#i mostly spent time in cornwall last time i was over there so i tried stuff like pasties but id love to visit more places... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seaoflittlefires · 3 years ago

Text

Still deserve a bit of fun

Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry reconnects with Mary Macdonald who tells him about his parents and their group of friends in the '70s. When he hears about their camping trip to Cornwall, he decides to take his friends there, but while Harry is set on having fun and forgetting all about the war, not everyone finds it easy.

This is lots of dialogue, mostly about the golden and silver trio trying to process what happened to them and dealing with the angst of having lost their teenage years to war. It's heavily inspired by MsKingBean89's All the Young dudes; the catalyst for the plot is an exchange between Harry and Mary Macdonald as she is portrayed in the fic.

While this story can be understood without having read ATYD, there are a bunch of easter eggs and parallels that will be better appreciated with it in mind.

Word count: 5.4k

Read on AO3

Prologue

It was the strangest letter Harry had ever received. And of course, he’d had his fair share of mysterious letters. But this one was particularly mind-boggling because the very idea of Mary seemed like an impossibility. A friend of his parents’, a member of their class at Hogwarts, still alive, completely untouched by the war or by the magical world itself.

At first Harry expected to be a bit resentful: Why had this woman not joined them in the fight against Voldemort when she knew first-hand what he was capable of? And also, why hadn’t she ever reached out if she had truly been so close to James and Lily, if she knew so much? Harry felt he could have used a letter like this much sooner. But there was something about Mary’s story that made him instinctively understand where she was coming from: Her friends had died one by one at the hands of Voldemort. She’d been in danger during the wars for being a muggleborn. And even in times of peace, she had felt like a bit of an outsider in a wizarding community that didn’t care to explain much to people whose families weren’t magic, that simple thrust these kids into a new, dangerous world and hoped for the best. And of course, it was a community that, despite its hatred of Voldemort, had nonchalantly allowed the ideology of blood purity to remain a part of daily life even within Hogwarts and often continued to spread it. Harry could most certainly relate to her resentment. And so he’d decided to forgive Mary for everything she hadn’t been able to do, and to enjoy what seemed like an invaluable second chance, especially after the deaths of Sirius and Remus: Here was someone who’d been close to his parents and mentors when they had all been kids. Someone who’d known them long before Harry was even a possibility. He had a million questions, and Mary answered them all.

She had initially reached out a few weeks after the battle of Hogwarts to offer her condolences for Remus, her only remaining friend from the wizarding world. She’d been devastated to hear about his death, but also shocked to know about the role that Harry had played in the war. She remembered him from when he was a baby and she wanted to pass along a few photos she still had from those days. Harry had been elated to know her and to get this account of the first few months of his life.

But as they continued writing to each other, always by muggle post, other things that Mary knew proved to be even more invaluable. She wrote of his parents long before they were his parents, long before they were even together. She wrote about meeting Lily in first year, helping each other navigate the newness of their abilities and their surroundings. She wrote of hours spent talking to her and Marlene, laughing together, helping each other through homework and bullies and unrequited love. She wrote about Remus, who’d first gotten close to them, about his generosity and his talent for teaching, even when he was still a student himself. She wrote about the rivalry with the boys and how it had later morphed into friendship. About the Great Snogging Race, about quidditch, about James and his romantic gestures, about Sirius and his music. She wrote about legendary parties and the pranks, so many pranks. The time they’d made it impossible for purebloods to use slurs by swapping the words for nonsense. The time they’d set off fireworks in the grounds for Remus’s birthday. The time they’d formed an inter-house cooperative to teleport the entire Slytherin common room into the lake. Harry devoured each of her letters with joy.

There was one anecdote that stood out to him, probably because Mary spoke of it with such love and nostalgia: The summer before their seventh year, right before the first war had gotten really ugly, they had all taken a trip to Cornwall. They’d done camping the old-fashioned muggle way and gone to the beach and been silly teenagers. It had been during that trip that Harry’s parents had finally gotten together. He could picture them all laughing by the shore or sitting around a fire. He could see Sirius’s cheeky grin and Remus’s eyes sparkling mischievously and his parents, the way they were in the pictures Mary sent. Happy. Carefree. Young.

When he proposed the idea to Ginny, she was thrilled. Hermione took come convincing but Ron helped her come around and Neville proved easy once he knew that Luna was going. They set off at the end of July, apparating into the campsite with muggle tents and equipment. The weather was perfect and they quickly found a spot within the site. As they unpacked, Harry looked around him and sighed. This was exactly like he had pictured it. He was ready to begin again.

Chapter 1

They’d brought two tents, one for the boys and one for the girls, which they began to assemble at their spot in the camping site. At first they tried the muggle way but Neville almost poked someone’s eye out with a pole and Luna got trapped inside one of the tents while trying to raise it. After about fifteen minutes of this, Ron and Hermione took over and, after quickly verifying that nobody was looking, everyone also began to use spells to help get it all done.

Luna grabbed her wand, but instead of helping Ginny assemble the poles, she began to murmur an enchantment that none of them found familiar.

“What are you doing?” Asked Ron, curious but well-meaning. After everything, he’d learned to trust Luna’s strange but wise ways.

“Chizpurfle defense charm. They’re attracted to magical objects and they chew at them. Especially when there isn’t lots of magical energy around, they can be vicious. We must be a beacon for them right now…”

“Oh yes, I’ve read about those,” Hermione replied as soon as she was finished lifting the girls’ tent with a flick of her wand.

“Sorry I can’t be of any help,” said Neville. ��You both are so good at this and I’m so clumsy…”

“Don’t worry mate, this is actually very difficult,” replied Ron as he hammered in the pegs.

“It really is. Seriously, it isn’t your fault, we just got a doctorate in tent-building last year.”

“I wish so badly I could have gone with you guys. I could have helped. Besides, I bet you could have used the company,” said Ginny, looking up towards Hermione from the poles she was assembling.

“You guys barely talk about that time,” added Neville. “I mean, you explained what you discovered, and all the strategic stuff, but I bet it must have been quite horrible, being on your own with so much danger…”

“Well, it did get a bit lonely,” Hermione said after a pause. It was true, they’d barely talked about that time, and it had been taxing for all three of them. But so much had happened since, so much that seemed bigger and scarier and just worse, that it had barely felt worth it. “We missed our families a lot, especially…” Ron walked toward Hermione and put his hand gently on her shoulder. Hermione had spent a long time explaining everything to her parents after their memory spells had been reversed, but they still weren’t the same and she felt guilty, despite knowing it had been the right choice. “It felt awful, being away from you all. We didn’t know whether we’d ever see you again, and it felt… it was just hard to put on a brave face and be logical all the bloody time when sometimes you just wanted to curl into someone’s arms and be held.”

“Well at least that’s over now,” chimed in Harry, quickly, almost too quickly. “No one has to be brave anymore.” He seemed to be lost in thought for a second. “Except for you, Weasley,” he exclaimed then, grabbing a broom from the already finished boys’ tent. “Let’s find a spot with no muggles at the beach so I can kick your arse in a race!”

“Alright, we’ll see about that,” said Ron, grabbing his own broom and getting ready to follow. He and Hermione shared a look and he shrugged. That hadn’t seemed much like Harry, but the black-haired boy was already halfway to the beach and, after all, Ron was never one to turn down a challenge. “Are you guys coming?” Ginny and Neville nodded.

“I’ll stay behind for a bit to finish up these charms,” said Luna, who was busy walking in circles around the girls’ tent while waving her wand.

“Are you… are you sure that’s necessary?” Asked Ginny.

“You will be thankful when Billywigs aren’t stinging you in your sleep. They can cause grown humans to levitate, did you know?”

“Alright, I suppose it can’t hurt,” said Hermione, who had just emerged from her tent carrying a book.

“Work?” Ron rolled her eyes at her.

“Beach read. ”

“Let’s go then.”

***

They were lying in the sand under the warm sun. All six of them were in their bathing suits but only Luna had been courageous enough to brave the freezing water yet. She was performing a drying spell on her dripping hair when Ron spoke:

“I could lie here all day. Weather’s perfect.”

“Yeah, it’s so peaceful. Quiet too, I thought we’d have to be more careful because of the muggles.” Ginny spoke as she turned to lie on her stomach.

“We picked a great spot,” Harry agreed. “Mary said there’s a castle ruin a few miles from here, we could go at some point.”

He got a mostly enthusiastic response but a groan from Ron: “You can go and come back to pick me up in a week, I’ll still be lying here.”

“No you won’t. You agreed to go check on mum in like…” Ginny sat up and looked at her watch. “Twenty minutes.”

“Is anything the matter?” Asked Luna.

“Nah, we just haven’t left home much since… Since Fred,” explained Ron. “We promised we’d keep in touch. And someone got me to agree to do it the first time.”

“Because someone insisted I carry all the camping equipment.” Ginny’s rebuttal was quick and it got a smile from everyone but Harry whose eyes were fixed on the horizon. He didn’t know how but the war kept slipping into every conversation. It bothered him. No matter how far he went, he never seemed to be able to escape the smothering presence of all he’d lost.

“We really did need a holiday, eh?” He addressed Ron in an effort to steer the conversation away, back towards his best friend’s love of relaxation.

“Yeah we did. I still have no clue what I’m supposed to do now, like… Work? I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up and now I guess… I am grown up. And I still don’t know what I am.”

“Well, you don’t have to be just one thing. No one ever is! You can just try out many fields of work and see which one suits you,” replied Hermione. “I plan to get a few internships in the fall in order to do that. Mostly at different ministry departments, maybe International Magical Cooperation, or the Committee on Experimental Charms…”

“Yeah well, that’s all very well and good when you’ve got loads of paths to pick from,” said Ron, “but I don’t even know where to start.”

This was good, Harry thought. Thinking of the future. Thinking of work. These were problems that everyone dealt with at this age, right? Nothing to do with the war or death. Besides, the idea that there could be a future in itself was more than they’d had for so long. Harry had no clue what he wanted to do with his, but he knew better than to view that choice as a problem.

“I don’t really know if I’m ready to work yet…” Neville said suddenly. He sat up over his towel.

“Well, that’s perfectly understandable too, you could continue your studies if you want. It might actually do us all good, after all, we pretty much skipped our N.E.W.T.S.” Hermione’s face was almost wistful as she mentioned exams.

“Well, sure, but… I don’t mean that. I mean… Every so often I get filled with so much rage. Ever since May it all just… feels so pointless. Even here, right now, with you guys, you’re all talking about feeling so relaxed and I… I haven’t been able to truly be anywhere fully in a long time. Part of me is always reliving it. And I don’t know if it’s a good idea for me to just… jump back in.” Everyone nodded. They knew it was true, and they felt it as well.

“I might travel for a while after my seventh year,” Luna mused. “It’s always been my dream to see a Runespoor in person…”

“Gory,” replied Ron with a smirk. “But I applaud your bravery. And as for you Neville, take all the time you need, mate. We’re all knackered. It’s a wonder we can go about our days at all…”

“Hey, did you know Sirius and Remus were a couple?” Harry exclaimed suddenly. That got everyone’s attention. For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

“Seriously?! Oh my, that makes so much sense!” Hermione was ecstatic, as she usually was when she learned something that helped her crack a puzzle.

“Okay, I am now second-guessing my entire existence,” said Ron. His face was a study in confusion.

“Professor Lupin? Why did I need to know that?” Neville looked utterly flustered.

“They do make one hell of a great-looking couple,” said Ginny with a smirk, and to her delight, Luna nodded at her. But her expression suddenly changed and a few seconds later she added: “did… made… Sorry.”

“How did you even find out about this?” Hermione turned her attention back to Harry. She gasped. “Did Mary tell you?”

“Well… Not exactly. She didn’t say it outright; I suppose she didn’t think it was her story to tell but… The way she talks about them in her letters… She refers to them as a unit. Same way she talks about my parents. I guess it just… made me re-examine some stuff.”

“Of course it did,” said Neville. “When you have limited memories of someone, every new fact you learn about them makes you understand everything in a whole new light. I know how that…”

“Well, yeah, but this isn’t really about that.” Harry’s expression had suddenly turned serious. He didn’t know what had compelled him to share this suspicion with his friends so suddenly, or to state it as if it was fact. He’d been thinking about it a lot since reading Mary’s letters but he’d thought of asking her before telling other people. It felt a bit like a betrayal. What was wrong with him? He was distracted by Ron who was looking at Luna quizzically.

“Why aren’t you more surprised?” He asked her. “I don’t mean to be a prude or anything but… This is huge”

“Oh, I already kind of figured they were together,” said Luna in that singsong, nonchalant way of hers. Five pair of eyes were suddenly upon her.

“How did you know? They never said anything, they never, like, kissed in public! Plus, you barely even saw them together before Sirius…” Harry was worried. Had this been an obvious thing the entire time? Had he never seen these two people properly despite considering them family?

“Love is spoken in many ways. Different people express it differently. Just because someone isn’t speaking your love language doesn’t mean they aren’t saying it.”

“That’s very wise, Luna,” said Hermione smiling.

“What does it even mean?” Asked Ron.

“I saw the way they looked at each other. My parents used to do that. They weren’t ones for words but love was in their every touch and stare. And when they moved they seemed like pieces of a single body. That’s how Sirius and Remus were that night at the ministry, and I didn’t know them before then so I just assumed it was a thing the rest of you knew. When Sirius passed through the veil, I saw Remus’s face change. He went with him.”

“I’m going in the sea, who’s coming?” Harry was suddenly up, his body coursing with energy. He practically ran into the water without waiting for an answer.

Chapter 2

Harry had lit the fire using magic, but he was still building up the flame the muggle way. They’d split up in order to get dinner and take turns showering at the camp facilities. They were nowhere near as nice as the bathrooms at Hogwarts but a few charms had helped make them warmer. Now, they sat roasting marshmallows in the fire as they listened to music on Hermione’s Discman. She’d charmed her CDs so they could each hold dozens of albums and so that they could play songs in multiple random orders She could also use her wand to control the volume from afar. The only problem was, Hermione hated current music. Even after all these years, she was still a bit of a snob when it came to art, preferring obscure bands from ten or twenty years before. As a result, they’d been listening to a lot of Bowie since they’d arrived.

“…And then, my grandma told me I wasn’t allowed any pets until I was 18, except for something truly harmless. And even Trevor I ended up losing at the lake eventually.” Neville was telling the story of how he’d ended up with a toad, a rather unusual pet even for a Hogwarts student.

“Yeah, well, at least your harmless pet did not turn out to be an escaped murderer!” Said Ron, who had still never quite gotten over the shock of Scabbers’s true identity. As usual, he got a laugh from everyone. However, Harry couldn’t help but notice that even these conversations were always restrained. He could not remember the last time he’d laughed to tears, laughed truly, even at one of Ron’s comments. Still, his friend had the ability to cheer people up, even in the darkest of times.

“Hey, you could ask George if he needs help at the shop, you know?” He said to him. “I bet you could be really good at that. Coming up with artifacts, selling to customers especially…”

“Yeah, mate, maybe I’ll try that…” Ron was deep in thought for a few seconds. “George hasn’t really been the same since he lost Fred. Perhaps he could use that.” And just like that, Harry thought, he’d burst the bubble. Again.

“I’m having the best time,” said Hermione, who’d been listening attentively to one of Luna’s stories. “I think we all really needed this, thanks for forcing me to come.”

“Anytime,” Ginny winked at her.

“Always a pleasure to bicker with you about anything,” said Ron.

“Seriously though, I really love you lot. I don’t know that I tell you that enough.” Hermione put one arm around Harry and another around Ginny, both sitting beside her.

“Yeah, me too,” added the redhead. “I’m so grateful we’re all still together. You’ve made everything seem… I don’t know, worth it.”

Harry was about to say something about the marshmallows definitely being worth it when he saw that Luna’s eyes were watery.

“What’s wrong?” Asked Neville.

“I just… I love you guys so much,” Luna said as tears fell down her cheek. “When I was held at Malfoy Manor last year and my father… He was so selfish. I thought that you would never forgive me. And I’d never had any real friends before I met you all and I was already resigned to losing you… I was grateful that at least I’d known what it felt like, you know? To be a part of something truly special…” Hermione leaned over Ginny and squeezed her hand. “And yet you guys did forgive me,” Luna continued, “and you kept me around after the battle was over; you made me feel like I hadn’t just been useful, like I was…” She trailed off as Ginny enveloped her in a hug.

“Luna, you’re always going to have us at your side,” Neville reassured her. “Everything that happened… It forged a bond you cannot break. It’ll always keep us together.”

“I just wish it didn’t seem like the only thing keeping us together…” Harry hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the moment he did, he felt strangely lighter. However, this relief didn’t last long.

“What did you just say?” Ginny asked, suddenly looking away from Luna and towards her boyfriend with a stern expression.

“I said,” Harry raised his voice a bit, emboldened, “that it would be really bloody great if you all could stop talking about the war for a minute. The whole point of this trip was to have fun and be normal, just like people were before the war! Can’t we have one single conversation that isn’t about how awful it all is?!”

“No, we can’t, you nitwit!” Ginny yelled. “You’ve been acting like a prat and ignoring people’s feelings all day, but in case you haven’t noticed, things have been awful! I lost a brother! And I miss him so much, I…” Ginny’s voice broke and she stopped talking.

“I know you do,” said Harry regretfully. “I just thought if we could all leave we’d…”

“Running won’t fix things. It never does. Sometimes you just have to keep living right next to the bad.” And with that, Ginny stood up. “Come on, Luna, let’s get you a glass of water,” she said to her friend, who was still crying softly.

“I’ll… uuuh… I’ll go with you!” Neville practically leapt out of his seat and the three of them began to walk quickly towards the camp facilities.

Harry sighed. Just like that, it was him, Ron and Hermione left, just like it had been a year ago. Actually, it had been less than a full year, but it still felt like a lifetime. More than Harry had ever wanted to spend in the presence of so much sorrow.

“So I screwed that up,” he said as Ron moved over to sit next to him and Hermione.

“You kind of did, not going to lie…” Said Ron. “But I get where you’re coming from. Honestly, I needed a break from my house too. It’s why I wanted to come so bad.”

Harry nodded. He’d never realized, but it must have been taking a toll on Ron to keep being so cheerful and sarcastic while he himself was dealing with so much. Harry supposed it was his way of deflecting things. At least Ron’s way made people feel better, he thought, as opposed to his.

“Look,” said Hermione, putting an arm around him. “Healing takes time. You can’t expect people to act normally after what happened and you shouldn’t expect that of yourself either. It’s okay if it’s all we can talk about for a bit. Merlin knows it’s enough to fill plenty of history books, it needs processing.”

“I’ve just lost so much time to… processing,” Harry said. “I’m turning eighteen soon, you guys already have. And yet I can count on one hand the adventures we’ve had together that didn’t somehow involve solving some mystery or fighting some evil threat. And…” He sighed. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mary’s letters, all the anecdotes she’d shared about his parents and their friends. “I guess I just want a bit of normal life, you know? And even now that everything’s supposed to be over, even though this whole thing was meant to give us all a chance to live happily… I’m not sure we’ll ever get there.”

“I know we will, mate,” said Ron. “I mean, my parents did, after the first war. Mum lost both her brothers and she still had enough faith to raise all of us. She knew things could be better. They all did.”

“Mary didn’t,” replied Harry. He hadn’t known he was thinking about it until he said it. But it was true. In the end, perhaps, she had made the right choice. Going away. Forgetting that it all even existed. Getting married and having a kid and living a normal, happy, uneventful life.

“But we proved her wrong, didn’t we?” Hermione interjected. “I mean, she wrote to you because she was impressed. Because she was proud and she believed in what you did. And I promise you it will have been worth it. You’ll see.”

Harry nodded. He knew that everything they’d done had been important. He’d seen how much of a difference it had made to thousands of people. He just hadn’t ever been so conscious of what it had cost him before: “Do you think we’ll ever get to just be regular teenagers?” He asked Hermione.

She was silent for a few moments, clearly wanting to give Harry an answer that she truly believed in, instead of some bland reassurance. After a while, she spoke: “Honestly? I have no idea. We still are a little bit broken…”

“Yeah, some of us especially,” chimed in Ron, glancing sideways at Hermione. She elbowed him and he shrugged, as if to say “I’ve earned that”. Hermione laughed. “You see?” She looked at Harry. “There you go. We’ve still got a long way to go until we reach normal. But in the meantime, we still deserve a bit of fun”.

Harry didn’t know how, but Hermione’s words were always just right, like they were the echo of something he’d always known. He hugged both of his friends.

“I’ll apologize to the others in a bit. I think I’d better take a walk and gather my thoughts first,” he told them, as he headed towards the beach.

Chapter 3

The sound of the waves was deafening as Ginny walked out onto the beach. She spotted Harry but didn’t quicken her pace. Instead, she watched him think for a few moments longer. She knew why he’d picked this place to cool off. The noise. It would be a long time before Harry could stand the quiet again.

“Sorry I snapped,” she said when she finally reached him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Back at you,” he replied. They stood like this for a few moments. Ginny waited. She felt the words building up inside him. Of course, she was right. Eventually Harry spoke: “I just didn’t know I felt like that. Not until Mary.”

“You speak a lot about her letters,” Ginny nodded. “You clearly needed them.”

“I did. You see, everybody talks so much about how my parents died. I know all about how brave they were fighting against Voldemort, and how much they had to sacrifice during the last few months of their lives… I know everything about how they died. And I’m grateful for it; it’s obviously better than knowing nothing… But until recently I barely knew anything about how they lived. What kind of students they’d been at Hogwarts, what kind of friends. What subjects they’d liked or been good at, what foods they loved the most at the Great Hall. What they fought about, how they became friends with all these people, what all of the Marauders’ pranks were like… Mary made me realize that. And once I did, it was impossible not to notice the same thing happening to us. We’ve lost so much time already. So much of our lives has been about this bloody war, and I don’t want it to be the only story we can tell about our teenage years. Already it feels like I’ll never be able to outlive it publicly and so with my friends I just want… I don’t know. I guess if this is what we are remembered by, if this is how we remember ourselves and our loved ones, just for what we lost, it’s a kind of victory for him.”

Ginny sighed. “I know. And I agree with you. We deserve time to be teenagers. We deserve to talk about silly things and have silly competitions and listen to happy music that isn’t Hermione’s melancholy crap,” she took Harry’s hand between hers, “and we deserve time to figure out what this is without any pressure. But that’s the thing: We can do that. Your parents didn’t have that luxury. They had to cram as much life as they could into very little time and figure out how to be kids and teenagers and grownups all at once, am I right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I keep wondering how on earth they were ready to be married at our age.”

“See, that’s the thing, they probably weren’t. But they had to. We don’t. We’ve earned our right to take things slowly, we have all the time in the world. But we cannot skip the grieving part. As much as we all want to forget that all of this ever happened because it hurts like hell to know it did, trust, me, the only way out is through. Otherwise you end up living with a lot of ghosts…”

“You’re right.” Harry put his arms around her. He knew exactly what Ginny meant. And he knew he didn’t want that. Because despite everything, possibly even because of it, he felt like the future held good things in store for them. “I’m really sorry, Ginny,” he whispered. “For everything you’ve lost.”

“Me too. And I don’t think you’re told that nearly enough.”

***

After a while they began to walk hand in hand back towards the camping site.

As they got closer, they realized the fire was still lit, and there was a lone figure sitting beside it. They thought it might be Luna, still up performing more charms of protection against various magical creatures, but when they arrived they saw it was actually Neville. He was all but falling asleep while sitting down, shaking himself awake every few seconds and then immediately beginning to close his eyes again. Hermione’s Discman was still on, playing another Bowie song, but Hermione herself was nowhere to be seen. Very unlike her, Harry thought, to forget something out in the open. He turned towards his half-awake friend.

“Hiya Neville, what’s up?” He nudged him awake. “Really sorry about before, by the way, I was a proper arse. If you ever need to talk…”

“Okay, sure, I’m just really tired right now…” Neville said, his eyes already beginning to close again, his head falling.

“Why won’t you go to bed then?” asked Harry, pointing to the tent.

“Well, I want to, and Luna’s already gone in her tent but I… The boy’s tent is… I can’t go because you see…” Neville smirked and pointed awkwardly in its general direction. The tent was still and quiet. Too quiet. It only took Harry a few seconds to realize that numerous silencing charms had been placed upon it.

“Wait, is Hermione in there with Ron?!” Asked Ginny, eyeing Neville conspiratorially.

“Uuuuh yeah they are… They’re in there doing… I can’t get in because they’re both in there being…” Neville’s face looked Gryffindor red and he could not stop fidgeting with his hands. “They’re doing…”

“They’re having hot sex, that’s what you mean to say” Ginny cut him off with a deadpan expression. Harry snorted. And just like that, something in him broke. He began to laugh. He laughed so hard he almost felt tearful and Ginny joined him. Neville made a noise somewhere between a gag and a cry for mercy as they both fell down to the floor in hysterics and within a few seconds he had started giggling nervously as well.

They stayed that way until Hermione came out of the tent in tiptoes and almost had a fit upon seeing them all outside. They just stayed and kept laughing. Just a group of teenagers with so much love for each other, at once idiotic and wise beyond their years, laughing about sex and making fun of each other at a time when it seemed impossible that anything could be fun. And although Harry didn’t know this (because, despite her usual style, Mary had taken care not to be that explicit in her letters), this was exactly what it had been like twenty years before.

23 notes · View notes

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years ago

Text

What Might Have Been - 16

@goodomenscelebration - themes prompts!

Read the full story on AO3!

Happy Good Omens Armageddoniversary! How many of these can I post in one day?

(For those who have not read previous sections: Kasbeel is our Aziraphale, trapped in another universe and going by a pseudonym. Crowley’s “mirror image” is his AU self.)

Far Future

Kasbeel hovered in the air, giving his report.

“The demonic army attempted to strike from the Scottish Highlands, reinforced by several thousand of the Marked soldiers. They were driven off by Matafiel’s troops. We believe there may be some still hidden far to the north, on the Outer Hebrides.”

“These names mean nothing to us,” said Tufriel, rolling his eyes towards his partner. “Some of these scouts are starting to go native.”

“Won’t be a problem much longer,” Bezaliel replied. “Never mind the demons, we’ll get an update further north. Is this land still free from the blight?”

“Yes, Dominion,” Kasbeel bobbed his head with the correct amount of deference. “The whole of the Peak District is believed to be the last area free of Abaddon’s curse anywhere on this island, though rumors persist of some clear ground in Ireland.”

“Are there any humans left on the islands?” Bezaliel asked.

“The Retrieval squads took ours and we cleared out the rest last month.” Tufriel crossed his arms. “If only this island were so easy to deal with. Still, if this is the only unblemished land, it’s probably where the humans will gather. Once they realize they can’t get in the city. We’ll keep watching it. Good work.”

“Thank you.” He held up his messenger tube, sealed and directed to Michael’s base camp in Cornwall. “I will need to continue south with this. Do you have any details to add?”

“Only that I thought we’d be finished by now. Seven damn years of this. How much longer is it supposed to go on, anyway?”

Bezaliel grinned hungrily. “Not much more. Our offensive should begin in a little less than a month.” A wink towards the dutiful scout. “Keep an eye on the sky, tonight or tomorrow. Things are starting to happen.”

Kasbeel saluted, and the other two returned to their patrol. When they were well out of sight, he landed on a bare rock outcrop and hummed. Not with his lips; his wings vibrated, creating a single, perfect tone, echoing off the stones of the Peaks.

The humans began emerging from their hiding spots almost immediately, secreted behind stones or in deceptive hollows. Mostly teenagers, a few older, many younger, about half with a Mark upon their faces. They gathered around the angel, moving silently on the grass and moss.

It took nearly an hour for all to arrive. Kasbeel’s group of wanderers now numbered in the hundreds.

“Doesn’t sound like we’re going to be safe up here much longer,” Lyla said, without preamble. “Probably should have left last week, like I said.”

“Perhaps,” Kasbeel conceded, waving his arm to miracle up some food. It wasn’t much. Loaves of bread, potatoes, carrots. A little bit of meat, but he couldn’t produce anywhere near enough for a group this large. “But if we’d left then, Jennifer, Mickey and Ollie wouldn’t have found us.” At only five years old, Ollie was the youngest they’d taken in.

“Fine.” Lyla counted out the servings of meat and checked her list. “Group six gets the meat tonight. Only group six, Alex, I know that doesn’t include you.” She turned back to the angel who led them. “But we leave tonight.”

“Agreed.” He sighed, looking around the tumbling rocks one more time. “We’ll have to move quickly. This was a good hiding place. We won’t find another place this convenient, or this safe.”

“Where to, then?” Lyla grabbed Alex’s wrist, sending the thirteen-year-old over to the bread line. “Ireland? I don’t know how we’ll cross the sea, but it sounds like they’ve stopped looking there.”

Kasbeel pursed his lips. “Have you given up on finding New Eden, then?”

She spun towards him, fury in her eyes. “You know I haven’t. But it could be anywhere in the world! How the hell are we ever going to find it? We’ve barely searched half of England in over three years.”

He winced. “Three years, four months, six days,” he muttered. It was a very, very long time to go without hearing from Crowley. He’d tried contacting the demon in his dreams, over and over. He was here. He could sense that. But nothing else. “It’s in England. It must be. One of the patrols told me…Aziraphale,” he hesitated over the name, as always, “chose the location himself. He wouldn’t pick anywhere other than England.”

“Your double.” Lyla sat down next to him. She had grown, in the last three years, her hair getting long, her clothing replaced by whatever they could loot in half-abandoned cities, as was the case for all Kasbeel’s wards. Even her newest shirt was threadbare, the colors faded, as if the inanimate objects of the world had ceased to care. “You never told me what the deal was with you two.”

“No. I think it would be rather too much for you to understand.”

“Kasbeel, the world is ending. The ground is cursed. And I spend half my time talking to a rogue angel. What could possibly be weird at this point?”

He smiled. “My child, you haven’t the first idea.” He smoothed his hands down his jacket, then realized he was still in his scout uniform. A wave of his fingers turned it back to the familiar suit, bowtie and all. “Still, if you like, I can bring you all to Ireland before I continue my search. It should only take a few days to reach the coast, even with the young ones. After that…” he hesitated. Miracle up a giant ship? And how to make sure it landed somewhere unblighted?

“You know we won’t last a day without you,” Lyla sighed. “Wherever you’re going, you’re stuck with us.”

He turned back to the crowd that he had slowly gathered across the years. Orphans. Renegades. Many of them troublemakers who had been thrown out of the gangs they thought would protect them, others the only survivors by angelic or demonic attack. Exhausted, half-malnourished, so worn and dirty as to almost blend in with the rocks around them.

But not afraid. Of all the people left in the world, and Kasbeel feared there were not many, these few hundred slept safely at night, under the watch of an angel.

His godchildren.

“My dear Lyla, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He settled down on a rock that conveniently grew to about the size of an armchair, with a thick cushion of moss.

She rolled her eyes at him. “How is it even out here, you manage to pamper yourself?”

“Millennia of practice. Now, what do you say we try for London again? It’s a risk, with all the patrols, but it may be the only place large enough to hide this many.”

“Assuming we can get in.”

“Assuming so, yes,” he said, gazing across the crowd. “And it sounds like there are many angels gathered in the south. But If I’m right about the wall of energy surrounding the city, I may know how to cross it.”

“And you still think your friend might be there.”

Kasbeel nodded. “I can’t imagine where else he might be. He should have contacted me by now, but they say no messages can get out of London. But, still, I would think–”

A cry went up from the gathered crowd, a scream of fear, echoed by person after person. “The sky!” Someone shouted, pointing. “The clouds are parting!”

In an instant, Kasbeel was on his feet, wings spread. He should have heard the trumpets, sensed the angels long before they parted the clouds – he had spent months honing his senses, in order to protect his charges. He braced himself for the orders that would arrive in his mind; if the Guardian of Humanity were among them, it would be difficult to resist…

Nothing came.

Instead, the clouds simply drifted apart, faster and faster, not a small parting but the whole sky, revealing the fading blue of twilight, deepening to black. Stars pierced the sky, just a few at first, but each bright as a jewel, clearer than he could ever remember them being, even in Heaven.

“Oh my God…” Lyla whispered, stepping next to him. “It’s clear. It hasn’t been clear since…since the war…I was a kid…”

Another star seemed to burst into view, white and shining, and Kasbeel fell to his knees, remembering…remembering a cottage in the South Downs, a blanket in the back garden, laying on his back and watching them arrive, while next to him…next to him…

That one’s Regulus. Not one of mine, Angel, that was some snooty wanker who thought he was so clever just because he could get four stars to orbit each other. And over there is Arcturus. Also technically not mine, but I had this really great idea and I needed a red giant to test it out on. It worked, by the way, so keep an eye out for a helium flash in the next thousand years or so…

It hurt, like being pierced by a spear, like being torn apart. He reached out a hand, grasping, wishing to feel Crowley, lying at his left side, as he always was, his protector, his partner, his friend…

A small hand caught his, wrapping around his fingers. He turned, blinking tears from his eyes, to see Lyla, kneeling beside him. A moment later the others started gathering around. Mickey, Rahima, Alex, Lochlan, Mariah, Amiyah, Dominic, Ollie, and so many more.

“Look,” Kasbeel said, pointing at the sky. “That star there. That’s Regulus. And over there…that one is named Arcturus…”

Far away, in a cell that seemed to exist in its own bubble far from anything else, Crowley snapped awake, emerging from a dream that was slightly less painful than reality.

Something had changed.

He could feel it, deep inside. Something that had been missing, suddenly returned.

“It’s the stars,” said his mirror image, across the cell. Shoftiel had left them both in their human bodies this time. The manacles that held their wrists – Crowley’s left, his mirror image’s right – were too short to lay down comfortably, so they both sprawled against their walls.

They didn’t talk much. The secrets they held were the only things keeping them alive. So they simply existed, here, together, witnessing each other’s pain and humiliation, waiting for their own turns. It bonded them in ways conversation never could.

“The sky is clear again,” the mirror image continued, looking up at the ceiling, lost to the dark above. “I wish I could see it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, allowing himself to remember a night on a blanket in a garden, just for a moment. “Me, too.”

“Not long now,” the mirror image said. “Seven years. That’s all it ever was.” His eyes met Crowley’s, and they were full of fear. They couldn’t hide their emotions without the glasses, and that was one thing they were never allowed. “If the stars are back, time’s nearly up.”

“So they’ve…learned everything?” It wasn’t something they asked each other. But if it was the end, Crowley wanted to know.

“Just one secret left.” The mirror image rolled his head, with a broken version of Crowley’s smile. “How to get into London.”

#good omens prime #good omens celebration #goc2020 #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale and crowley #ineffable husbands #principality aziraphale #guardian angel aziraphale #takin on some godchildren #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #What Might Have Been #good omens #ao3 #ao3 link

8 notes · View notes

porkchop-ao3 · 5 years ago

Text

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 16)

Jemima Jones III

Working with Micah and Javier on another job. A little something unexpected, and frankly unwelcome.

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

I ended up helping Javier with taking down the rest of the tents and packing them away; he explained to me what had happened in Valentine, a huge shootout with Leviticus Cornwall and his men. I'd heard of that man, of course, one of the richest and most powerful men in the area; he practically owned half of Saint Denis. It was news to me, however, that the gang had issues with him, but I knew it wasn't good. Everyone was okay following the shootout, thankfully, but we had to leave quickly otherwise they wouldn't be. With everything on the wagons the group rode out, I was on the back of Rayna accompanying the convoy, riding alongside the wagon that Dutch was sat on. He seemed somewhat in a better mood once we were moving, and he even thanked me for sticking around, it seemed as though he wasn't expecting me to.

We met with Charles along the way and he directed us to where we'd be staying. I found myself in Scarlett Meadows for the second time that day, and we settled at Clemens Point, out by the lake. The air was muggier here but I liked the place, it was nice being by the water. It was funny, being a little closer to my original home, too.

It took us a few days to get set up in our new camp, and over those days I spent more time with other members of the group, getting to know them better. I'd given Charles his oleander and he said he'd start working on my bow as soon as he could; I told him not to stress himself about it but he insisted he'd like to make it. I'd spent more time with Javier, helping him set back up the tents we'd taken down together at the old camp. I found him to be full of quiet wisdom, he told me about his revolutionary past, his journey to America, how he fell in with the gang when he had nothing. He told me how he'd fled Mexico to protect his loved ones from his actions; actions that he did not specify and I did not question. He'd clearly seen and dealt with a lot over the years but what stood out to me was the fact that he seemed so grateful for where he was now, and grateful to Dutch who had taken him in. I spent my time with him mostly listening rather than speaking.

I spent a little time with Strauss, he'd been injured in Valentine and was taking it easy, I'd check on him from time to time. He wasn't a young man, and though his wounds were far from fatal it struck me that he wasn't the type to get involved in the gunfire often, and the ordeal seemed to have shaken him quite a bit. He'd be fine, though. He went back to sitting at his little desk with his ledger in no time; in fact the whole camp fell back into its routine pretty quick.

I hadn't had much to do with Arthur since we moved, we'd see each other around camp and he'd nod at me politely but always seemed preoccupied. We shared a few words in the mornings when we continued to wake early, meeting each other by Pearson's campfire. It became a little surprise every morning, seeing which one of us would be up first to make the coffee. It amused me enough to keep me rising early, though I doubted Arthur paid as much attention to it as I did.

Pearson began commenting on it. He was always the next person to wake up after us, and he joked about us putting him out of a job by brewing the coffee, but he seemed to appreciate it anyway.

Still, I couldn't help feeling things were a little odd between Arthur and I since that day in Scarlett Meadows. He avoided eye contact more than I did, for a change, and he was always a little eager to excuse himself. It saddened me, not just because I had been hopeful of something blossoming between us but because I liked Arthur as a friend, too. I enjoyed his company and it hurt that things had changed. I wanted to bring it up, but I was also scared of making things worse.

One morning, when Arthur rose earlier than me, I joined him by the fire and he'd already poured me my coffee.

"Saw you getting up," he explained, handing me the mug.

"Thanks," I smiled, hugging the mug with both hands. "Mornings around here are real pretty, ain't they?"

"Sure," he agreed with a nod, following my gaze to the lake which reflected the warm pinks of the sky as the sun rose.

"Uhh, I was wondering,” I started, looking down. I felt him looking at me, waiting. "Maybe we could do something together today. Maybe go hunting again, or even just another ride for leisure, like last time."

Arthur was quiet for a long while, and it didn't seem like he was going to answer, so I looked at him. He was staring at me, his lips parted just slightly, looking frozen. I averted my eyes again, feeling embarrassed.

"Maybe Charles is better suited to going hunting with you, he knows a lot more than I do," he finally said. He missed my point completely, or maybe he was purposely ignoring it.

"Well, it's more about–” I paused, sighing softly. "Feels like it's been a while since we saw each other outside of our morning coffee, we don't have to do nothing, I just thought we might… I enjoy our trips together, is all."

Arthur sighed, and I worried that all I was doing was annoying him. I opened my mouth to back track, but he spoke. He said my name, quiet and somewhat downhearted, "I enjoy them too, but I'm worried that spending too much time with you is gonna–" he stopped and pressed his lips together.

I saw what was happening. He'd realised that I was getting a little too fond of him and now he was doing damage control, letting me down gently.

"I don't want you getting hurt; associated with me and punished for my actions."

"Okay," was all I said. I wanted to argue, tell him that his reasoning didn't make any sense considering I was in this gang now, I was part of it all. But I knew that it was just an excuse and me pushing it would only make him uncomfortable.

"Okay?" He repeated, seeming surprised at my acceptance. I shrugged my shoulders.

"If it's what'll make you comfortable, Arthur. I'm not gonna lasso you and force you to spend time with me," I explained.

"It's not that I don't want to it's that I… I shouldn't," he said, I looked him in the eye and watched him squirm under my gaze. His Adam's apple moved with his deep swallow and his eyes seemed to want to look away.

"But you do a lot of things you shouldn't," I pointed out to him and he seemed taken aback for a second, then choked out a laugh.

"Well, here's me practising a little self restraint," he countered, shaking his head in amusement at me. I kept my expression neutral and refused to break eye contact.

"Don't hold back on my account," I said, sipping my coffee and licking my lips, noting the way his eyes flickered down to them. "It'd be a real shame if you and I never went out drawing together, like we said."

I knew I'd planned on not pushing him, but at the end of the day, I liked him. I didn't want to go on like strangers just because I'd developed a little crush on him.

"We will," he finally nodded. "I'll keep my word on all that."

"I'm glad, I enjoyed that."

"I did too," he agreed, looking down into his coffee.

We fell quiet again, and I wanted so badly to say something, maybe plead with him to forget about whatever made him change his mind about being friends. I couldn't say anything, though, I was too nervous. And just like the previous mornings we'd spent at Clemens Point, after finishing his coffee, Arthur went to leave.

"Anyway, enjoy the rest of your morning," he said to me before walking away.

I watched him cross the camp and mount his horse, leaving and only looking back at me once.

Since moving camps – and since Arthur had spent less time with me – Micah had taken it upon himself to linger around me whenever he was free. He hadn't tried to touch me since I told him not to, though, so I couldn't complain. His company had been pleasant enough, he'd sit nearby and play with his knife while I got on with my chores and he'd ask me things about myself. I answered most of his questions, though dodged ones about my romantic history, telling him it wasn't his business. He laughed at that, agreeing with me and letting it be. I pretended not to notice the way other members of the camp looked at us, they never said anything but I knew they were weighing us up, trying to listen in and analyse what was happening between us.

Later that morning, when the rest of the camp had risen, he and I were sitting by the fire while I repaired a hole in one of his shirts. I shot him a warning glance when he made a comment about me making a good wife for someone one day, and sewed the split seam back together for him just in time for Javier to find us.

"Hey, you two doing anything today?" He asked. I handed Micah his shirt and looked at Javier, curiosity piquing.

"Not really, just chores," I told him.

"Well I guess it depends on what you're selling, you got a job for us?" Micah replied.

"I think so. See, before we left Valentine I got talking with this guy in the saloon; said his brother stole something from him and he's keeping it in a lock box under his bed. Trouble is, he can't go anywhere near the place otherwise this guy'll shoot him on sight. Hates him," Javier explained. He pointed at the two of us. "You two worked pretty well together the other day, I heard."

"I reckon we did," Micah glanced at me and I gave a small nod of agreement.

"Well, the guy offered me a lot of money to get it back for him, but I don't fancy my chances going in there without some sort of distraction. You wanna polish those wedding rings and help me out?" Half of his moustache lifted with his smirk.

Micah and I shared a glance, but I was the first to respond. "Why'd you need two of us?"

"Well, I don't feel good about sending you in there alone, muñequita, this guy sounds like he can be a piece of work," he explained to me before glancing at Micah. "And I don't see how you'd manage to distract him by yourself without getting shot, no offense amigo, you're not the most likeable guy I've met."

"No offense taken," Micah said drily.

"But as a married couple, you think we have a chance?" I tried to have faith but I wasn't sold, and I raised a brow at him.

"Assholes like him wouldn't help a guy like Micah, and they might try to take advantage of a woman on her own…But what sort of monster wouldn't help a nice couple with a lady in a delicate condition?" Javier queried, lifting his hand and drawing attention to the blanket he was holding.

And that's how I found myself on a wagon on my way to some scary stranger's house with a balled up blanket under my skirt, under the instructions; just don't say much and look queasy. The house we were looking for was just outside of Valentine, far enough out that they weren't worried about it, based on what had gone down in the town before we left. Javier took the reins and I rode shotgun, Micah sitting in the back, and we rode out there as Javier explained some more.

"This guy said he wants us to bring him the box unopened, and he'll pay a hundred dollars."

"A hundred dollars? What if there's something inside worth two hundred?" Micah questioned, sounding miffed.

"And what if there's a bunch of sentimental shit in there that ain't worth jack to us? It's a gamble, I say we don't open it. We just get our money fair and square," Javier countered. I was with him.

"Yeah, at least if we don't open it we can say we're doing a good deed," I chuckled, my hands on my makeshift baby bump.

"There could be anything in there," Micah said.

"Yeah, there could be a gun, there could be photographs, a letter from a dead relative, or stacks of cash," I shrugged.

"The way this guy was talking, he seemed real depressed. Didn't sound to me like there was money in there," Javier shook his head. "Anyway, this is my job, Micah, we don't open it."

"Fine," he sighed.

We stopped the wagon at the house and the boys climbed down, both coming around to offer a hand to me. It was Micah who got there first, and I took it, leaning back and struggling down slowly with my swollen belly, stretching my acting muscles.

"This convincing?" I asked.

"Very," Javier laughed. "I'm gonna get out of sight, you two do your thing and keep him away from the bedroom. I'll be as quick as I can."

Javier jogged away from Micah and I and we took a moment to prepare.

"If we happen to need names, you going by Jemima again?"

"Sure. What about you?"

"Call me, uhhh, Robert," he nodded. "Alright, come on my sweet," he smirked, taking my hand and putting his other arm around the small of my back, guiding me up to the house like I was fit to collapse at any moment. I walked a little sluggishly, putting on a bit of a wince as we neared the door. I knocked, then breathed deeply as I waited.

The door opened, a gun was cocked and pointed right at us and a man grumbled; "what'chu want?"

I would've been scared if the gun didn't immediately dodge me when the man noticed my 'condition'. He was an ugly bastard, as many teeth as a newborn and skin scaly and mottled with a layer of grime that looked like it'd been there for years.

"Oh! I-I-I'm sorry sir, we don't mean you no trouble," Micah began, pulling me back and away from him. "We're just passing through and my... my wife here has taken a little queasy. Baby's due any day now."

"You ain't about to spit a sprog out on my porch, now?" The man grumbled, but he lowered his gun completely.

"Not yet," I shook my head. "Just morning sickness, I reckon."

"We was wondering if you'd mind doing a good deed, letting us take a couple minutes of your time. She'll be fine if she has a few minutes to sit down somewhere out of the sun, maybe drink some water? Can you help us out, partner?"

The man looked between us, a sour look in his slightly milky eyes. Eventually he sighed sharply and stepped aside, waving us in with the butt of his gun. "Alright. Jus' as long as you don't spew up in my house."

"Oh, I don't think I'm gonna. I'm just a little light headed, thank you kindly," I assured him, hobbling into the house. I looked around, getting an idea of the layout.

Right in the front entrance there was a corridor, at the end of it I could see through a door to the end of a bed, I took it as that being where we had to keep him away from. To our left, there was a sitting room, which he led us into. The kitchen was accessed through a doorway at the far end of the room, out of view of the front door. If we kept him there, we'd be fine.

"Take a seat," the man said.

"Um, would you mind if I sat at the kitchen table instead? My back don't like those low down armchairs much," I said, and the guy shrugged indifferently as he walked through to the kitchen. The house was a little run down and grubby, with boarded up windows and holes in the floorboards.

Micah and I followed him and he helped me down into a chair at the table, then took a seat next to me. He didn't let go of my hand, cupping it between both of his own. The homeowner poured a cup of water from a tin jug and brought it over to me, placing it down on the table in front of me before crossing his arms, just standing there and watching me like a hawk. I peered down into the cup before drinking, relieved that it seemed pretty clean, but I only took a small sip.

It was unbearably quiet, and I knew we needed some noise to give Javier a fighting chance. I leaned forwards and groaned, leaning my head into my free hand. Micah moved in close, reaching a hand to my back, rubbing gently.

"Oh, angel, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?" He crooned. I shook my head.

"I'll be fine. It's just my back and- and my hips, they hurt so bad," I told him. Micah made a humming sound and got up, coming to stand behind me. He started massaging my back for me, pressing his thumbs into my muscles and rubbing circles. It was… surprisingly good.

"I'm proud of you, darling. Child-bearing; ain't it a beautiful thing, sir?" He expressed with adoration that verged on unbelievable. I thought that he should rein it in a little.

"Uhh, sure," the guy replied, and I didn't have to look at him to know that he was completely disinterested.

"You got any kids, sir?" Micah asked, moving lower down to the middle of my back. He kneaded my back with the heels of his hands and I let out a soothing breath. As slimy as the man could be, he knew how to give a massage.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking."

"No, I ain't got no kids."

"Oh, well we've got three at home with the nanny, ain't we, my dear?" Micah leaned over my shoulder, looking at my face. I gave him a look.

"Three? How old's your woman?" The man scoffed in mild disbelief.

"Ohh, we started young," Micah smirked, taking my chin in his hand and tilting my head towards him. My eyes widened as he looked at me real close up. "Didn't plan a single one of 'em, but we wouldn't have it any other way."

I wasn't expecting it when he leaned in, it was why I didn't dodge it when he pressed his lips against mine. It was also why I jolted back, flinging my hand out to shove him away; it didn't matter though, the damage had already been done. I was so focused on the fact that Micah had just kissed me that it took me a few moments to register the look on his face, the shock of it, and to remember that we were meant to be married. I scrambled for an excuse.

"I…I've been throwing up all morning, you really wanna kiss me now?" I stammered, my cheeks burning hot red, my heart thumping, hands shaking, everything in me buzzing. I had all the feelings I expected from a kiss but they didn't feel good, not with Micah. I just felt angry.

"In sickness and in health, angel. I don't care," Micah said, chuckling uneasily before patting my arm and sitting back down. He cleared his throat before carrying on talking, saying something to the man, but I wasn't listening to any of it.

For the rest of my time there I kept my eyes focused on the table, thinking of Arthur and how close he'd been the other day. How much different I felt about that moment and that would-be kiss. How if he had followed through with it I might not be feeling as bad as I was right then.

At some point, Micah decided we'd stayed long enough and grabbed my arm, helping me up from the chair. He asked me how I was feeling, all concerned and loving and I merely nodded in response, happy to get out of there as quickly as possible. Micah thanked the man for his hospitality and walked me through the house and out the door, insisting that he needn't see us off. We'd already taken up plenty of his time.

Walking towards our wagon I noticed that Javier was already waiting for us. Micah nudged my side. "What the hell happened in there? Shoving at me like that."

"You kissed me," I murmured, not looking at him.

"Well yeah, Mrs. Bell," he grumbled, speaking it like a question.

"I never said that was okay," I hissed, looking up only to scowl.

"Alright then, I'm sorry!" He spat back.

We reached the wagon and I ignored Micah's outstretched hand and climbed on without his help. Javier looked between us, instantly feeling the tension. He whipped the reins, getting us out of there.

"Did you get the thing?" I asked Javier, my arms crossed firmly over my chest, face like a slapped ass no doubt.

"Of course, how'd it go at your end? You don't seem too happy," he replied, then glanced over his shoulder at Micah.

"She's got her knickers in a twist because I played my role as her husband too well," Micah answered for me in a sneer of a tone.

"He kissed me without askin' first," I clarified.

"And I apologised!"

"It's not enough," I muttered.

"Hey, alright, it was just a kiss?" Javier cocked a brow and I frowned at him.

"Just a kiss," I repeated. "Maybe to some, but it was my–" I stopped myself, shaking my head and turning back to face forward.

"It was what?" Micah asked.

"Ohhh mierda, you fucked up, man," Javier told Micah, putting two and two together before him.

"I apologised!" He emphasised.

"Dumbass, you ain't worked it out? She's never kissed no one before," Javier explained. "You took that from her, I'd be pissed too if you were my first kiss," he snorted, but he didn't seem all that amused.

Micah was silent for a little while, but eventually he sighed and grumbled; "how was I supposed to know?"

"Whatever, it's done now," I said, and we all rode back to Clemens Point in silence.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #fanfiction #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #Javier Escuella #atink #reader insert #rdr2 fanfic #micah bell

60 notes · View notes

islareeveswriting · 6 years ago

Text

DIVE CHAPTER 35

STORY PAGE

PREVIOUS | NEXT

Relief was a welcome sensation.

Molly had spent so much of her recent weeks with a pent up need for days to go quicker. Endings are never easy, but Molly was more than ready for the end of her second university year. She’d never wanted anything to draw to a close so much, but it felt like she could really draw a line under what had gone once she’d handed in the project that had been the backdrop to everything. Clive had passed, and in the background she’d been working on the critical analysis of her collection. She’d found Harry was Lola’s father, and she’d turned her mind to the outcome of that critical analysis. Aaron had attacked her, and she’d reported him, and she’d been worrying about getting her final garment stitched together.

Now he was in a cell, and Molly had handed in her final project, and finally she felt like she could actually move past it all and onto something better.

All that was ahead was a ten week summer break, that she’d planned to fill with nothing but the people and things she enjoyed and loved. There was nothing in her head apart from enjoying the summer, not thinking about designs, or toiles, or pattern cutting, or whether she needed to check over her shoulder for who was behind her. She had trips planned with friends, days out with her sister, a mini break with Harry to somewhere sunny that was yet to be decided and booked. It was a big step. A holiday together, but all things considered, to them, it was quite minimal commitment.

There was an element of uncertainty, a creeping of fear, or at least apprehension at what might come next. It bubbled in the bottom of Molly’s stomach as she handed in her portfolio, left her final garment on the rack and left the room for the final time. It felt like nerves, they were a mixture of sickening ones and ones that made her excited. Though she tried to focus on the latter, it was hard to complete ignore the ones that made her feel nauseous, when they kept her wondering if her breakfast was due to make its return any second.

Molly was the last of her housemates to leave. Everyone else had finished days before and had not intention of returning until the beginning of Autumn term. They were still debating whether they would be back to enjoy for Freshers week for a third and final time, but until then, they had plans to see each other a few times over summer. Molly would go and stay with Jimmy at his brothers London flat for a long weekend, and Lauren would visit her at her parents house, and at some point they’d all trundle down to Cornwall to spend a few days in Natalie’s parents country home where they could play the music as loud as they liked and swim in the pool through to the early hours.

However, the uni house was empty, and quiet, and a little lonely when Molly opened the door back up after her final walk back from uni for the year. There was no collection of shoes in the hallway, no jumble sale of coats on the hook, no mountain of pans in the sink to be washed up. It looked like it did the day they moved in, and the way it had never looked since. It didn’t look like a house that held a year of memories and good times, and bad times if Molly was honest, though she was only remembering the good when she dropped her bag on the dining table and moved to grab a glass of water. For some reason Molly felt a little sad looking at it like that as she gulped water. There was another year to have in that house, but it left a hole in her heart that in a years time, the goodbye would be forever, and the home wouldn’t be home ever again. A year didn’t seem so far away, or at all like long enough when the reality of life after university was staring her in the face.

A knock on the door pulled Molly from her thoughts. She wasn’t expecting it, she wasn’t expecting anyone, and it made her jump, only more so thanks to how deep she’d been dragging herself into her own mind. Molly hadn’t been expecting anyone, and she supposed it would just be someone selling something, or perhaps the postman. So when Molly opened the door to Nancy stood on the step, with Lola holding her hand, and looking up at Molly with glee it was a welcome surprise.

“Well hello,” Molly grinned stepping aside to let Nancy and Lola inside. “Come in,” Molly encouraged waving her hand at the pair.

“Just thought we’d pop round on our way home, we’ve been to the park haven’t we Lola,” Nancy explained, glancing down to Lola who only nodded with a large yawn that stretched her whole face. “A little sleepy now I think though,” Nancy chuckled, and Molly nodded, closing the door behind them.

“Well why don’t I see if I can find some cartoons on the TV and you can have a rest ey Lola?” Molly suggested, and Lola nodded, her hand leaving Nancy’s clutch now they were safely inside and her thumb finding her mouth, the way it did when she was sleepy. Her big doey eyes were already half shut, and with each blink they seemed to get heavier. “Come on then,” Molly bent and picked Lola up onto her feet. “Did you want a cup of tea?” Molly offered, leading Nancy through to the living space. Of course Nancy accepted, and with Lola on her hip, Molly prepared two mugs and filled the kettle clicking onto boil.

A few months ago Molly had barely managed to to prepare a bowl of cereal at the same time as making a cup of tea, yet there she was now, Lola falling asleep on her shoulder, making a cup of tea with one hand whilst Nancy took the weight off her feet at the kitchen table. With the tea brewing Molly moved to the sofa and set Lola down whilst she fiddled with the TV, trying to find a children’s channel. Eventually Molly found some cartoons that Lola was interested in enough to occupy her tired mind. Molly unfolded a blanket and set it around Lola, she quickly curled up in it, holding the soft fabric to her face with her free hand, her eyes quickly getting heavier. Molly knew it wouldn’t be long until she was asleep.

Molly finished making the tea quietly, wanting to let Lola nap the way Harry always did in the afternoon. Sometimes he put her to bed, other times he let her fall asleep on his lap, cuddled close to his body, and honestly, Molly thought, they both seemed happier that way. Harry was content with his little girls head resting on his chest, holding her close, keeping her safe and in a dream world for as long as possible. He was always so still when Lola was asleep on him, the quietest and most peaceful Molly knew him. It was joy to be close to, and even more of a joy to be part of, when Harry wrapped an arm around Molly and held her close.

“You’re very good with her,” Nancy smiled, as Molly headed back to the kitchen table to join Nancy with the mugs of tea she’d finished as Lola fell asleep, until her little breaths got deeper and slower. It didn’t take long for the little girl to give into the tiredness that was clearly stronger than her desire to see where Dora’s exploring would take her now.

“Am I?” Molly asked, a little shocked. She’d never been entirely sure she was really that great with Lola. Sure, she could keep her entertained, and Lola seemed to enjoy Molly being around, but Molly wasn’t sure that made her good with the little girl. She had no parenting ability or experience at all, and it didn’t feel entirely natural like Molly was sure it should if she was truly good with Lola. Nonetheless, Nancy nodded before she took a sip of her tea. “Thank you,” Molly almost whispered, almost falling into her seat. It felt nice to hear, even if Molly didn’t truly believe it. “Is she like Harry when he was little?” Molly asked, seemingly from nowhere, though it was something that she’d had in the back of her mind for a long time. Harry rarely spoke about his childhood or growing up, Molly understood, and she didn’t pry, that didn’t stop her wondering though.

“In a way,” Nancy nodded with a smile, as she clearly remembered Harry as a little boy. “She looks like him, the eyes, the hair, and she’s patient and kind like he was, though she’s far more sassy, and he was far quieter than she is,” Nancy told Molly softly. Molly could almost swear she saw the little boy Nancy had in her mind's eye, in her her actual eyes, reserved and shy, waiting for the world to come to him. “He had his moments, he could be cheeky, but mostly he was shy and so careful with everything and everyone, he changed a bit as he got older, but he was always full of love and kindness, always has been, think things have just hardened him a lot, takes more to show that softness,” Nancy went on, and Molly nodded. That sounded like the Harry she knew. The Harry she’d met months ago, came across so confident and sure of himself, but every month since then Molly had seen how untrue that was. There were far bigger parts of him that were soft and gentle and even afraid, but he hid them all so well under a tough, cocky exterior. Molly felt truly honoured to see every part of him, even the parts he despised, even the weaker parts that he seemed to keep hidden from everyone as much as possible. Molly knew she was one of very few people who had seen those sides of Harry, and she didn’t take that for granted.

“Crazy to think how different he was when we first met,” Molly mused with a sort of smile. Despite it all she couldn’t help it when she remembered the first night she’d spent with him in the haunt, and how he’d text to make sure she was home ok.

“Crazy how people change for those they love,” Nancy added quietly, her smile just as unabashed and unhidden as she stared across at Molly.

“I used to think people could never change,” Molly admitted, a little ashamed of that now, and wondering how different things might have been if that had never been her belief, eyes glancing down to the now only half full mug of tea.

“So did I,” Nancy told Molly with a little shrug, not even nearly as embarrassed by the admission as Molly had been. “I see he gave you Harry’s ring,” Nancy pointed out, motioning to Molly’s hand curled around the pink mug with the word ‘babe’ scrawled across it a psychedelic font. Molly moved her fingers so she could look at the ring, the one Harry had given her, his initial etched into the solid gold metal that felt loose even on her biggest finger. “His grandfather, that was his ring, my Harry’s ring,” Nancy went on, noticing the slight frown across Molly’s brow.

“Oh god, sorry, I didn’t, I didn’t know,” Molly fussed almost moving to take it off, not sure the right course of action.

“Don’t be silly dear, I’m glad he gave it to you,” Nancy almost chuckld. “My Harry gave it to me, and then he replaced it with this one once he’d sorted himself out,” Nancy explained, holding up her right hand where two rings sat, one big and sparkly. Molly would be lying if she said she hadn’t noticed it before, and topped with a plain gold band. “My Harry wasn’t a nice person when I met him, but I loved him anyway, silly what we put up with for love really, he was never horrid to me mind, but the things he did, and the things he got involved in were pretty horrid, and I told him he had to change if he really wanted to be with me, I didn’t think he ever would, or maybe that he ever could, but he proved me wrong, so I said yes, and we moved down here, started a fresh, and quite frankly lived happily ever after,” Nancy laughed, but Molly simply smiled and nodded. “You’ve quite possibly saved my grandsons life by letting him love you,” Nancy said quietly, but Molly shook her head.

“No, he saved his life by letting me love him,” Molly corrected, and Nancy just smiled. Probably because it was the truth. It was possibly the first time Molly had really thought about it like that, but it seemed to make sense once she had said it. It joined dots that she hadn’t been able to quite join before. All along, Harry had been anything and everything she needed him to be, and he loved her long before he was ready to admit. But it was only when he truly let her love him, in the same way, that everything slotted into its rightful place and things started to feel right, and good. It was only then, that the bad stuff was easier to move on from.

Nancy and Molly continued to chat as they drunk their tea, and let Lola sleep. They didn’t really talk about Harry much, they didn’t really talk about anything much, they just talked. It was easy and nice and Molly enjoyed it. It filled her with something warm that she felt so easy chatting with Harry’s nearest and dearest.

It was only when Lola stirred and fussed a little that they stopped talking. Molly moved to her, picking her sleepy, slowly coming round, body up from the sofa, and letting the little girl wake up on her lap at the table, the way she’d done a couple of times before at Harry’s. Lola sat quietly, blinking, taking in the world around her again, and waking up steadily.

“Where’s Uncle Harry?” Lola asked groggily, rubbing at her eyes. “Want to see him,” Lola told Molly, lifting her head and looking up at her, glancing to Nancy too.

“He’s at work at the moment sweetie,” Nancy told her with a soft smile, and they both watched as Lola’s bottom lip pouted instinctively a little, nodding and resting her head on Molly once more, though clearly not entirely thrilled with the answer.

“How about you come with me to meet Uncle Harry after work, and then we can take you back to Nana Nancy’s later?” Molly suggested, looking at Nancy the whole while just in case she was overstepping a mark, though Nancy just seemed to smile and drop her eyes to Lola.

“Does that sound good little miss?” Nancy asked, and Lola nodded. “As long as that’s ok with you Molly?”

“Of course, it’s fine,” Molly grinned, hugging Lola a little tighter.

With tea finished, Nancy helped Molly get Lola ready to head back out, putting her little shoes on her feet and putting her white cardigan on over the pink dungarees she was wearing. Nancy told Lola to be good, and told her she’d see her later before leaving the house, and Molly and Lola to it. Molly packed her bag with a couple of snacks and a juice carton for Lola before she too left with her hand wrapped tightly around Lola’s, to head for the bus stop and the gym where Harry was training.

It was where Molly had planned to meet Harry anyway, an hour after he’d finished work so he could get a sweat in. He was going once a week, some of his sessions were just him doing a few drills, others were led by Martin. Today’s session was one of the former. He was enjoying it, and he was getting something from it, and he’d sworn to Molly that he had no desire to step foot back in the other club since he’d been going to the new one. Molly had a choice whether to believe him, and experience might have told her to be dubious, but everything else was telling her it was the truth, and so she trusted him.

Since Molly had been to the police station things felt like they’d really gotten back on track, and were heading in the right direction. It still lingered over her, what had happened, but with Aaron arrested and on bail until his court date, under house arrest thanks to a very good lawyer, it felt better and it felt a little like closure. Real closure. Of course Molly knew there was more to come, and there was potential for what was to come to be the hardest part, but simultaneously Molly wondered if anything could be much harder than what had gone before.

The bus ride out to the gym was full of Lola’s chatter, wide awake now and full of energy and inquisitiveness as she took a new journey. Even as they hopped off the bus and Molly lifted Lola onto her hip to carry her into the gym, Lola continued to babble questions and the thoughts that provoked. Molly pushed the door open into the space she was becoming more vaguely familiar with, and was beginning to feel less uncomfortable in. There were two men in the ring, sparring at one another, and another man at the punching bags. Harry was sat on a bench, mopping at his forehead with a towel half draped over his shoulder. He was sticky with sweat Molly could tell, and as always, her tummy flipped at the sight of him.

“Uncle Harry,” Lola cried at the sight of him, beginning to untie his shoes, hands already free of the straps Molly knew they would have been held in a little while ago. Harry quickly looked up at the sound of Lola’s voice and the grin was instantaneous. He quickly got to his feet, moving to meet them halfway, still with a smile on his face.

“Hey Angel,” Harry hummed, still smiling wildly, “What a lovely surprise,” Harry cooed as he got closer, Molly just grinned as Harry moved to take Lola onto his own hip. Molly just smiled on as Lola wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and squeezed. “Uncle Harry missed you,” Harry whispered pressing a full kiss on Lola’s chubby cheek. “And you,” He added, turning to Molly and catching her lips quickly.

“You saw me yesterday,” Molly giggled, reminding him it was only twenty four hours ago they were sharing her bed and pretending to watch a movie as they paid far more attention to each other, and their bodies.

“Still missed you,” Harry shrugged. “You coming home with me then angel?” Harry asked, assuming the plan that had been made without any hint from Molly or anyone else as far as she knew. There was no way, even if someone had messaged him, he’d have seen it. His phone would be locked away in the changing rooms, the way it always was when he was in the gym.

“Yes, and for dinner,” Lola told him excitedly.

“And for dinner? Goodness, what have I done to earn so much of your time ey?” Harry jested with a wink, tickling her chubby sides making her squeal with delight. “What shall we have for dinner then?” Harry asked, settling Lola again.

“Cheesy pasta,” Lola told Harry firmly.

“Cheesy pasta!?” Harry feigned shock and Lola just laughed as he continued. “Again?”

“It’s my favourite,” Lola reminded him, as if he or Molly needed reminding. It was all Lola asked for at Harry’s, and Molly had to say, it was delicious, especially alongside the homemade garlic bread Harry rustled up.

“Cheesy pasta it is then, but don’t tell mummy you didn’t get any vegetables,” Harry whispered close to Lola’s ear.

“Vegetables are icky,” Lola grimaced making Molly chuckle.

“They make you grow big and strong though,” Harry pointed out with one cocked eyebrow.

“Like you?”

“Exactly,” Harry smiled. “Right, you stay with Lolly for a minute while I go and get changed ok?” Harry left with another kiss for Molly before heading off for the changing rooms.

When he came back he was changed and showered, his hair damp and scraped back from his face tightly, secured in a neat bun at the back of his head. His clean white t-shirt was crisp, and a stark contrast to the black jeans he was wearing nearly tucked into his boots. Molly got to her feet, and let Harry take the two long strides towards them and the door.

“Was thinking,” Harry started, once they were close enough to hear one another, “What about dinner out and maybe some bowling?” Harry suggested, and Molly smiled, nodding as she did so. .

“That sounds like fun,” Molly told him, though another kiss almost cut off her final word.

“But you’re rubbish at bowling Uncle Harry, I beat you last time,” Lola reminded him as they turned for the door.

“Wow, savage little madam you are.” They were all laughing as they left the boxing club, even Lola joining as Molly giggled, Harry holding the door open for them with a dimpling chuckle falling past his lips. At first Molly didn’t notice the white car parked on the other side of the parking lot, or the two men getting out of it as the club door closed behind them, or the way they walked towards the three of them with their hoods up. Until Harry’s laugh almost literally fell of his face, and he turned to stone, reaching into his pocket for something. “Go and get Lola in the car,” Harry told Molly quietly, shoving the key into her hand, the one that wasn’t curled around Lola’s hand. Molly noticed the pair walking towards them then, getting scarily closer. Molly would have thought nothing of them once upon a time, just a couple of lads Harry might have known, but past experience mixed with how tense Harry seemed to be suddenly, made her stomach flip in a sickening way.

“Harry-”

“Go Lolly, and lock the doors, and don’t open them for anyone apart from me ok?” Harry told her sternly though he didn’t look to her, eyes glued to the pair of men only getting closer. Molly nodded and picked Lola up from the ground, walking quickly towards Harry’s car. With them both in the car, Molly locked the doors and began clipping Lola into her seat, trying to act as normal and natural as possible, though her fingers fumbled over the buckle that was normally easy to clip together, and her eyes darting from Lola’s car seat to the back window through which she could see Harry, didn’t make it any easier.

“Where’s Uncle Harry?” Lola asked quietly, clearly picking up on what Molly was feeling, though Molly tried to put Lola off the scent with a wide smile down at her.

“He’ll be here in a second, he’s just talking to his friends,” Molly grinned, finally clipping Lola in place. “We’ll get ready to go so when he gets back we can just go to bowling and dinner yeah?” Lola nodded though she was chewing on her bottom lip and pulling at the bottom of her jumper distractedly. Molly pressed a kiss against her forehead, not sure what else to say. Molly could hear the wobble in her voice, and the tremor in her fingers, nothing about her was reassuring.

Molly took a seat on the centre console, squeezing in between the two front seats, and looking down at Lola, placing her hand on her knee and rubbing gently, eyes quickly flicking out of the back window for Harry. For a second it felt like they might have caught eyes, but of course they couldn’t have done, the window was blacked out Harry couldn’t see in a nor could anyone else. Whatever was being said to Harry wasn't sitting well with him, Molly could see his fists curling by his side, and perhaps even the vein pulsing in his neck. She swallowed on nothing, and prayed it would all just go away, as she watched the two men step closer to Harry, square up to him.

“Where’s bunny?” Lola asked, and Molly looked around for the little blue bag with cartoon characters in masks all over it. Eventually she spotted it, dropped by Harry’s feet on the black tarmac. Molly stiffened as she stared at it.

“It’s in your bag with Uncle Harry sweetheart, he’ll bring it in a minute,” Molly tried to promise Lola, but even she didn’t buy it herself. Lola just stared up at Molly with big doey eyes, wide and clearly afraid. Molly couldn’t blame her, she was afraid to, and she just wanted Harry back in the car and with them. “Did you have fun today Lola?” Molly asked, trying to distract them both from the lack of Harry, though it didn’t stop Molly from glancing out of the back window to see what was happening. Lola just nodded, her mouth slowly opening to talk, though a shout, deep and aggressive, more of a roar than anything else, cut her off and quickly pinned her small mouth back together. Molly’s eyes snapped to the window, Harry had his chest puffed out, leering forward, his brow deeply creased as his nostrils flared and his mouth hung open. A soft whine from Lola drew her attention back to the little girl, one of Molly’s hands finding one of Lola’s and holding it gently. “It’s ok, he’ll be back soon,” Molly whispered with a little smile as she drew circles on the back of Lola’s hand with her thumb.

“I’m scared,” Lola admitted softly, her voice barely even a whisper, barely even audible over Molly’s hammering heart that was seemingly in her ears. “I want Uncle Harry,” Lola blubbed, “I want him to stop shouting.” Molly did do. She wanted him to keep his cool and his calm, and she wanted him to walk away from whoever they were and whatever they were doing, and get in the car with her and Lola so they could just go and have the evening they’d planned.

“I know baby, he’ll be here in a minute,” Molly assured leaning over and kissing Lola’s head one more time. “Hey Lola, why don’t we sing a song,” Molly suggested with as much glee as she could muster, a tune to her voice that caught Lola’s attention. “What about wheels on the bus?” That one’s your favourite,” Molly reminded her, before beginning to sing the words to a song she’d almost completely forgotten about until Lola toddled into her life. Slowly Lola joined in, quietly first, unsure, but steadily finding some joy in the tune she sang over and over on repeat in the car, and sat at the table, and in the bath, and wherever and whenever she could. Molly continued as best could, trying not to seem distracted as she looked out of the window once more.

It looked like things were cooling off, Harry seemed calmer, and the two men had moved away from him a little. Molly had no idea what it was about, but she could have sworn she felt Aaron’s hand around her throat again, stranglingly tight as one of the men rushed towards Harry, pulled something from his pocket, shoved Harry into a wall and pushed all the air, and possibly all the life out of Harry. It happened in the blink of an eye and Molly felt like she’d been winded as she watched Harry stumble, and the man who had run into him step back.

Molly saw the blood, a stain growing wider on his wide t-shirt as he gripped at his stomach. Molly felt like she needed to scream, and she heard it in her head, but instead of scream she just slapped her hand over her mouth, her ears ringing with the silence and Lola’s singing that quickly ended as tears filled Molly’s eyes. The man who had done it turned to look at the car, and she saw the smile on his face, as if he could see exactly what he’d done to her. As if he could see straight into her eyes, and exactly what it was he’d taken from her.

Sorry about all the issues I’ve had gettign this up, seems Tumblr doesn’t like the artwork for some reason but I’ll try and add it in over the next couple of days or something though I’m currently finishing the LAST CAHOTER AHHHH how has that happened?

Thanks for sticking with me and this story for so long, and I hope you enjoy the ending <3

Love you all, can’t wait for your thoughts!

#dive #harry styles #harry styles fan fic #1dff #talk to me #ask box open #come scream at me #im screaming at me #im sorry #i love you though #enjoyyyy #if you can #harry styles fic #dark harry #harry fluff #dad harry

21 notes · View notes

imladris-soldier · 6 years ago

Text

Lashes (pt 5)

Bill Williamson is a racist asshole. Everyone knows it. They just punch him and go on about their day. When a Lakota woman joins the gang, everyone expects things to go on as normal, slurs and all, and for a time, it does. But her curiosity gets the better of her, and she finds that hatred is something learned - which means it can be unlearned, if given time, care, and patience. And she has plenty of those… the first two, anyway.

Bill Williamson x OC

The next two weeks allowed for very little exploration of Star's feelings regarding Bill. It started with Pinkertons ambushing Arthur and little Jack by the river, offering Arthur his freedom if he turned over Dutch. That put the camp on edge. But when a shootout occurred in Valentine between Dutch, Arthur, John and followers of a certain Leviticus Cornwall, it became immediately clear that the group would have to move.

All of it made Star antsy. She knew the feeling of being on the run all too well, but somehow, things seemed to be closing in around them. She hated feeling trapped, and every single moment they stayed on Horseshoe Overlook, the more trapped she felt.

Finally, Arthur and Charles were sent to scout out a new camp, but in the meantime, the gang was left to pack up and await their report. Star did her best to prepare the horses and their equipment, but she found her anxiety getting the best of her. She took a moment to herself by the treeline, taking a few deep breaths.

“Hey,” a voice called, uncharacteristically soft. “You alright?”

If anyone, Star had expected Sean to come looking for her. Maybe Hosea. Certainly not Bill.

She spun, letting out one of the deep breaths she'd taken. “I'm... I'm fine. Just needed a minute.”

“You sure? Ain't never seen you so... skittish.”

Something about the look in his eyes – the genuine, if nervous and unfamiliar, concern – it made Star's facade crumble. “I can't get caught again,” she murmured. “Last time, everyone I loved died. I barely escaped several fates worse than death. Not again.”

Bill glanced over his shoulder, then stepped closer to her. “It ain't gonna happen. Dutch will see us right. He always has.”

She didn't want to say it, but it seemed to be Dutch's fault that they were in the mess they were in. Still, Bill had known him a lot longer than she had, and she had little choice but to trust him. “Guess you're right. You all wouldn't have stayed with him so long if he wasn't good at getting you out of scrapes. I'm just being foolish.”

“I... I don't think you are. It's... I dunno, normal? Somethin' bad happened to ya, and you don't want it to happen again. Seems about right to me.”

It was a simple explanation, but it soothed some of Star's nerves. “True.”

“Come on. I'll help ya with the horses.”

She nodded and followed him to where she had been packing up hay bales onto one of the wagons. Without prompting, he immediately started up the job where she had left off. For a moment, she just stood and watched him, slightly baffled at his out of the blue helpfulness. And then, for a brief second, she caught her eyes lingering on the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and back and he worked. Her face flushed and she dove into the work.

“Thank you. For the help.”

“Sure,” Bill replied.

Between the two of them, it didn't take long to get all the tack and feed loaded up. The horses themselves were picking up on the nervous energy of the gang, but they fell in line easily enough. When all was done, Star sighed and wiped the sweat from her brow.

“What now?”

“We wait for Arthur or Charles to come back and tell us if they found a spot.”

“Waiting,” she chuckled. “Great.”

She sat on the edge of the wagon and leaned against the hay behind her. Bill came over and leaned on the wood next to her, his shoulder brushing her leg. Her gaze flickered between him and the horizon while his lingered on the ground. It took her some time to build up the courage to speak, but when she did, Star asked, “Why didn't you fight back... the night I pulled a knife on you?”

Bill kicked at a spot in the grass. “'Cuz... you was right,” he mumbled.

She might have fallen off the wagon from shock if she hadn't been leaned back slightly.

He too looked out to the horizon, then went on. “I seen terrible things in the army. I-I-I did. But. I did terrible things too. Same as them. It just... it seems to me that... maybe it weren't so different. If... if you got those things in your head.... and-and I've got 'em too... well....” He trailed off, seeming to either lose his train of thought or not know how to continue it further.

Star sat and considered his words for a time, noting that he had attached onto the same detail as she had. Knowing that he was as haunted by the actions of her people as she was by his... it was an uncomfortable ground to stand on, but it was even ground.

….

The transition to the new campsite went mostly without a hitch. Star had never been quite so far south before, but she had never heard anything good about it. Her understanding was that there would be many more people of like mind with Micah and Bill about people who looked like her, though they seemed to have an even worse view of people who looked like Lenny and Tilly. Poor Charles was just a walking target no matter what.

Given that knowledge, Star spent a lot more time in camp than she had previously. The country and its people was unfamiliar and potentially hostile. Better to be among friends. Besides, she was a decent fisher, so the lake they had camped next to was advantageous. She could still contribute to the camp supplies without really leaving.

One afternoon, she rolled up her pants and went south along the shore until she got to the small inlet of water. It was quieter there, and the fish were less likely to be disturbed by the bustle of camp. With her newly crafted wooden spear in hand, she waded out into the water slowly, keeping an eye out for where the fish seemed to gather. It was delicate work.

Once she found a spot for herself, well suited among the popular gathering areas, she stopped and stood stock still. She steadied her breath to cause as little disturbance as possible, and she waited. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The fish began to creep back into their favored spots. She waited even longer for one to present its broadside to her, then her spear flashed out, cutting through the flesh of a trout that was none too pleased.

The rest of the fish scattered, but the one stuck on the end of her spear fought her all the way out of the water and into the air. “Wáȟwala,” she murmured. “Easy.”

When the fish finally gave out, she tied it to the rope she had around her neck, then settled once more and waited for the fish to return. She spent most of the afternoon in this pattern, snaring three decently sized fish for Pearson. As she prepared for the fourth, spear poised to strike, a voice called out, immediately scattering all the fish.

“What in hell are you doin'?”

She jerked in surprise, then rolled her eyes as she watched her quarry slide away beneath the water. “Fishing!” she yelled back, throwing a scowl at Bill on the shore.

“Your pole ain't got a line on it.”

“Don't need a line to catch a fish,” she retorted, spinning to reveal the three hanging around her neck. She splashed back to shore, annoyed. “Could have had more if you hadn't come running your loud mouth.”

He gave the spear a confused look, then turned that look to the fish. “Then how'd ya catch 'em?”

“Stabbed them, you idiot. Like this.” She poked him in the gut with her spear lightly. He jumped and stepped back. “Did you come all the way out here just to pester me?”

Suddenly, he turned bashful, rubbing the back of his neck. “No.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Just... didn't see ya in camp. Swanson said he saw ya come this way.”

It wasn't a direct answer, but it was still an answer, and it sent surprise jolting through Star's chest. He'd sought her out... just for the company?

The tip of her spear lowered to the ground. “I take it you've never spearfished before.”

“No. Ain't never seen it done, even.”

She sighed, then checked the sky. “We've got some daylight left. Want to try?”

He looked utterly baffled. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Come on. Take off your boots and roll up your pants.”

She waded out into the water again, then waited for him to do as she said. It took him a minute before he snapped into action, but he followed her directions and then her footsteps. She led him out to the spot she'd chosen, then handed him the spear. “I made it for me, so it's a little too light, but it'll do for now.”

He took it and twisted it around in his hands. “I-I ain't sure 'bout this.”

“Bill, it's a stick, what aren't you sure about?” He gave her a withering look that made her laugh. “Just shut up and listen.”

She spent some time explaining the details, emphasizing the need for stillness and precision, neither of which was she convinced he was capable of. With all of that explained, she stood back and let him try, though he still was uncertain. It only took one failure before he was ready to storm off.

She caught his arm and got in front of him. “You can't run off yet! You only tried once!”

“I ain't no good at this.”

“You've never done it before today! Of course you're no good at it. I wasn't either. I wasn't good at it for many months. I'm still not the best, compared to many others. You might not catch anything today, or tomorrow, or weeks from now, but you are still learning by trying. Stay.”

The conflict in him radiated off in waves. He huffed a frustrated sigh, then his eyes fell on her hand, still lingering on his arm. “Alright. Guess... guess another try won't hurt none.”

“As long as you don't stab yourself in the foot,” she replied, spinning him back to the water.

The pair spent the rest of the evening in the lake as Bill tried and failed until sundown. It was a chore to keep him invested despite his failures, but Star insisted on it, and he seemed unwilling to say no to her. As it got too dark to see, they made their way back to shore.

While Bill put his boots back on, Star rolled her pants back down and collected her spear and her fish. “You did well,” she told him, offering a hand to help him stand back up.

“I looked like a god damn idiot,” he replied, taking her hand and standing.

“You did not. Your strikes got better quickly. You just need to work on the stillness and finesse.”

He scoffed. “Right. 'Cuz I'm just a graceful little princess like you.”

She grinned and started off back towards camp. “Not yet.”

They walked in silence for part of the way, the Bill tentatively posed a question. “Do... your people do that a lot? Spearfishin'.”

“We used to do it more – before the reservations. The government likes to confine us to land that provides nothing and then forbid us from leaving, even to hunt or fish. Usually it isn't for women to learn either, but my father taught me anyway. He wanted me to be able to provide for myself and others.”

“Oh.” He waited a beat. “What... what happened to your father?”

Long buried grief twisted in Star's stomach. “He died. At Wounded Knee.”

Bill stopped dead in his tracks. “Were you there?”

She slowed to a stop and turned to face him. “Yes. Were you?”

Even in the fading light, Star could see that Bill had blanched as white as a sheet. That in itself was an answer, but she wanted him to deny it. The emotions that bubbled up in her begged him to deny it.

“I was.”

Many things happened in quick succession. An angry sob seemed to explode out of Star, whether she wanted it to or not. She immediately dropped everything she was carrying in favor of slamming her fist into Bill's face. He staggered back, taken completely off guard, and his hand flew to his nose to staunch the blood. Star spun and ran back to camp, unable to keep the tears from falling down her face

Bill called her name, but she did not turn. She ran until she smacked into someone whose arms closed around her.

“Star?” Charles' quiet, concern-laden voice greeted. “What happened?”

When Bill emerged from the trees, blood running down his face into his beard, Star felt Charles tense. “What the hell did you do, Williamson?!”

The camp immediately stopped all activity and everyone turned to see what was going on. Charles passed Star to Ms. Grimshaw, then stalked over to Bill, murder in his eyes. “What did you DO?!”

“Nothin'! W-well...”

“Nothing?”

It took a second, but then Bill puffed his chest out defiantly and cried, “Yeah! Nothin'! I watched a whole god damn massacre and did nothin'. I-I-I watched women and children get their heads blown off and did nothin'. Star's daddy probably died right in front of me, and I DID NOTHING.”

The whole camp was silent save for a cricket or two and the lapping of the lake against the shore. Bill looked around at everyone present, equal parts daring them to challenge him and utterly terrified of them all. Finally, his gaze rested on Star who was still standing in Ms. Grimshaw's arms. “I... I'm... I'm sorry. For your father. For your people. For-for all of it. It ain't gonna bring 'em back, but... I'm sorry.”

With that, he took the fish Star had dropped to Pearson's table, then grabbed his gun, mounted Brown Jack, and rode out of camp.

Everything remained frozen until the sounds of Brown Jack's hooves were no longer audible. Then Star sobbed again. Charles came back to her, pulling her into his arms once more. Most everyone went back to what they were doing, but Dutch and Mary-Beth joined Charles in comforting Star.

“What's he talkin' about?” Mary-Beth asked softly, looking between the two natives.

“Wounded Knee,” Charles replied.

“Were you there, Star?” Dutch inquired. She nodded. “Jesus Christ, girl.” He put a hand on her back. “Are you gonna be alright?”

“Eventually,” she answered, sniffing. “It's just... it's been a long time since I thought about it all.”

Dutch nodded. “If you need anything, you come to me, you hear?”

“Thank you, Dutch.”

Mary-Beth gave her a sympathetic pat on the back at well, then mumbled something to herself about finding something sweet the next time she was in town.

When it was just Charles and Star, the formed looked down and wiped some of the tears from her face. “Let's go riding. We'll find someplace to camp for a couple days. Get some distance from it all.”

“Ok.”

The pair gathered up the supplies they would need to camp, then climbed onto Taima together. Star's arms wrapped around her surrogate brother, even though she didn't need to hold on to stay on the horse. As they rode out into the night, she buried her face into his shoulders.

The Wounded Knee Massacre was almost ten years ago, but she had never fully healed from it. The shadow of it had lingered at the back of her mind, and when it would try to come out to play, she would beat it back with a stick until she forgot again. Apparently that was no longer an option since a living reminder occupied the same camp as she did.

Although, he seemed to have healing of his own to do. Perhaps... if done correctly, it was a path they could navigate together.

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

@allaboutpizzaandfandoms

#my writing #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #Bill Williamson #bill williamson x oc #charles smith #susan grimshaw #mary-beth gaskill #dutch van der linde #ouuuucchhh

16 notes · View notes

letterfromtrenwith · 6 years ago

Text

Prescription Passion - Ch. 4

Carolight Hospital AU

Ch 4: Nobody has a good day, and Caroline hears some hospital gossip.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

There are a number of studies that have found that people living with a range of potentially visible skin conditions can experience social anxiety, usually accompanied by lowered quality of life as a consequence of avoidant coping.

Caroline sighed – she’d read that sentence four times now. She let the issue of the British Journal of Dermatology fall shut on her desk and put her head in her hands. Today had really drained her; she’d been up late with Uncle Ray after he’d suffered a hypoglycaemic episode, and had been reluctant to leave him this morning, although he’d insisted he was all right. He probably was – he usually kept his diabetes under very good control – but she couldn’t help worrying.

Even if Uncle Ray had wanted her to stay, she probably wouldn’t have been able to – her appointment schedule that morning had been absolutely jam-packed, with both private and NHS patients, and she’d barely had five minutes to herself. When she was supposed to be having lunch, she’d been called in alongside her boss, Dr Bodrugan, to see a woman who had suffered severe burns in a house fire. She’d been transferred from the Royal Cornwall to see Dr Bodrugan specifically, as he was an expert in treating such injuries. Those kinds of cases were always difficult – the patient would require numerous surgeries and months if not years of treatment.

On top of all that, while she’d been trying to catch up on her paperwork this afternoon she’d got a call from the oncology department asking her to pass on her files on a patient – his skin cancer had metastasised to his bones. He was only in his 20s and the type of cancer he had progressing in that way was extremely rare. That had thrown her completely off – she’d tried catching up on her reading as a bit of a distraction, but it was certainly no help, especially as that same issue contained an article on the treatment of melanoma.

No, this was no good; she needed a break. A trip down to the coffee shop for something creamy and fattening should do the trick; it was probably not the best idea to have a Starbucks in the lobby of a hospital, but Caroline was eternally grateful for it. As she waited at the end of the counter for her venti caramel macchiato she heard a familiar voice order a chai latte, and turned to see Dwight Enys standing at the till, arms folded, looking about as worn down as she felt. His hair was beginning to flop over his forehead in a really quite charming way. He wore his dark blue scrubs, and she might have admired how well the colour suited him if she hadn’t noticed the splatter of what looked like blood up the left sleeve. Caroline had done her time in A & E as a student and she didn’t envy those who had made it their specialty. The cases she’d dealt with today were nothing compared to what Dwight saw on a much more regular basis.

“Oh, hello.” Dwight spotted her as he headed down to wait, too. She hadn’t seen him for a few days, since they’d observed the OOKP together and had that funny little talk about Horace afterwards. Caroline had wondered what on Earth she’d been thinking, inviting him to come and watch an unusual eye surgery like it was a date or something. As fascinating as the procedure had been, she’d paid far too much attention to him sitting next to her, his knee touching hers, the warm, masculine scent of him.

“Hi. How are you?” She paused, glancing at the blood on his sleeve. “Or should I not ask?”

“What – Oh, God.” He rubbed ineffectually at the already dried stain. He lowered his voice. “Stabbing.”

“Jesus. How are they?” He shook his head, glancing down at the floor, and she fought the urge to put her hand on his arm – she didn’t know if he would appreciate it. “I’m sorry.”

“It happens.” He didn’t sound as casual as his words suggested. Most doctors developed a thick skin about death and suffering. It was necessary to keep from breaking down on a regular basis, but only the truly callous could remain completely unaffected.

“Do you – do you want to talk about it?” Their drinks had arrived, and Caroline inclined her head toward a table.

“No.” The abrupt refusal prickled at her, until Dwight shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude – I’d just rather not talk about…that. Anything else, though.”

They sat at the table, gripping their cups. Neither seemed willing to speak at first, until they both tried to at the same time. They laughed, and this broke the tension.

“You first.” Caroline said, taking a sip of her drink. The sickly sweetness absolutely hit the spot.

“Bad day for you, too?”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like you drink those on a regular basis.” Caroline chuckled.

“Well diagnosed, Dr Enys.” Dwight smiled. Even still a little sad, he had a lovely smile. She told him about her cancer patient and her burns patient. He was an excellent listener, his face kind and sympathetic –she was sure he would be calming presence to patients in A & E, reassuring them at what was probably the most frightening time of their lives. When she’d finished, there was a short silence and she realised she’d been talking for quite a long time. She almost began to apologise, but he began to speak quietly.

“He was 20. Some sort of fight in a pub.” Caroline realised he meant the stabbing victim he’d been treating.

“In the middle of the day?” Truro wasn’t a crime-free utopia, but someone getting stabbed in a pub in broad daylight wasn’t exactly in the usual course of things.

“Yeah. Not the sort of thing I expected to see very much of back in the UK.” He looked down at his now nearly empty cup. What sort of things had he seen while working with MSF? Caroline lifted her hand, intending to place it over one of his but pulled back suddenly when he abruptly stood.

“I’d, er, I’d better get back. My shift’s over, but I still need to finish up some paperwork. Thanks for the, um, the talk.”

“I think I did most of the talking.” He smiled again, gently.

“Yes, that’s what I meant.” He paused. “I think Verity and the others are going out again on Friday, see you then, maybe?”

“Yes, see you.” He turned and headed out, stopping to drain the paper cup and dump it in the bin at the entrance. Maybe it was just Caroline’s imagination but, as he was about to go through the swing doors into the main part of the hospital, she was sure he stopped to glance back at her.

“Hey.” Elizabeth looked up, startled, smiling when she saw Caroline.

“Oh, hello. Sorry. Miles away there.”

“You okay?” Fancying a change, Caroline had gone out to a local sandwich shop to fetch something for lunch, and found Elizabeth sitting on one of the benches in the grounds, looking lost in thought. She was wearing her dark pink scrubs, glasses shoved up on top of her head.

“Yes. No. It’s just – one of my patients went into premature labour this morning. 25 weeks.”

“Oh, my…” Caroline rubbed her friend’s back gently.

“I’ve dealt with premature babies before, but it never gets any easier. She’s just so small, and we hook them up to all these machines, and the parents…”

“But chances of survival are quite good at 25 weeks, aren’t they?”

“Fairly.” Elizabeth sighed. “But that’s not much comfort to her parents. If I tell them there’s a 70% chance of their baby surviving, all they can hear is the 30% chance she won’t. It’s mostly out of my hands now, really, she’s in the NICU, but…”

“They remind you of Valentine, don’t they?” Elizabeth’s son had been premature – nothing like as early as that, but he’d had to spend a couple of weeks in hospital being monitored. Caroline hadn’t known Elizabeth then, but she’d seen the sadness in both her and George’s eyes on the rare occasions they spoke about it. Valentine was a happy, healthy boy now, but it would have been truly distressing at the time, especially for two doctors; watching their baby suffer but being unable to do anything for him.

“Yes and no.” Elizabeth glanced down and Caroline was suddenly reminded of talking to Dwight the other day, the sadness on his handsome face. She shook herself, she shouldn’t be thinking of some guy while she was comforting her friend.

“Have you seen George?”

“He’s in a long surgery. I’ll talk to him later.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Anyway, how are you? How’s Ray? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“He’s good. He had a hyper a few days ago, but everything’s back to normal now.”

“Oh good, I’m glad.” Caroline’s Uncle Ray was an old friend of Elizabeth’s late father – it was how the two women had met. When Caroline had come to St Neot’s to take up her registrar position, Ray had invited Elizabeth and George to dinner to introduce them. Caroline had initially been embarrassed by this – her Uncle helping her to make friends like she was a child – but she’d liked them both immensely and they’d quickly become close. She was even joint godmother to little Ursula, who Elizabeth had fallen pregnant with not long after they’d met. “Don’t let me keep you. I should be getting back, anyway, I’ve got a patient being induced this afternoon.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I will be. Thank you, Caroline.” Elizabeth reached over to embrace her, and Caroline hugged her friend back tightly, but hissed as she pulled back, pain darting between her shoulder blades. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. Just spent all morning bending over the treatment table.”

“Why don’t you go down and see Morwenna? I know she’s free this afternoon, a couple of her sports patients had to rearrange because their match schedule was changed last minute.”

“Do you think she’d mind me just dropping in?” Morwenna Chynoweth was Elizabeth’s cousin, and a recently qualified physiotherapist. A very skilled one at that.

“Not at all. I’ll send her a text. See you later.” With a squeeze of her hand, Elizabeth was gone. Caroline shifted on the seat, and groaned again at the ache in her back. Perhaps a visit to Morwenna wasn’t a bad idea, after all.

“Come in!” Just after getting back to her office, Caroline had received a text from Morwenna saying she could drop by any time after 3. So, after finishing up her own early afternoon schedule, each appointment making the niggling pain across her shoulders steadily worse, here she was. At Morwenna’s invitation, she pushed open the door of the treatment room, but found that the physio was not alone.

“Oh, sorry!”

“No, it’s okay, Rosina was just off.” Rosina was a pretty young blonde in a nurse’s scrubs. Clearly, Caroline wasn’t the only staff member who’d taken advantage of Morwenna’s free afternoon. Like the dermatology department, the allied health clinic was partially private but, as a small perk, hospital staff could receive treatments for free or at a reduced rate.

“Thanks, Morwenna, it really does feel better.” Rosina stood and headed out, giving Caroline a friendly smile.

“Consider getting it checked out though, will you?”

“I will!” The young nurse slipped out the door, heading along the corridor. Caroline knew better than to ask what they were talking about. Morwenna would keep her patients’ business as private as any physician.

“So, Caroline, what can I do for you?” Morwenna smiled as Caroline closed the door. Her resemblance to Elizabeth really was striking, even down to their short haircuts, although Elizabeth’s bob was softer. Caroline explained about her sore back as Morwenna directed her to sit on one of those exercise ball things, nodding encouragingly when Caroline hesitated doubtfully.

“Trust me.” When Caroline sat, Morwenna gently placed her hands on her shoulders and adjusted her posture into what Caroline realised was actually a very comfortable position. They chatted as Morwenna worked, gently manipulating Caroline’s arms, and massaging her shoulders and upper back. Like her cousin, Morwenna had a naturally soothing manner with people, making her easy to talk to. “So, what’s this new doctor like? Enys?”

“Dwight?” Caroline was immediately alert at the mention of him. She hadn’t been expecting Morwenna to ask about him, but she supposed it made sense – she knew Verity just as well as the others, so she was bound to have heard about him. “He’s..he seems nice. I haven’t, er, haven’t spoken to him much.”

“Oh yes, he definitely sounds ‘nice’.” Morwenna chuckled. “Rosina won’t shut up about him.”

“Rosina? The nurse?”

“Oh, yes. She works in A & E, and she’s done a few shifts with him. He’s the absolute bees’ knees, according to her.”

“Hmm, really?” Caroline did her best to sound disinterested. Suddenly, Morwenna did something to her between the shoulder blades and she did forget all about Dwight for a moment. “Ohhhh my God, what did you just do? That was amazing.”

“A magician never reveals her secrets.” Morwenna laughed. “Although there’s no trick to it, to be honest. You doctors all spend too much time bending over. Just try to take more breaks, whenever you can, and make sure your desk chair is adjusted properly.”

“Wow. I feel like a new woman, really.” Her stiffness was almost completely gone. She stretched, marvelling, but then remembered what they’d been talking about before. “So, um, Rosina’s impressed with Dwight’s work, then?”

“Oh, yeah, his ‘work’.” Morwenna laughed, sitting down behind her desk. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he’s an excellent doctor, but I’m also fairly sure it’s not his skills in the A & E that Rosina’s really interested in.”

“Oh.” Caroline suddenly felt a lot less energised.

#poldark #caroline penvenen #dwight enys #elizabeth warleggan #morwenna chynoweth #rosina hoblyn #dwight x caroline #carolight #prescription passion #f: au #f: dc #fic #not my fic

24 notes · View notes

upstartpoodle · 7 years ago

Text

The Cornish Way (Chapter 1)

Rating: G

Pairing: George x Elizabeth, Francis x Demelza (background), Caroline x Dwight (background)

Summary: Coffee Shop AU - London banker and entrepreneur George Warleggan isn't too pleased when he's coerced into taking an extended holiday in his home county by his secretary. A chance meeting with Elizabeth Chynoweth, a successful Cornish artist, in a coffee shop in Truro, however, might be just the thing to change his mind..

“One latte, a slice of raspberry cheesecake and…George, what will you be having?”

George Warleggan stared up at the board upon which the menu of the little coffee shop in Truro was written with an air of almost despairing bafflement. It was not as if he had never been to a place like this before, nor that he was unfamiliar names, but, considering that his frequenting of these kinds of establishments mostly consisted of a mad dash in and out of the Starbucks round the corner from his London office, espresso clutched tightly in his hand in order to keep himself awake during the ensuing long and tedious meetings, he couldn’t help but feel a little daunted by the scope of choice. And besides, he had always been more of a tea-drinker himself, when he had the time to sit down and savour it. Unfortunately, the teas on offer perplexed him even more than the coffees did.

“Ah…an americano please?” he said to the pretty redhead behind the counter, resorting to what he always ordered on the rare occasions that Caroline managed to drag him out for coffee back in London.

“Oh come on, George, you’re on holiday,” Francis snorted from beside him, rolling his eyes. “At least have something with milk in it. Or a cake. It won’t kill you.”

George shot his friend a resigned look. It was true that he was indeed on holiday, something for which he blamed his attorney, Mr Tankard. The man had, in passing, mentioned to his secretary that he seemed rather tired. Ms Collings had, apparently, taken this to heart, as she had seen to it that all his meetings and appointments had been mysteriously cleared, before booking a little cottage in Cornwall under his name for three weeks. She had also refused to hear any of his protests—not even his vehement cries of “three weeks?!”—and in the end he had had no choice but to give rather grudgingly in. Even worse, to ensure that he actually spent the time relaxing, she had informed him in no uncertain terms that for nothing short of the company being on the verge of folding would she, or anyone else for that matter, be contacting him about work during that time. Though he had been unable to argue the point with her, draconian as she could often be and even more supremely stubborn than he was, he had aired his complaints aplenty to Caroline amid his grumbled mutterings of “what the bloody hell am I going to do with three weeks of holiday anyway?” as she cackled with laughter on the other end of the phone.

“Oh very well, I’ll have…erm…,” he sighed, scanning the various confectionaries on offer to see which option looked the most appealing. “I’ll…oh I don’t know…I’ll have a croissant.”

“An excellent choice, sir” said the redhead, a wry smile playing on her lips, before turning to the coffee machine and setting about making their order. George reached into his jacket and drew his wallet out from the inside pocket, but he had barely slipped his credit card out from its slot before Francis swatted his hand away, tutting.

“Oh no you don’t. On holiday, remember?,” he scolded him, a brow arched. “These are on me.”

“Francis—”

“Ah ah, I’m not being swayed. I’m taking a leaf out of your secretary’s book. You’ll just have to put up with it.”

Knowing that this was a fight he wasn’t going to win, George put his wallet away. The Poldark’s ever diminishing finances were something of a sore point for Francis, and he didn’t want to risk insulting him by insisting that he pay.

“There you go, boys,” said the redhead with a cheery grin once she had finished assembling their order onto the tray on top of the counter. “One latte, one americano, a slice of raspberry cheesecake and of course the obligatory croissant.”

George couldn’t help but smile slightly at her friendly demeanour. Francis, too, chuckled, sending her a broad grin and a warm “great, thanks Demelza” which made his companion raise a curious eyebrow in his direction, before whipping out his card to pay. That done, he picked up the tray and headed out into the bright May sunlight, George following at his back.

The coffee shop was located along Truro harbour, and as they sat down at one of the few available tables in the outside seating area, George felt the cool sea breeze blow lightly over him, bringing with it the smell of salt and seaweed, the sound of boats creaking and groaning from where they bobbed languidly in the calm waters and the cry of gulls overhead. Despite himself, he felt a small smile creep onto his face. Though he would never admit it to Ms Collings, he did often miss his childhood home, especially when his life in the city became particularly hectic. He didn’t quite miss it enough to justify three weeks of doing nothing though, he reminded himself with no small degree of exasperation.

“So,” he said, pulling his coffee and croissant towards him, and tilting his head upwards and giving his friend a teasing smile. “Demelza?”

This, after all, was not something that had been mentioned in their numerous phone and Skype calls, and he was itching to know if the man’s oddly familiar exchange with the barista had meant what he thought it did.

“Oh hush,” said Francis with a huff that managed to be simultaneously amused and self-conscious. “I come here a lot and we got talking. It’s nice. She’s very nice. That’s all.”

“Mm hmm?” hummed George, sending him a coy look over the rim of his coffee cup. For all that Francis claimed it was nothing, he couldn’t help but notice that the other man had turned a rather deep shade of pink which he suspected had nothing to do with sunburn.

“So…uh…how’s Cary?” Francis asked, a little awkwardly, quick to change the subject before his friend could delve any further into the matter. He winced slightly, apparently realising that he could have chosen a better topic to distract him with.

“You probably know the answer to that question better than I do,” George replied drily. “I guess I can only be thankful that Ms Collings didn’t decide the best way to ensure my rest and relaxation was to send me off to stay with him at Cardew.”

He tried to keep his tone light, unbothered, but nevertheless he felt his heart sink a little, as it always did when the subject of his uncle was brought up. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he had spoken to Cary face to face—in fact, he guilty confessed to himself, he was part of the reason why he so rarely returned to Cornwall nowadays. Nothing specific or dramatic had happened between them—no row or anything—but their relationship had always been poor. Cary had taken him in after his father died, and he was grateful for that, of course, but the man had never shown the slightest bit of care for him, and trying to make an effort with him always left him exhausted, drained and miserable. After he left for university, he had simply ended up drifting away, and now all they ever heard of each other was the odd terse text or email concerning matters of business.

“Ha, well I’m sure she knows better than that,” replied Francis in the same tone, for all that there was a slightly uncomfortable look in his eyes, before changing the subject once again rather than pressing the issue, for which George was immensely grateful. “Where are you staying anyway? Did she put you up in some place in the middle of nowhere?”

George huffed out a soft laugh.

“I was worried she might,” he confessed. “Country air, you know. But it isn’t so bad. It’s not far from here, actually—on Rowantree Farm. Do you know it?”

“Prudie Paynter’s place?”

“Yeah, that’s the name of the owner. You know her too then, I take it?”

“In passing,” said Francis with a shrug. “She used to work for my uncle—as a cleaner or something.”

The conversation progressed a little more easily from there, all thoughts of Cary forgotten as they chatted about nothing in particular. Francis briefly shared some news about Ross that he had received recently, though neither of them cared to linger on the subject. George had never liked the man, a feeling that was entirely mutual, and that Ross had chosen to evidence in a series of increasingly malicious pranks throughout their schooldays, but Francis had also, at some point, fallen out with his older cousin. George was not entirely sure of the details—Francis didn’t like to talk about it—but he knew that Ross’ quarrel with him (and a good many other people by the sounds of it) had come to an abrupt end when he had sold his family home of Nampara and the surrounding land, and upped and left for America. Nowadays, Francis seemed to hear from him even less than George did from his uncle, and, though he knew it was uncharitable, he thought it was good riddance.

The conversation had just turned to the subject of the local elections and Truro and Falmouth’s Tory MP, Unwin Trevaunance, whom George had not seen in years despite having gone to university with him, when a newcomer arrived on the scene. Glancing around him at the crowds milling past them along the harbour front, his eyes squinted slightly against the bright sunlight, George noticed a young woman with long, brown, wavy hair come meandering in their direction, her gaze half focused on the sea to her right. He could not have said what drew his attention to her in the first place, but she undeniably had it now. She was tall and elegant, her pale skin a sharp contrast to her dark hair, which fluttered gently about her in the breeze, and she was clothed flatteringly in a light summer dress which fell down to her knees. A pair of sunglasses rested on the bridge of her nose and a broad, stylish sunhat cast a shadow over her face so that he couldn’t properly make it out, but even so she looked strangely…familiar.

“George?,” said Francis upon realising that his attention had wandered from their discussion, and he turned his own gaze to see what his friend was looking at. The frown that had begun to form on his face immediately cleared. “Oh. Elizabeth!”

This was directed towards the young woman, who started slightly, searching for the source of the call, spotted them and, with a wave and grin, headed over to them.

“Hello Francis,” she said brightly. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” Francis replied then, catching George’s inquisitive stare, shook himself. “Oh, right. Elizabeth, this is my friend, George—I think I mentioned he was coming here on holiday for a few weeks? George, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Chynoweth.”

Upon hearing his friend’s words, George suddenly realised why the young woman seemed so familiar. Elizabeth Chynoweth, a successful Cornwall-based artist, was a very close friend of Francis’ sister, Verity, and had, at one point, been Ross’ girlfriend (another connection that he had apparently abruptly severed on his move to America). He had never met her personally—despite them both being friends with Francis, the connection had never come full circle—but he had seen several photos of her, as well as having heard Francis speak about her a good many times. Those photos though, he couldn’t help but feel as he stood to take her outstretched hand, did not remotely do her justice.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said with a warm smile, giving his hand a surprisingly firm shake; her voice soft and welcoming, and he couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Francis has told me a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” George replied, hoping that he didn’t sound nearly so tongue-tied as he felt—it would have taken a blind man not to notice that she was a very beautiful woman, and though that in itself was something that rarely fazed him anymore, there was something about Elizabeth that seemed to make him feel inexplicably flustered. “Though I dread to think what Francis has been saying about me.”

Her laugh was a silvery, gentle sound, kind and genuine, and once again George felt like he didn’t know what to do with himself, as if he were an awkward teenager rather than a grown man and CEO of a major financial institution. Bloody hell, he’d thought that was a problem he’d overcome years ago.

“Oh don’t worry, it’s all good,” she reassured him. “Though perhaps I should be worried about what he’s been saying about me now,” she added with a teasing smile towards Francis. The man in question huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Hey, if anyone should be worried, it’s me,” he retorted good-naturedly. “Imagine all the embarrassing stories about me you two could tally up between you!”

They both laughed at this, several examples no doubt springing to both their minds, and just like that the ice was broken. Francis asked Elizabeth if she would like to join them and, as it turned out that she had been out on a leisurely walk at the time and had nowhere pressing to be, she readily accepted. George and Francis were left alone for a moment as she went inside to order a coffee, and George made a point of ignoring his friend’s teasing look until she returned, some kind of latte (George did not know enough about coffee to tell what it was beyond that) and a slice of lemon drizzle cake in her hands. As she sat down in the seat adjacent to both of them, Francis cast the cake an amused look.

“One day you’ll actually order something different and I’ll keel over in shock.”

“I happen to like the lemon drizzle cake—why do you think I come here?,” Elizabeth replied, a decidedly mischievous expression beginning to creep over her features. “But now that you mention it, maybe I should. No doubt Demelza’d be ready to leap over the counter and give you CPR if you did. I’m sure she’d appreciate it just as much as you.”

She said this with a playful smirk, her brow arched in his direction. Francis spluttered, turning bright pink. George, fortunately, managed to keep his composure a little better, though he was immensely glad that he hadn’t been taking a sip of coffee at the time or he would surely have choked on it—with laughter as much as shock. He had to confess that, from what little he had seen of Elizabeth, he wouldn’t have expected her to make so bold a remark. Clearly there was much more to her than met the eye.

“See, it’s happening already!,” Francis cried indignantly once his brief coughing fit had subsided, still as red as a beacon. “I feel victimised!”

“Oh, very well, I’ll be merciful,” Elizabeth replied with an amiable laugh. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to neglect my cake.”

At her words, George glanced down at his croissant, which he most certainly had been neglecting. Where Francis had polished off his raspberry cheesecake, not so much of a corner of the pastry had even been nibbled.

“God George, get a move on!,” snorted Francis, who had apparently had the same thought. “You’ll have no coffee left by the time you get round to eating that thing.”

“Might I remind you that I was coerced into getting this? I was perfectly happy with my croissant-less order.”

“Oh yes, forced to spend three weeks in a west country retreat and have French pastries bought for you. What a terrible life you lead.”

“You may laugh but you’re not the one who’s been usurped by his employees!”

Elizabeth, who had been watching their friendly bickering with a mix of interest and amusement, let out a soft chuckle. Her attention was fully on him now, and he suddenly felt very self-conscious.

“Well, there’s no point in wasting it now that it’s been bought,” she said with a warm smile. “Go on—it’s nice.”

“Though clearly inferior to the lemon drizzle cake” chipped in Francis, grinning.

“Naturally.”

Their expectant gazes were both on him now, and he soon realised that he had no choice but to give in.

“Oh alright” he relented, taking a careful bite out of the pastry. Elizabeth had been right—it was light, flaky and flavoursome, very clearly well made. This must have shown on his face, he supposed, as she beamed at him, bright and genuine, and he felt his stomach do a slight flip, hoping to God that the blush he could feel trying to surface wasn’t readily visible on his face.

The conversation moved onto other topics, and they soon found themselves losing track of time. George had expected that Francis and Elizabeth would do most of the talking—he could interact with new business associates fine, just as he knew how to navigate the seemingly endless parade of overly-expensive social functions that he somehow ended up invited to, but the art of natural conversation with new acquaintances outside of those contexts had always been a bit of a mystery to him. Elizabeth, however, managed to seamlessly include him in everything, encouraging him to speak up where he would usually have just listened. She was kind and intelligent, with interesting stories to tell and keen observations to make and, despite his initial shyness of her, they were soon chatting animatedly, Francis watching them over the rim of his coffee cup, a wry smile on his face.

“It was lovely to meet you at last,” Elizabeth said a good while later when they were saying goodbye. “How long will you be down here for?”

“Well I only arrived a couple of days ago so another three weeks, give or take,” replied George with an amused huff. “To be honest, I don’t really know what I’m going to do with myself.”

“Well I’m sure you’ll find something to interest you,” laughed Elizabeth. “Perhaps we’ll be seeing each other again soon?” she added with a tentative smile.

They said goodbye a few moments later, Elizabeth heading off back down the harbour with a smile and a wave, and George and Francis making off up the hill to where they had parked their cars. Francis had fixed him with a very shrewd look, and when George, finally realising that he couldn’t ignore it any longer, turned to raise an eyebrow at him, said “so…you and Elizabeth were getting on very well.”

George knew immediately from his friend’s triumphant expression that he was blushing, but he tried to act casual nevertheless.

“Of course we were. She was very—”

“Nice?,” suggested Francis drily. “As nice as I find Demelza, perhaps?”

“Aha! So you admit there’s something going on between you two then.”

“…Goddammit, George.”

George grinned, shaking his head in amusement at his friend’s put-out expression. He felt happy and light, his usual responsibilities pushed uncharacteristically out of his mind, so that he almost felt giddy at the strange sensation. Despite Francis’ teasing, and his earlier misgivings about this trip, he was quite sure that, at that moment, nothing could ruin his mood. The smile never left his face as he said goodbye to Francis and, slipping into the driver’s seat of his car, he allowed himself to contemplate the thought which had been creeping into his mind ever since Elizabeth had joined them. Though he would never have admitted it to anyone but himself, he was beginning to think that perhaps, just perhaps, this holiday wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Next Chapter: George gets a Skype call, a slightly questionable gift, and a much more welcome offer.

#poldark #george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #elizabeth chynoweth #george x elizabeth #elizabeth x george #georgibeth #francis poldark #demelza poldark #demelza carne #francis x demelza #poldark au #coffee shop au #modern au #mine #fic #my fic

12 notes · View notes

withinthescripts · 7 years ago

Text

Season 2, Cassette 6: Montreal Museum of Fine Arts (1978)

[tape recorder turns on]

Hello, this is Zoe Tremblay, lead curator of the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. Bienvenue, welcome to our museum. This audio guide for the exhibit “Small Items, Big Picture” features assorted works by celebrated artist Claudia Atieno.

Shortly before this exhibit opened to the public, news broke that her body was found, confirming her death after five years missing. Across the art world, we are saddened to learn confirmation of Atieno’s death, but content in finally confirming what we had long suspected.

Before the news, we had invited artist, art historian and friend of Atieno, Roimata Mangakāhia, to orate this cassette. It would have been understandable in her grief for Mangakāhia to decline to record this audio guide after finding out the details of her colleague’s death, but Mangakāhia agreed to uphold her obligation. We are blessed and pleased she could do so.

The exhibit begins in the Desmarais Pavilion, second level.

[bell chimes]

Claudia Atieno was one of our New World’s most respected artists. Since the Great Reckoning, no one else combined skill, macroscopic vision, and subtle political rhetoric quite like Atieno.

I would like to start this audio guide by saying she will be missed. She has been missed for many years, really, but the pain is greater than before. It is real now. I didn’t think… [crying] I really didn’t think…

But this is not important, my feelings are not relevant to this audio guide. We’re here simply to contemplate Claudia’s work.

Painting 1. “Mantis on Branch”.

Look first at the branch. Atieno has used shades of lavender and green in the wood. Long, meandering lines of light colors contrasting the dark grays of the branch itself. These lines, like two pastel rivers…

I had hoped her disappearance six years ago was an attempt to revitalize her career with new ideas, greater ambitions, I was wrong. She just died. She’s just been dead all this time. We all just die, I suppose. Why expect more?

In her final years, Claudia had grown more artistically prolific. But as the quantity of her art increased, so did the quality for subject matter plummet.

I was with her often, in what turned out to be the final years of her life. Do I wish I had known they would be her final years? Would I have changed the way I spoke to her? Would I have broached different subjects? I suppose there’s no way to be sure. [sighs] I suppose it’s pointless to relive it, over and over.

I talk to her a lot. Our discussions about artistic evolution went from lively to combative in those years. She became obsessed with tiny objects and figures, finding microscopic details interesting. Searching for possible hidden meanings in the repetition and mundanity of everyday life.

With the exception of the parties and happenings which were plentiful, it was a life mostly spent alone in her home in Cornwall. Her lovers, including Pavel Zubov and Cassandra Reza, visited during times of celebration and merrymaking, they did not live with her. I lived with her during the other times.

I alone kept her from being alone.

Look at the mantis’ face in this painting. It is difficult to see it directly, as the insect is slightly turned away. I would like to tell you this is meaningful, and if you find meaning here, good for you. Most likely Atieno simply painted a still insect that she saw in the garden, because she was trying to keep busy. And rather than change her position and perspective, rather than attempt to seek out meaning elsewhere, she simply painted what was in front of her.

How many mantises have you seen before? What makes them interesting?

[bell chimes]

Painting two, “Rubbish Number 3”.

This is a wastebin with paper in it. With an impasto technique, it’s difficult to discern exactly what these papers are, but they appear to be standard and unbound A3 pages. We can assume they were old files or notes. A crumbled page lies behind the bin. Look closely at the crumpled paper. Can you read what it says? No. No. you can’t.

[bell chimes]

Painting three, “Rubbish Number 7”.

This is a banana peel. Looking at the Spanish floor tiles, I imagine this was painted in her kitchen. Atieno was, generally speaking, a tidy person. So I guess this is ironic?

Yep, it’s a banana peel. Hmm. I have little else to add here.

[bell chimes]

Painting four, “Rubbish Number 15”.

The final known painting in her rubbish collection, this is a wrapped stack of discarded newspapers along a street corner. It’s clear that these are the Western Europa Times, London Edition, but the text on the front page is not clear. All you can make out are the words “200 million” and “population”, which would suggest these were from October 1971.

Atieno talked often of the days before the Great Reckoning. She was an infant when our population was nearly eradicated by the new weapons of a great war, and by the toxic air, which took almost as many lives as the godlike explosions throughout the 1920’s. After the foundation of the society, those born prior to the Reckoning were not granted indirect contact with family, but punitive action was rarely sought in those cases.

Occasionally, she received letters and voice recordings from her grandmother, Renee. It’s not clear how Renee knew where her grand daughter lived, or if these letters were monitored for content. Renee was not allowed to communicate familial love or give any indication about Atieno’s family, dead or alive. So she simply told her grand daughter about what life was like before the reckoning. Foods they ate, like wild birds or boar. Detailed descriptions of robes and headdresses popular in the previous century, and even recitations of poetry she learned in school.

With the loss of so many libraries and information centers during the reckoning, Renee wanted to convey, if not love for her last remaining grandchild, a written and oral history of facts and tales that might otherwise be lost.

Look again at the painting of the stack of newspapers. Atieno was acknowledging the renewal of human life on Earth, and its new roles and rules. The new culture the society has brung and will continue to bring. The power of information and its manipulation.

You are one of 200 million in the world. Does that make you special, or insignificant? Is it possible to be both?

Atieno was always excited about the New Renaissance. After the Reckoning, new artist with little history to direct them had to find new methods, new narratives. Art had been stilted and interrupted for so long. It had felt like a luxury the world could ill afford.

But by the early 1970’s, Atieno seemed to have grown weary. In this oil painting of hopeful news, we see gray twine holding together gray pages on gray pavement.

Look at the painting for a hint of color. [whispers] Oh find some color, you really need to find colors!

[bell chimes]

Painting five, “Needlework”.

This is not a painting, clearly, but an actual piece of needlework, the only known example of this medium by Atieno.

When I lived with her, I used needle craft such as cross stitch and knitting to pass the time. I was never much of a reader, and painting for me was more draining than it was for Atieno. She could paint for hours without much of a break, whereas I often had to stop after 45 minutes or so to clear my head.

During afternoon high tide, I would go cliff diving to refresh my body, to energize myself for the more intellectual and minimally physical tasks of painting or drawing in my notebook. The shock of cold water slapping my skin woke me to a world with no thoughts, only instincts. My muscles tensed at every leap, calmed at every splash, and my mind was full not of thoughts or ideas, but feathers.

Atieno did not care for the thrill of a plunge into the sea. Her thrills came from challenging the rigid regulations of the society through her artwork. I suspect she often tried to keep in touch with her sister. I have no proof of this, other than the society secretary of trade, Vishwati Ramados saying this to me. Ramados once pointed out a childhood drawing of two girls in a garden, quietly talking. Claudia in the background watching. “That’s not Claudia’s school,” Ramados said, “she didn’t go there, see her sister clearly drawn?” [scoffs] “How would you know her sister?” I asked. Ramados cocked her head and smiled, as if I had complimented her hair.

Additionally, Atieno was paranoid that she was being watched closely by people. Obviously politicians like Ramados, but others too. She welcomed the stateswomen offices and agents into her home regularly, entertaining them with wine, food, music, dance and stories of her youthful debauchery often to the point of absurdity. Maintaining these amicable relationships alleviated any accusations cast on her of sedition or slander. Plus, as long as she kept her message abstracted in symbols and metaphor, Atieno could always claim that her painting was nothing more than a pig on a roast, or a vivisected mouse, rather than a direct poke at a specific security chief or geneticist. Indeed, she did claim this. even I cannot say for certain what her political views truly were.

Needlework was a pastime I never taught Atieno, she never asked. But she would on occasion walk past me in the parlor or outside in the garden, stitching phrases or flowers onto a linen circle. I had no idea, until the Montreal Museum showed me this piece, that Atieno ever took an interest in needlepoint. And I can only assume she taught herself the technique. She had no books on the subject, so it’s likely she found some of my needlepoint projects and watched my movement to learn how to do it herself. I’m not sure why she never asked me directly. I’m not sure why she felt the need to take this from me.

Of course, as this is Atieno, she was better than I was, taking my passive pastime and improving it to the level of fine art. In this piece, a simple arrangement of yellow carnations, she has clearly dyed segments of the thread to create a depth of color.

Pay careful attention to the simple dots and marks of blues and pinks and greens in the leaves. Not unlike some of the blots of color used by the impressionists.

Think of a time in your life when you were outdone.

[bell chimes] [tape recorder turns off] [ads] [tape recorder turns on]

[bell chimes]

Painting six, “Housefly”.

Flies were common at the Cornwall house in summer. They gathered on bookshelves and around edges of doors and windows. Atieno strictly kept food out of all rooms except the kitchen and parlor, which is where she entertained, but this is not where the flies gathered. Even with the tightly sealed windows and doors that remained shut, the flies found their way into the home and could not escape. Atieno would often return from her visits to Africa or South America to a Cornwall home lined with dead flies, like spilled raisins, who had attempted to escape along window sills.

This painting is of a living fly, along the top of a leather-bound copy of Alexander Dumas’ “The Count of Monte Cristo”. Atieno must have worked hard not to startle the fly away. There’s no existing photograph or sketch of this fly, so either she quietly and slowly painted, as a very patient fly quietly and slowly sat atop one of the few remaining copies of this French masterwork, or she painted the insect in great detail from memory.

[bell chimes]

Painting seven, “Darkened Room”.

This oil on canvas of an empty bedroom depicts a small unlit room the the very top of the house. When I lived with her, this was the room I slept in. I have a closer emotional tie to this painting than you could possibly have, dear listener. I can feel those cool cotton sheets, (--) [0:18:31] and billowy pillows under my head and across my body. Atieno tucked blankets tightly under mattresses, and the effect on the sleeping guest was not unlike a swaddled baby. Nights in Cornwall were cozy and nurturing, surrounded by ocean we could hear only cresting of the waves and the occasional birds and crickets through the cracked summer windows.

Daytimes could be different. While she adored throwing parties and filling the house with her eclectic collection of friends, Atieno sometimes grew tired of the guests with little warning. As I stayed with her for months at a time, I found I needed to escape her judgment and chiding some afternoons. She would want to work in the kitchen or on the patio or in the living room and my presence irritated her. She made this known with a curt “I need this area to work, find another place to do yours.” So I would paint in the bedroom, or sketch, or knit. Sometimes I would take the boat and head back to the mainland, go for walks in the rubble of nearby neighborhoods. Searching for old photographs of families, just to see what families used to look like. Wondering if my family was still alive and what it must have been like back in the times of fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters.

I know the final generation was full of violence and tribalism. A senseless conservatism of culture and values which led to war. But I still revel in how similar the awful purveyors of destruction looked just like us.

The few photos I found during my excursions into the rubble often showed two middle-aged humans with dead-eyed smiles and proper Sunday dress, standing behind two or three children, equally dressed and hiding their teeth behind stiff crescent lips. Sometimes the father would have his hand firmly on the oldest boy’s shoulders, holding him into place as if keeping a balloon from lifting out of gravity. The mother would sometimes have her hand on the daughter’s neck, as if she was holding a glass of water and not a small child. Sometimes in the ruins of these homes, I found pieces of ceramic lamps or shreds of sofa cushions. Sometimes I found saplings or vines growing through the twisted grids of stove top crates or out of bath pipes. It was not uncommon to find remnants of bodies too. Burned or brittle. And all but unrecognizable.

I suppose these findings would have made for good still life paintings, and with better foresight, I may have taken my brushes with me on these walks. But given the proliferation of destruction, still uncleaned by our tiny recovering population, I imagine every art student with an empty sketchbook has thought to capture the grisly aftermath of a global devastation. But art is often just record keeping, letting us know that an apple looked the same to Cézanne in 1895 as it does to a grocer in 1974. Or a dog in a 15th century tapestry has the same shape and size ratio to humans as one today, on St Catherine Street right here in Montreal.

When I did find photographs among the shells of former houses, I collected them in an album that I kept under Atieno’s guest bed, shown hre in this painting. Of course the guest room she has painted is uninhabited, ready for overnight guests. Even if its pristine neatness does not exactly welcome them.

In the open space next to the chest of drawers you see in her painting is where I set my easel. Mostly, my relationship with Claudia was positive, friendly. She was chatty during morning and afternoon tea and n the late evenings just before bed, but when she began to work, she disdained my presence. I have been critical of much of her work in this exhibit, and I hope the people of Montreal Museum of Fine Arts will not take offense. Claudia could create color and spectacle unlike anyone. Not only on the canvas but in social setting. She was not herself a rambunctious sort, but her demeanor brought out the wild side of so many. She quietly encouraged people to let go of inhibitions, while she displayed little of the same behavior. I always wanted more out of the work, and I hope you would have wanted the same.

We now know she’s dead, of course, so there’s not much that can be done at this point. Perhaps I should leave it be.

I loved her like a friend. Like a lover. Like a teacher. Like the sister the society won’t let me have.

The tide comes in and it goes out. You’re either there when you need to be or you’re not, time is impervious to critique. For all her supposed fighting against the new society, the society still is. Her most minor works hang on a wall in the former country of Canada- there should be more for her, for any of us.

[crying] I’m sorry. Montreal’s lovely. The Museum of Fine Arts is a real gem. Claudia… is lucky to have her work displayed. Let’s look at the final painting in this exhibit.

[bell chimes]

Painting eight, “Guests”.

Here Atieno depicts a party in the parlor. Look at the third guest from the right near the upper corner. That, I believe, is me. You can also see her former lovers, Pavel front and center and Chrisette just behind Pavel. Both are holding goblets of red wine and dancing, the wine spilling carelessly into the air, eternally aloft, never reaching the floor. [chuckles]

No musicians are shown here. Often guitarists and singers would perform next to the non-working fireplace and the piano. She rarely had anyone playing the piano, as if she felt it too stuffy. Also her record player was positioned on the bookshelf, but in this painting, its usual location is filled with books. She’s editing her life here, I believe, as in reality she had few books.

[scoffs] I’m not sure what the guests at this party are dancing to. Based on Pavel and Chrisette’s presence at the same party I was at, I place this painting as March 1972. Only days before the last time I saw her. This was the last moment any of these people would see Atieno.

Chrisette, Pavel. Deputy minister of culture, Sanjay Vishwanath. The woman who headed the childhood detachment and development program for the society. Those two men who claimed to be marketing manages for the World Bank, but were most definitely private investigators.

I was there, in Cornwall, on Claudia Atieno’s last day alive. [fights back tears] Last day seen alive. It was in March 31, 1972. I suppose there’s no way to know exactly when she died. I remember the evening clearly, I had returned from the cliff diving to return to a painting before the party. She was in the garden behind the house. Guests were just arriving. I don’t remember this party, I remember a-a-a quiet dinner.

The next day, or the day after, I can’t be sure… I, I left for Paris to visit friends or Amsterdam, was it? The Reichs Museum, I don’t know I can’t remember, it’s been so long. Oh, I really should know these things. It was Pavel who reported her missing to the police on April the 16, I don’t know why he came back to see her or why she let him. It’s strange to mourn someone who was never a regular presence in your life. My friendship ith Claudia was characterized by long absences. We were either together entirely, sharing food and shelter, work and leisure, sharing everything for months at a time, or we were wholly apart, with no contact a tall. Neither of us being much for letter-writing.

I’ve grown used to never seeing her these past few eyars, when there was still hope. So why now do I feel so broken? Why does it feel like she’s been pulled… so suddenly out of my life, when in reality she hasn’t been in it at all? [crying] I feel as bereft as I would if I’d been with her til yesterday. As if I would if she disappeared right from in front of me. Oh wait no, that’s not right, it was in autumn, she went missing in autumn. I’m sure of it.

[tape recorder turns off]

Within the Wires is written by Written by Jeffrey Cranor and Janina Matthewson and Performed by Rima Te Wiata, with original music by Mary Epworth. Find more of Mary’s music at maryepworth.com. The voice of Zoe Tremblay was Kate Leth. Don’t forget to go check out the amazing new Within the Wires T-shirts and Claudia Atieno artprint at withinthewires.com

Within the Wires is a production of Night Vale Presents. Another of our podcasts I think you’d love is Welcome to Night Vale. Perhaps you’re already familiar with the strange desert town of Night Vale and this is just a reminder that we have over 100 episodes for you to hear, for free, wherever you get your podcasts. And if you haven’t listened to Welcome to Night Vale, go listen to episode 1, or any episode really, you’ll be caught up in no time, and see what you think. Hear? Hear what you think?

OK, our time is done. It’s you time now. Time to stop by the museum gift shop, grab yourself a souvenir book of paintings about [ineffective (hotel) coffee makers], pick up a poster featuring [your high school sweetheart], and buy a commemorative vase made out of [whatever it is they make vases out of. Wet sand? IDK man.]

#within the wires #within the wires credits #season 2 #season 2 episode 5 #montreal museum of fine arts 1978 #this episode is so heartbreaking #i don't usually comment on here #but dammit

24 notes · View notes

burkcesq · 8 years ago

Text

Character Survey;

What is your full name (middle name included)?: Gabriel Burke, I have no middle name, though as a child I was nicknamed ‘Cassidy’ by my mother for the head of curls she made many attempts to tame.

Where were you born/ raised?: I was born in Bristol, a county in the South West of England where my parents first met - my mother came over to Bristol with her brother, a sailor. Just before my fifth birthday, however, my family relocated to Truro in Cornwall, per my father’s wishes to return to his roots.

Describe five aspects of each of your parents: My mother was brilliant, compassionate and steadfast despite my father’s multitude of shortcomings. She was level-headed but nonetheless stubborn - the latter trait I have inherited. My father was equally stubborn, if not more so, and industrious to the point of driving himself to frequent exhaustion. He was a good man, though prioritising was not his strong suit, I know that he tried his best and I’m of the opinion that, at times, that is all we can do. I admired - and continue to admire - them both greatly.

Do you have any siblings? What are their names, how many are there, and what are your views about them?: I had a younger sister, for a brief time. She was Christened April for the month she was born, but did not survive the year. I was just six at the time, and unfortunately cannot recall much pertaining to her life. The only thing I do remember is a desire that arose to protect her, I would’ve done anything, even at my young age to ensure her safety and that I loved her, more than anything.

Who were you closest to as a child?: The children living on my father’s land, mostly. Often their parents worked for or alongside mine, and so it was only natural we spent time together. My closest friend was a boy by the name of Thomas, we were the local troublemakers but thankfully charming enough to avoid any real trouble.

Do you have any birthmarks? Scars?: No birthmarks so far as I am aware, but I have scars. The most noticeable I would argue, runs down the left of my face; though I assure you there are countless others.

Did you ever train with a master or at a school? If so, what for?: My education came to an end after secondary school, much to my parents’ joint dismay; I did well in all subjects, with a particular talent for law and literature, but I was adamant I would not take the route of a true scholar, and instead would work as my father did - in our mines and on our land.

How do you spend your spare time?: Primarily, reading. You would be hard pressed to find me engaging in something other than reading or horse riding; I’m not likely to partake in dancing or frivolous parties.

How devoted are you to your God?: Not particularly, despite being raised and educated, a practicing Catholic. If a situation calls for it, I will pray, if not... then I find it unhelpful to be sitting passively and leaving things in the hands of an invisible, unpredictable force.

Would you run or fight in a battle?: I would fight, naturally. I may be a humanist but I’m also an experienced soldier, and certainly not naive enough to think that, at times, war isn’t a necessary evil. I think the last fifteen years are proof of this answer.

Do you have any royal blood?: Not that I am aware of, no.

Do you have any children? If so, what do you love or hate about being a parent? If not, do you want children? Why or why not?: I had a child. I did not have the chance to be much of a father to her, nor a husband to my wife so I fear my making a comment would be inappropriate.

List three of your most admirable qualities and how you feel about them: I like to think that I am relatively hard working, like my father I tend to throw all of myself into a task to ensure it is finished to a more than satisfactory level. Similarly, I would say reliability is another trait I possess and one which has been demonstrated a number of times. I have also been informed once or twice that I’m very organised, and I do not think it’s too much to count that as an admirable quality.

List three of your most negative qualities and how you feel about them: The stubbornness I inherited from my mother is both a blessing and a curse; without it I would likely get much less work done, but I imagine I’d be partaking in fewer fights if I were to stop being so pigheaded. I’ve been informed I am somewhat reticent and... brooding, as some have put it. I would argue the former was influenced by my father, and the latter is simply my way of being. Introspection can be a force for good, of that I’m sure.

How would you describe your childhood?: In a word? Uneventful. Uneventful, but nonetheless thoroughly enjoyable. I had the entirety of Truro to explore and more than enough company to keep me occupied, that’s all a child could demand. As I grew up, the running around freely shifted toward hard work, but I enjoyed that equally.

What is your greatest fear & why?: At the moment, that the current political climate will remain as it is, or worsen; my greatest fear is that these talks will be an utter waste of time and soon enough we will once again be at war.

What is your biggest regret & why?: Not spending more time with my parents whilst they were alive, especially as I was an adult. I left the house at eighteen and though I still lived on the family land, did not see them as often as I’d hoped.

Who is currently the most important person in your life?: I would not be comfortable boiling it down to one person, but for the sake of humouring the question, I will answer the King.

Have you ever been in love?: Once.

Are you introverted or extroverted?: Introverted, and very much so.

Are you generally an optimist, pessimist or a realist?: I would argue a realist, though it is likely there’s a case to be made for the pessimist idea.

If you could choose, how would you want to die?: At my house in Truro. I would prefer it to be painless, though I imagine no one truly wishes for an excruciating death.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?: Oh, I haven’t the energy to rifle through my countless failings to choose one. Perhaps I would change how much I drink - lessen it, that is.

Are you a better leader or a follower?: I’m not entirely sure, as a soldier - an officer - I feel I fit both roles fairly well, one learns to adapt to a situation. If it was required of me to step forward and take charge then I would, but equally if someone required me to follow and I agreed with the ideology or course of action, I would have no quarrel. Overall though, I would perhaps say as a follower; an obstinate leader can be a disadvantage.

#death mention tw #muse.

2 notes · View notes