out a charming spread for two before going downstairs to fetch Granny.

Kuku sabzi, he'd called the dish. Alphonse turns the foreign words over in his mind, regarding it like a clear piece of polished quartz found among river stones. Unexpected and almost alien, but beautiful in a way that demanded curious hands to pick it up and take it home to display.

Of course Xerxes had its own language. He wonders if anyone else survived the country's destruction, merchants or soldiers or a handful of lucky farmhands working just beyond the array. Are there any descendants of those few? Are there any others who still know Xerxesian?

(Has Dad had even one opportunity to speak his native language with anyone outside his own head in four centuries?)

Dad comes back up after a few minutes and, after another of his pauses, moves the pan to the sink to soak before attending to the fresh-brewed coffee. "She'll be up shortly," he murmurs.

Alphonse hums, still half-lost in thought, imagining how Xerxes might have been once upon a time. The faces, the fashions, the brikabrak inside each home. So many dead. So many ghosts caught up in an even smaller space than the scritch-scratch ghosts huddle and weep, an even smaller space than the buried basement he'll huddle in one day too.

"You must miss it," he says. "All of you, I mean."

Dad does not flinch, nor freeze. There's no hunch of his broad shoulders as he stirs in milk and sugar, no tremble to his hands as he picks both mugs up. When he turns, however, his smile is brittle. His eyes are as flat as two bronze coins. "Yes,” he says. “Very much."

=

The following morning Dad goes for another meandering walk. When he meets other people he dips his head and bids them good day and always seems completely immune to the gobsmacked looks he gets as he hops over a property fence or through somebody's garden. Alphonse can't decide if Dad's just that distracted by so many conversations in his head or if he's a fan of petty vengeance. Granny had been thorough on filling Dad in on all the unkind things said about Mom and Ed, and who had said them.

Honestly, Alphonse prefers meandering the countryside with him instead of following behind in town. There, as yesterday had proven, any number of toothsome so-and-so's were eager to know just what Dad's been up to, and where he's been, if he's heard Ed joined the military, has he heard a fraction of the madcap adventures Ed gets into, and isn't it a fright, the military taking him at such a young age? What's the world even coming to, child soldiers and the threat of war on three borders, it'll be Ishval all over again if Bradley's not careful—not that Ed would be shipped to the frontlines at his age, surely things aren't so dire as that! But he must worry, mustn't he? And oh, how terribly sad it is, Trisha and Alphonse, what tragedies, so young when they passed, and he and she never did get around to tying the knot, properly, did they? The poor dear, it was so hard on her after he left, raising two boys on her own, such a strain on her frail nerves, it's no surprise what happened—

On and on they'd gone, killing Dad with kindness until he managed enough feeble excuses and pleasantries to satiate them for the time being.

Yeah, Alphonse is nothing short of relieved that Dad opts to avoid town altogether today.

Dad had told Granny that he didn't want to be in the way while she worked through a small backlog of paperwork, and she'd told him about the box of his things she'd kept without prompting, clearly keen to keep him around. She's coerced a number of people in town to keep an eye out for Ed and bribed a few more to strongarm Ed up to Rockbell Automail if need be. Dad had given her a look like he knew exactly what she was up to, but thanked her anyway.

(Alphonse loves watching them snipe at each other.)

Of course, Dad's real reason to leave the house is so he can talk freely with him. Alphonse didn't even need to ask; Dad had smiled at him first thing this morning, then told Granny he was going to get out of her hair for a couple of hours.

So they walk, and they talk, and every time Dad meets his eye and replies to something he’s said it’s a thrill that nearly electrifies him, leaves him almost-warm and almost-shaky, giddy and tripping over his words.

But.

But there’s only so long he can skirt the edges of what matters, however uneager he is to breach an unhappy topic. He wants to know why Dad left. He’s desperate to know, but terrified all the same. What if Ed was right? What if, despite or because of what he is, Dad fled from the responsibility of being their Dad and into the arms of another woman? Women? What if Dad really has left a string of brokenhearted single mothers behind him, going back farther than even Ed’s cynicism could ever imagine?

What if, what if, what if?

The memory of physical pain is a slippery thing he’s lost his grip on, but grief and fear wound him daily. For all that he yearns for answers, for information and truth and knowledge, this is something he finds himself shying from. He fills the morning, as he has the previous days, with inanity. How did Dad meet Granny? What other countries has he been to? What was the tastiest thing he ate in Hermetica? Did he ever learn to play a musical instrument? Has he ever seen the ocean?

These are safe questions with answers that almost always require lengthy anecdotes to explain the answers. Alphonse exults in the new information, in tales of far off places and wonders that make Dad light up with fondness and nostalgia for people who’ve long-since passed away.

But.

But something akin to guilt gnaws at him the longer he puts off asking the obvious. His time with Dad won’t last forever, this he already knows. Soon, in a handful of days at most, Dad will face whatever cruel—and justified—vitriol Ed will sling at him, then be on his way to….

To what?

He doesn’t know. This is what he’s been too afraid to ask. He’s been too cowardly to ask.

It’s far, far from Rockbell Automail that he finds his spine. He wheels a tight circle in the air to meet Dad face-to-face and asks, “Why’d you leave?”

And Dad tells him. More than that, he tells him why he has to leave again. He doesn’t soften it; the danger, the stakes, the truth of what’s coming. He pays no lip service to the age Alphonse was when he died, speaks as plainly as he would to Pinako or any other adult he trusted. He tells him that nothing short of the fate of the world hangs on the outcome of next spring’s solar eclipse. All of Amestris will die in a handful of moments if the Homunculus isn’t stopped, killed the same way Dad’s people were. He tells him about the array he’s spent the last ten years designing and implementing. How even if he’s incapacitated it will remain a viable—and the only sure—counterattack. Dad tells him he left to save the country and who-knows how many millions of innocents.

It all sounds so absurd, so impossible. The same as every other story Dad’s told him, really. Van Hohenheim: the impossible man. A liar, many would call him. But even as small a town as Resembool has more than its fair share of liars, and Alphonse has seen them all caught in the act time and time again. Dad’s no liar, of this much he’s sure. He’s just a man caught up in a very long and very strange tale.

But a word settles like a bruise he can't ignore. “Incapacitated?”

Dad’s eyes crinkle like he knows exactly where the conversation is going, like he’d much rather not have the conversation at all, but knows better than to try and change the subject. “I’ve never been one for fighting. If it came to that alone, he’d have the upper hand.”

“He’ll kill you,” Alphonse realizes, horrified.

“I’m sturdier than I look—”

“So you’re going to let him keep killing you, or maiming you, or whatever, as a distraction until your counter-array can un-kill the entire populace?”

Dad hesitates, which says enough.

“What about after? It’ll still be you versus him. If all you do is stand there, he’ll just kill you again and again until you stay dead, and he’ll still be there afterward to do whatever he likes!”

“I won’t be facing him alone. My friends—”

Alphonse barks unkind laughter right in Dad’s face. “What use are any of them? They’re dead!”

For a moment Dad towers over him, broad and burly and strong despite the scholarly way he dresses. For a moment his face clouds with anger. For a moment it seems he might shout. For a moment it seems as if he would do more than shout if Alphonse were as real enough to punish as any other child that’s spoken out of turn.

The moment passes.

Dad sighs, his eyes shuttering. Whatever strange anger that filled him gutters to so much smoke. “Are you upset you don’t have a headstone?”

“Wh—? What?”

“I said—”

“I heard you.” He shakes his head, blinking like that’ll bring some sense to this conversation. “Who cares? You’re going to die next year if you don’t—”

“I do.”

“What?”

Dad starts walking again, charging ahead with his long-legged stride through grass tall enough to tickle his knees. Alphonse keeps up for as far as he can. “I care. About you, and Edward. Would you feel more at ease if there were a headstone for you beside—beside your mother’s? Do you think it would help put Ed’s mind at ease?”

“I don’t see how that—”

“Was there anything left of your body? Have you looked?”

“Wh—no?”

“No, there wasn’t? Or no, you haven’t looked?”

“No! I—what does it matter? You should be worried about yourself!”

Dad turns abruptly, fast enough that his ponytail whips over his shoulder. “I’m not,” he bites out. “I’m nothing but a cage for the dead inside me. I wanted to be more with your mother, but I squandered that too. If I’d been here, I could have—” He sucks in a breath, forces it out slowly before speaking again. “I owe you so much, Alphonse. More than I have time to give now. Please, answer the question.”

This—

This means a lot to Dad.

And they’re running out of time. Ed will be here any day, and after that inevitable fallout Dad will leave for….

Maybe for good, depending on how this apocalyptic eclipse turns out. Alphonse is still reeling, still trying to make sense of the scale of such a thing, of the chance that all of Amestris could be gone in the blink of an eye on the whim of a false-faced monster from a fairytale. How absurd. How terrifying.

“I….” He takes an unnecessary breath, watching the wind play with the loose ends of Dad’s hair, ruffle the grass in waves. The edge of the forest is a song of whispers, leaves rustling and boughs creaking. They’re far from any house out here, on the very edge of Resembool’s border. "Whatever happened that night, it wasn’t a rebound. There was nothing left of my body before Ed burned our house down.”

“Was there any blood? Any sign of injury at all?”

“I followed Granny back to our house when she went to bury the thing we made. All that was left of me were my clothes. Not a drop of blood or anything on them. I just….” He makes a popping gesture with his hands. “Pfft. Atomized, or something. I don’t know. What does it matter?”

Dad—

—turns away without a word. He walks off, the tension sloughing off his broad shoulders. “If I’m remembering correctly, there are a few others like you out in these woods. Their Aerugan is a bit older than what I picked up, but last I was out to see them we could get on well enough.”

“They’re back the way we came,” Alphonse calls after him. “South of here.”

“Three of them, yes, but there’s another half dozen just beyond that ridge. All killed in a skirmish around the founding of Amestris. Signore Rovigatti was an alchemist, incidentally, and he—”

“Dad.”

“—has the most fascinating opinions regarding the applications of geothermal energy in large-scale transmutations—”

“Dad.”

He turns back, the picture of surprise to see that Alphonse hasn’t moved from where he’d towered and demanded details and ditched the original topic of conversation entirely. “What’s the matter?”

Alphonse musters up a smile he hopes is more apologetic than grimacing. “I can’t go any farther.”

Between them is an invisible wall that may as well be a yawning chasm. Here they stand; the restless dead, and the wandering immortal.

“...oh.” Dad’s voice is very small. Very quiet. “Well. I…. Pinako probably finished that paperwork by now. Would you like to head back?”

Why is he trying so hard for so little? Isn’t he afraid of the Homunculus? Of the risk of dying? Of what might happen if he’ll fail? Does he even have a plan B? These and a hundred other questions squeeze the empty space where Alphonse’s heart once beat; he’s almost breathless, dizzy with worry for a man he’d thought dead until a few days ago.

But Dad doesn’t want to worry him. Dad’s treating him like a child, like he’s too young for the hard truths of the world. He wants to pretend, and make amends, and be as much of a father as he can be to a ghost.

A part of Alphonse is insulted.

A far greater part of him is grateful for the attempt.

=

While they were gone Granny dragged the crate full of Dad’s things up from the basement. The two of them go through it after lunch, Alphonse overseeing with a grin hidden behind his hands. It isn’t much, in the scheme of things. A shelf’s worth of old books and handwritten journals, a few photographs, an inkwell Granny had made him decades back, a few other odds and ends. Alphonse is really only interested in the books; there are pictures a-plenty of Mom strewn around Rockbell Automail, and plenty more of Mom and Dad in the same photograph book that’s got the pictures of Dad going back fifty years.

The enormous book of mythology that Ed had read obsessively during his rehabilitation is a beautiful thing, richly illustrated and covering a number of cultures. Dad lingers overlong on the scant chapter on Xerxes for Alphonse's benefit; the thinnest by a suspicious margin now that Alphonse knows the truth. It praises the Philosopher for hiding away the Stone that destroyed Xerxes in its hubris. Even the woodcut of the Philosopher is a mockery, broad-shouldered and square of face, lording over a sea of grateful followers. Dad-adjacent in a way that’d make Alphonse's skin crawl if he still had any.

In addition to that there are several other books written in Amestrian, none of them less than seventy years old. History and alchemy, chemistry and philosophy, medical and theological; a traveling scholar's primer on a foreign country's state of mind. There are a few slim volumes in unmistakable Xingese; intricate characters printed vertically in faint red columns, with the odd page filled with illustrations done in sweeping black ink. Alphonse recognizes the art style from a few houses around town, though those wall scrolls are all on wall scrolls all done in far greater detail and by hands of obviously better skill.

There are notes scribbled in the margins of all of them, indecipherable cursive that he and Ed had never been able to make heads or tails of. They'd concluded it was either a foreign language they'd never seen before, or a cipher, or perhaps even both. It's only after going from the medical text straight to the last book Granny saved from the fire that Alphonse puts it together. He doesn't think he makes any noise when he realizes he's been futilely attempting to read Xerxesian since he was five years old, but Dad does give him an appraising eyebrow when Granny isn't looking.

"I remember this old thing," she says, tugging it carefully from Dad's loose fingers and the soft cloth it had been wrapped in. She tuts when the spine cracks loudly. "Lord. How old is this anyway? It looks like it ought to be on display in a museum."

"A little older than you," Dad teases.

"Ha, so half as old as you?"

Dad hums noncommittally, and Alphonse can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Granny leans closer to get a better look at the fully-colored illustration she'd opened to; a beautiful picture of two men in embroidered robes on a hillside. The younger man has been drawn with a beard the exact color of Dad's, and both have unmistakable yellow eyes. "You had this with you when we met. You clucked at me if I so much as breathed on it funny."

"That's because you kept breathing pipe smoke on it," he reminds her. She only cackles again.

"What language is this anyway? Ishvalan?"

Dad glances at Alphonse, clearing expecting—something. What though, Alphonse has no idea. "Xerxesian, actually."

Granny sits up abruptly, all the better to turn astonished eyes on Dad. "You're joking. It's not an original, is it?"

"I came across it in a museum in Almaliq just before I left Xing. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"You stole it."

"I did not."

"So you were more than a drunken scoundrel back in your prime, eh?" She's grinning now, wider the more Dad flusters. "Had to get your kicks with a little art theft, is that it? What other priceless artifacts did you ferret away? Should I have been prying up the floorboards for your secret stash? Are you the one who ran off with the crown jewels of Oirialla?"

“Pinako….” Dad practically whines. It’s incredible.

"That doesn't sound like a 'no' to me!"

"I didn't steal this." He plucks the books out of her reach, giving her a reproachful look over his glasses as he settles it back onto its protective cloth. "It was a gift."

Granny laughs herself straight into a fit of smoker's cough, deep and wracking in a way that always worries Alphonse a little to hear such a loud noise boom out of someone hardly taller than him. "From who? The Emperor?"

"A friend," Dad replies simply, but when Granny looks away to wipe her eyes, still chuckling, he looks over at Alphonse and nods.

"Of course you were friends with the Emperor," Alphonse sighs. "No, wait, I bet it was more than one. How many Emperors have you known?"

Dad thinks about it as he turns to another illustration in the book, this one of another blond and yellow-eyed man on horseback. Overhead, a bird with crimson plumage soars through a faded blue sky. After a moment of consideration Dad taps two fingers on the table, then taps again.

"Four?" A slight shake of his head. "Twenty-two?" A nod.

Alphonse doesn't even know why he's surprised.

Granny, recovered from her mirth, settles her spectacles back on her face and picks up her mug. "Why in the hell would a 'friend' give you something like this?"

Dad's mouth curls in a sly little smile. "He had a thing for blonds."

Granny toys with him like a cat that's caught a bird it hasn't decided if it'll eat or not, and he pretends to be cowed as anything right up until he sees an opportunity to make her choke on her coffee. No wonder she liked him enough to drag him back to Resembool.

=

There's a cold front coming in. The radio promises rain all through the southeastern regions, warning of flooding likely in some areas and reminding of the proper measures that ought to be taken for those who live near bodies of water. It's not likely to rain much here in Resembool, not this close to the cusp of summer, but Alphonse feels a twinge of anxiety all the same. He knows all the parents down in the town proper will be corralling their younger children inside until after the storm dissipates, barring windows and guarding doors from any of the more adventurous breakout schemes that might get drummed up as boredom sets in. He knows that tongues will wag, as tongues do, telling again the cautionary tale of the poor Elric brothers to any who need a sharp reminder of how dangerous the river can be.

Edward: lost a leg, lost his family, lost his mind, likely to lose his life off in the military.

And Alphonse: lost.

It's a shame, really. He loves rainy days otherwise. The smell (such as he remembers), the cool wind (such as he remembers), the peace (such as he remembers). He still has his sight and hearing at least, and he can still appreciate the cool gray skies, the pitter-patter tapping of strange music on rooftops and tree boughs, the flush of new green staining the countryside, all the little mushrooms that spring up like a magic trick. He tries to not let the story the town cobbled together to explain what Ed and the Rockbells won't sour his mood, but sometimes....

Sometimes the silence before a storm is the loneliest place to be.

But he's not alone now, is he?

He glances over at Dad, who appears as lost in thought as he's been. More, probably. Neck-deep in five hundred conversations at any given moment. Alphonse has no idea how he manages to get out of bed every day and pretend that nothing's wrong. Probably the same way so many others out there manage the same thing; knowing that the less attention drawn to oneself the better, no matter the personal cost. It's one thing to be weird or sick or broken; it's something infinitely worse to be caught in the act.

Alphonse looks back the way they came, where the sun's well along its westward arc. Sunset isn't far off. Most of Resembool is bathed in a warm afternoon glow, all its rough edges softened, made distant and easy to forgive. He and Dad had come up from the town proper before this; Dad carefully carries a modest bouquet in both hands. Mrs. Caddeo had made her usual attempts at simpering conversation, but it had run off Dad's cool passivity like water off a duck; she'd left him to browse in an uneasy silence.

Dad only went to the flower shop after Alphonse mentioned Ed's habit of making wreaths. Would it have occurred to him to bring flowers to Mom's grave otherwise?

He supposes it doesn't matter. It's not like Mom's ghost is hanging around to take offense.

There's someone else visiting the cemetery when they arrive. Mitch Corcoran nods politely as Dad passes, murmurs something too low for Alphonse to hear. Dad nods back without replying but doesn't stop. Alphonse is relieved when Mr. Corcoran takes the hint and goes farther down the row where he buried his wife in 1882.

They come to Mom's grave.

They stand there quietly.

Nothing needs to be said. Nothing needs to be forced. This grave doesn't hold Mom. There's a body quietly decomposing under their feet, but her soul's no longer bound to it. Mom's not here. She hasn't been here for ten years. Mom is a few pictures in Granny's collection, a few knickknacks saved from the fire, a few stories, a few memories. That's all.

Mom's gone. This grave is simply someplace for the living to come to grieve now and then, some place tidy to bury what she left behind. Alphonse hopes it's nice, wherever she is. He hopes she's happy. He hopes she's not angry with him and Ed for trying to bring her back. He hopes she's not disappointed they failed.

"I don't remember what she sounded like," he admits quietly.

Dad stirs slowly, swimming up out of whatever mental labyrinth he'd been caught up in. He kneels to place the bouquet before the grave. Alphonse expects him to transmute it into a wreath too, but he doesn't. The paper wrapping crinkles under his rough fingers as he adjusts the ribbon; purple, to match the flowers. Mom's favorite color.

"She never raised her voice," Dad says, standing again. "She never needed to, to get her point across. She had this way of looking at someone she was angry with that would make anyone feel two inches tall."

How many times had she given him and Ed the gimlet eye for making another mess? "I definitely remember that."

Dad glances down at him with a look like he knows exactly what he's not saying, though the knowing twinkling in his eyes is softened by memories. "She loved to sing. She had a real gift for it too, for all that she never had any formal training. She only needed to hear a song once to memorize it perfectly, and when she got tired of whatever the radio had on she'd come up with her own songs, just like that."

Alphonse remembers that too. Not the songs themselves, but the way she sang them. Swaying her hips as she washed the dishes. Spinning circles in the living room with him or Ed stood on her feet. A hum that vibrated down her arm, through her warm hand on his back, and settled deeply in his chest as he fell asleep.

"You met Mom when she was, what, eighteen? Nineteen?"

Dad hums noncommittally, like he's hoping Alphonse won't press for details so he won't have to say something like, Younger than that, but I'd prefer it if the ghost of my dead son didn't think I was a dirty old man.

Which, pfft. It's a bit late for that, not that Alphonse would ever say as such. A 400-something year old man showing interest in anybody can't really help but look like a dirty old man. There comes a point where what matters most is the intent behind the interest. If it turned out Dad really was the type to leave a string of broken-hearted young mothers behind him then sure, Alphonse would have happily shouted himself cross-eyed until Dad displayed appropriate contriteness. But he'd have to be blind to not see the way Dad loved—loves—Mom. He'd have to be cruel to ignore the waver in Dad's voice whenever he says her name.

He doesn't care that Mom had probably only been a handful of years older than Winry and Ed when she met Dad and decided this weirdo was the one for her. He just wants to know more about Mom.

So they talk. Alphonse asks the questions that he never thought to when he was still alive. Little things, little details that aren't—important. Not on any grand scale, not compared to the grand and tragic end of Xerxes, the rich history and political minefield of Xing, the far more literal minefield of Amestris' endless border skirmishes. He asks how they met, and where, and what their first date was like. He asks every single variation of "What was Mom's favorite..." he can think of. He asks if she ever wore her hair short, if she ever saw East City, if she'd ever gotten drunk and done something stupid for the sheer fun of it. Dad seems happy for the excuse to go on about her in detail, perking up even more once Mr. Corcoran leaves and it's just the two of them in the cemetery.

A question occurs to him that he mentally flinches from, but that only means it's too important not to ask. "Did she—want to be a mother? Or was Ed an accident?"

"He was," Dad confirms after one of his usual pauses. "You were too, though we'd settled here by the time she realized she was pregnant again. Ed, however...." Dad chuckles.

"What? What is it?"

"I'm a bit embarrassed now, but—well. Before, when I was still human, I always liked the idea of starting a family of my own. I was a freedman, with a title and more wealth than I'd ever dreamed of having, but it didn't feel right to keep it to myself. I wanted to share—everything with someone. There just wasn't time, not when I worked in the King's court, not so close to.... Well. It was only ever an idle wish. One the Homunculus never did understand. He only saw families as a handy unit of measurement for how humans breed for the continuation of the species—"

"Charming," Alphonse remarks dryly.

"Yes, well. What I mean to say is...."

Dad sighs deeply, considering his words with great care. "When she told me we were going to have a baby, I panicked. The idea of being a father terrified me. Of being responsible for something so fragile and temporary. Or what if turned out as monstrous as me? What if, what if. A baby isn't a choice to be made on a whim one day. Children are—important. Incredibly so. And there I'd gone, all but forcing Trisha into shelving every other potential thing she might be considering to do. Her whole life ahead of her, and she was so young...."

Another sigh, this one a quieter thing. A letting go of what was. Acknowledging that for all that the past can still wound, it can't be changed. "Well, she tracked me down in short order. Scolded me soundly for making her run around in her condition, then asked me what I was so afraid of and tore my every last worry into shreds in no time at all. She told me everything would be fine, better than fine, and of course I believed her. But I was still—nervous. Even after Edward proved to be perfectly human, and you as well, I was still so scared of hurting you boys. She never saw the sense in that. Loving you both was the easiest thing in the world for her."

Dad looks at him, direct and matter-of-fact. No room for argument at all in his eyes. "She loved you boys. Don't ever think for one moment that she didn't."

Alphonse smiles up at him, wishing he could do more than say, "Thank you. Really. I—"

"HOHENHEIM!"

They both twitch, though it's Alphonse who recognizes the furious snarl and the figure in black practically sprinting up the road. "Oh no."

"Is that...?"

"Yup. Sorry, in advance. Or maybe not." He shrugs, flustered. "Just—he's definitely going to keep shouting at you."

Dad visibly steels himself as he turns around. "I suppose that's the least I deserve."

===

((Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and stick with me to the end.))