#like is he wearing his dark hair neatly coiffed? or perhaps it looks like he's been putting off getting a haircut

[littlemisslipbalm]

Punisher

Josh Kiszka x reader

From the first person's point of view

Summary: you bump into josh kiszka the night before a Greta van fleet concert. as a big fan, you live out the song punisher by phoebe bridgers.

Capitalizing off my lived experience meeting Josh, not really a fic but I had to write it out. I still cannot believe I was wearing my Phoebe shirt when I met Josh and it really was the most punisher I've ever gotten.

1.5k Word Count, absolutely no warnings besides this being more so a recounting than a fic, not really like my usual stuff

The first time I met Josh Kiszka was about 24 hours before I was set to see him in concert.

I love a good place to hide in plain sight

I walked down the corridor, knowing my way despite only having been here for the first time today. Just a few hours prior I had walked the same steps. The lighting was dark inside the restaurant, an old converted church. Irish step was playing on the floor below me as I weaved behind servers and around tables. Clacking of dance shoes and the tinkling of muted conversations sped by as I walked a funeral march into the rest of my life. 

And here everyone knows you’re the way to my heart

I felt terrible all day today. Sick, perhaps, but I wasn’t willing to admit it to myself just yet. My body ached and was bloated, my clothes tied me up. The early dinner hadn’t satiated much inside me, but the Irish IPA had thrown my mind off kilter. I walked back from the bathroom where I thankfully did up my belt and looked over my appearance once. Twice less than I would normally. If I had been feeling like my usual self, I would have applied lip balm, put on some perfume and gotten the piece of food out of my teeth. I would have taken my dirty hair out of its messy updo and gotten it to look halfway decent. If I had known who I was about to run into I would never have left the way I had.

But never not sweet to the trust funds and punishers

The trust funds were already there, standing beside him and discussing something related to music. There were musicians' names engraved into the tiles on the ground in the walkway between the restaurant and the lift. I was leaving this way because my mother had hurt her knee and could no longer take the stairs. We had come in this way and I was taking us back out. 

I swear I’m not angry, that’s just my face…

His face froze when I came upon him. My eyes likely went as wide as my entire face. My mouth began to move before my brain could. It almost felt like I was always going to meet him here, in this moment. 

“Oh my god, shut up, you’re kidding,” I said to no one in reality, a laugh and a slightly shocked smile on my lips. I thought my mother was behind me but apparently she was further behind me than I thought. 

My mind was a haze with the beer I had chugged minutes ago. 

He looks at me, still rather confused. His classic ensemble adorned him and he looked incredibly clean especially compared to me – a sight for sorry eyes. The clean cuffed khakis, a white t-shirt beneath a slightly buttoned light brown button down and a yellow-ish jacket with a custom logo printed on the right breast. His hair was coiffed and his facial hair was neatly trimmed. His skin was clear and bright with not a dark under eye in sight. 

My smudged eyes looked back at him, still in awe and quickly beginning to worry that I looked insane. 

“Sorry,” I must have stuttered. 

“You’re fine,” He responds easily, clearly understanding that I was a fan shocked at seeing him. 

“We were just leaving,” I tried to communicate that I wasn’t stalking him or coming up to him, but that he was in my path to leave. Looking back on this, I’m not sure why I felt the need to clarify this. It seems relatively obvious that I wasn’t stalking him if I was leaving a restaurant he was just arriving at. I also have no idea what I would have said to him otherwise. 

What if I told you I feel like I know you, but we never met?

“Oh,” My mother finally appears from behind me, “Do you two know each other?” 

I look from her to Josh in bewilderment. 

“Yeah, kind of,” He smiles, his voice casual and light. His eyes are kind and a warm brown as he speaks, seeming to have gotten his footing in the unexpected situation. 

It’s for the best

My mother is confused and I smile at his joke because somehow we’ve already managed to create something just for ourselves that my mom is not privy to. 

I must say something like “Oh yeah” in agreement with him, but I look at my mom and know she isn’t convinced. 

I add, “He’s who we’re seeing tomorrow night.” 

“Oh,” My mom replies, “Are you in the band?” 

Josh laughs and confirms that he is in the band. Somehow the information that he is the lead singer gets thrown out there. I laugh at the absurdity of the situation.  

I can’t open my mouth and forget how to talk

He asks where we were from. My mom says California, near San Francisco and then asks where he’s from. I've barely said a full sentence.

“Michigan, originally. Now we live in Tennessee.” It’s disputed whether he said Nashville or Tennessee but my mom said I know too much and it was probably just Tennessee. 

She tells him that they’ll enjoy their time at the restaurant even though neither of us really had - she doesn't mention this fact. He also mentions that they’re waiting on a big group, him and the four other men with him so we weren't keeping him. 

My mother asks if she can take a picture for me and I’m watching the ordeal. Josh replied affirmatively. She says my name when I don’t move to get next to Josh. It still doesn’t feel real. His scent is strong, some fancy cologne that is spiced with a bit of sweet vanilla in there. Calming, soothing, loving. 

My mom still is insisting that she thought we knew each other when she walked up to us, like we were friends who had just run into each other while in another country. 

He holds onto my shoulder and I smile the best I can, hoping I don’t look wretched in these photos. In reality, my mother only takes one picture. It’s passable. I’m wearing my platform shoes today, but Josh is still taller than me. He’s an incredibly short man though, shorter than he comes off as on stage. 

My arm is hooked under his arm and rather than going around his waist my hand travels up to his shoulder closest to me. It sits flat for a moment before I retract it, feeling that it’s maybe too intimate to touch him despite him being the one to put his arm around me so casually. 

I relent after we’ve taken the picture, “You actually do look like one of my friends.” 

Josh quirks his head at me as we now stand side by side. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” I supply, “He’s got the same hair and the mustache, but he’s from Spain.” I hear myself rambling and cut myself off, I could’ve kept going - same colored eyes but then again they are brown so that’s not uncommon. I also kick myself now for not saying something with greater flattery than ‘but he’s from Spain’. I easily could have said, ‘but he’s not as good of a singer.’ 

Josh laughs and adds a smile, “Yeah I’ve kinda got a Spanish look going on.” 

“But ‘Kiszka’s not Spanish?” 

“No,” He laughs again, “It’s Polish.” 

Once again, I know too much, but I’ll allow myself to at least know his last name if I’m a fan of his band. 

Cause even if I could, wouldn’t know where to start, wouldn’t know when to stop

It’s coming to an end. I have no idea what to say, despite wishing for this moment since I fell in love with the music. I could’ve asked about any of the musicians on the floor that I’m sure we both like. Or about Florence’s new album. Mentioned my love for John Denver or Fleet Foxes. Complimented the music or his voice. Requested Tears of Rain. Anything I’ve ever wanted to say to him. My mind is blank. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say. 

He smiles and nods, maybe he says goodbye, I don’t remember. His smile is a great warmth, his eyes a kindness. I’ll forever wish I could be cocooned in his presence. It was peace when all I felt was chaos radiating from me. 

Then I decided to add, “Hopefully I can actually see you.” 

He nods and maybe laughs again, I don’t have to explain, he knows what I mean. I’m short and likely won’t be able to actually see him on the stage. 

He walks away and I walk to the elevator but my mom is now in conversation with one of the other men with Josh. He’s asked about ‘San Fran’ and is telling her about his group's itinerary after the show tomorrow night. I had already pressed the elevator button and it opened and I held it for a little, waiting for her to come. She doesn’t. In that time, Josh walks back in and sees me waiting for my mother who is in conversation. I don’t bother to say anything because I think we’re both glad for the painful experience to be over. I give a weak smile. I am so tired. 

He hugs the man next to my mom and walks away again. I don’t see him again until the next day at the concert, but thankfully I can actually see him -- I'm one row behind barricade. In my heart, I believe he remembered me and sent a few smiles and points my way. 

[a-j-quill]

What Happens In Vegas

I didn’t expect being dead to be this glamorous.

The carpet beneath my bare feet is drenched in gold glitter, which is spread evenly enough that it almost looks purposeful. The hotel hallway stretches out beside me in either direction, walls draped in gold and blood red velvet. There’s a sconce in the shape of a rococo fish—gold, of course—emitting an eerie glow above my head.

Maybe this circle of hell is reserved for people who die on the Las Vegas strip?

In front of me is a single door, Room #906, with laughter and party noises wafting out from within. There’s really only one option.

I knock. There’s a brief hush, and hurried footsteps—then the door swings in.

A tall person in a red sequined gown is staring back at me, their night-black wig cascading neatly over one shoulder.

“Oh honey, you are late!” Sequin-colored lips form an O of surprise, amid what can only be described as a beat mug. “Absalom! We’ve got a live one! Well...you know what I mean.”

A series of cheers emanate from inside. The queen in the sequined dress leads me in by the arm, and shuts the door behind us. “You barely made it, you know. It’s nearly midnight!”

The first thing I see is a gigantic crystal chandelier, haloed by a thick cloud of incense. Or perhaps it’s cigar smoke—I smell plenty of that too. All around me is the kind of party you always expect is happening somewhere on New Year’s Eve, but never get invited to yourself. The kind from a Macy’s advertisement or a music video, with glitter and class and plenty of elbow room and actual, real champagne at midnight.

Midnight, I muse. Had it been that late already, when I’d fallen into the fountain? I’d felt my skull cracking, which was unsettling as all hell, and I’d screamed, which only let in enough water to make my lungs burst. I’d seen jets of colored water fading to darkness above me, and the next thing I knew I was here, in the gilded hallway, with a distinct sense that I was no longer among the living. My immediate consolation is that, by the look of it, the dead have better parties.

A fluted glass is being pressed into my palm by a woman with a buzz cut, dyed the color of flame. She is wearing one of those slinky dresses with snake-shaped jewelry that someone might save to a Slytherin-themed Pinterest board.

“Welcome, darling, it’s wonderful to have you!” says the snake woman, bending in a sort-of bow to place a kiss across my knuckles. “You’ve met Belladonna, I see. I’m Absalom; I’m rather playing the hostess tonight. And you are?”

I shake my head lamely. “I’m...dead, I think?”

Absalom grins. “Oh, definitely! Silly goose. We all are. I meant your name.”

“Er—it’s Cerulean.”

“That why you look so blue?” wondered Belladonna. They shoot me a wink.

I am not quite sure how to answer , but am saved by Absalom tinkling her champagne glass with a little golden spoon.

“Everyone! Our newest guest to Domus Immortalitatis, the illustrious Cerulean! Welcome to the dead!”

To my surprise—and if I’m honest, appealing greatly to my dark sense of humor—the rest of the room replies in a chorus of “Welcome to the dead!”

Beside me, a rickety figure in a pinstripe suit leaps up onto the piano, sloshing his champagne as he goes. His sandy hair is coiffed around a crooked fascinator, complete with netting over the eyes. “When the lights go out, we live again!” he shouts, and the room cheers and chants the phrase back. Finishing his drink, he dismounts the piano and swaggers toward us.

“You look like a vampire, Matthias” Belladonna tells him. “The Tom Cruise kind.”

“First of all, Lestat was beautiful, so thank you,” says Matthias, pouting. He leans against the nearest cocktail table with a flourish. “Besides. Vampires are not always bloodsucking fiends. Now, our new friend!” he turns to me. “You get that you're dead, right?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Great. And you know where we are?”

I raise an eyebrow. “A really nice hotel suite?”

Matthias sighs, looking vaguely disappointed. “Yes, technically. But beyond that?”

“Er—well, no. Is it heaven?” I glance at the alcoholic beverage in my hand. “Or...I don’t know. Purgatory? It’s too nice to be hell,” I assure a concerned-looking Absalom, whose furrowed brows clear instantly.

“Poor thing, she’s still fresh! She needs the dummy version. You’re in Vegas’s purgatory, honey,” says Belladonna. “Domus Immortalitatis.”

“House of Immortality,” translates Absalom, for which my dead-language-inept brain is immensely grateful. “This is where we gather, every New Year’s Eve, to watch our lives reset.”

“We, being the dead,” clarifies Matthais. “Here are the rules. If you die in Vegas on New Year’s Eve, you don’t really die. You get to keep coming back.” He produces finger guns and trains them on me. “Congrats sweetheart. You’re immortal!”

“It’s 11:59!” someone shouts, and the crowd clamors to gather at the panoramic windows. The Vegas skyline unfolds below us, glittering and gleaming in the night. The countdown begins. Faraway in the dark, the Bellagio fountain sends up a celebratory spray of colorful water, and I shoot a glare in its direction.

“One!” cheers the room, and the lights flicker. Glitter flies, glasses clink, snogging ensues. Absalom envelops me in a hug, and as her arms wrap around me, I feel more corporeal than I have since arriving. I can hear my pulse in my ears again.

“Welcome back to life, darling!” she sings, topping up my glass with the bottle in her hands. “What are you gonna do first?”

I look back out the window, setting my jaw.

“First,” I tell her, “I’m going to track down the bastard who pushed me in the fountain to drown.” I drain my glass in a single gulp, and add: “Cheers.”

@flashfictionfridayofficial

(I don’t do Latin, please forgive me, it just sounded cool) ;P

[magnusbanewastaken]

ONE NIGHT AT MR. DRY'S

SUMMARY: Nothing ever happens on Wednesday. Well, there was always something happening, especially in New York, but those ‘somethings’ barely amount to anything worthwhile. Like cogs and sprockets within an automaton, everyone and everything just simply are, evermoving and existing in uninspiring mundaneity, especially on Wednesdays.

RATING: G

CHARACTER/S: Magnus Bane

also @ ao3

Nothing ever happens on Wednesday. Well, there was always something happening, especially in New York, but those ‘somethings’ barely amount to anything worthwhile. Like cogs and sprockets within an automaton, everyone and everything just simply are, evermoving and existing in uninspiring mundaneity, especially on Wednesdays.

What was typically a place of raucous revelry and evenings filled with unbridled guilt, Mr. Dry's would sing a different tune that night. Despite the speakeasy only occupying a small space hidden behind a wig shop, enough for about twenty or thirty people moving and bumping into each other at a time, having it be occupied by no more than ten patrons almost makes it seem as spacious as the Plaza Hotel lobby. Most of the space was reserved for the dance floor and the stage, but there were no patrons wearing out the surface of the dance floor tonight. The band wasn't there either, save for the pianist playing a soulful, delicate tune to match the serene ambience of Mr. Dry's.

Connor Brannigan was a pale man with a long, severe face, and a mess of auburn hair like the autumn foliage in Central Park. He wore a lose-fitting dark grey three-piece suit and an untied bowtie hanging around his neck. He looked to be in his thirties but he was actually just in his early twenties and he had his stern and serious visage to blame for that. He was a difficult man to read at first glance but his eyes and hands, both gentle and passionate, would tell you a different story. He could play the liveliest upbeat melodies with the rest of his band on the weekends, one might even catch a glimpse of a smile on his face too, but it was on slow days like these when he preferred to play the most. He was practically playing for an empty room, but the pianist's demeanor and focus was the same as he would have any other night. Though he seemed to be quite a daunting person at first, he was not exactly a difficult man to connect with. Like any other man, he reacts quite well with the right kind of drink.

Behind the marble bar in the far side of Mr. Dry's stood its proprietor and only barman for tonight, Magnus Bane. He appeared to be quite the respectable young man with his perfectly coiffed hair, sharp bright eyes, and prepossessing smile, though no one would imagine someone who looked as young as he was would own the joint. He was wearing a gothic-style, midnight blue waistcoat over a white dress shirt that's unbuttoned just enough to expose his bare chest. The sleeves were rolled up to this elbows so it wouldn't restrict his movements as he mixed drinks. He filled in the shaker in his hands with ice then poured in some whiskey and a chilled, strong brew of earl grey tea. He capped off the open end of a shaker and shook it so that it all blends well together as he hummed along to the tune that Connor was playing. He poured out the light rusty brown liquid into a glass pint then topped it off with ginger ale and stirred it before setting it on a tray. He filled up another glass with just water and let it sit next to his cocktail concoction before putting up the countertop to get to the other side of the counter. He skillfully picked up the tray with one hand then made his way towards the stage.

“Your drink, sir,” Magnus called out with his most charming smile as he approached the pianist, setting his drinks on the coasters placed atop the piano. Connor turned his head to face him without interrupting his playing.

“Thanks, Boss,” he smiled and nodded at him in acknowledgement.

He kept playing, even with one hand, as he took a swig off the drink, inhaling the spicy scent of the whiskey cocktail. Magnus called it The Piano Man in his head since the colour reminded him of the pianist's red hair and the taste of his fiery yet firm passion when playing. Magnus hasn't exactly been a fan of redheads before or green eyes, but people who had a penchant for music and the arts in general have appealed to him. There was just something about the way they made him feel safe and loved even without saying a word. It's a shame what happened to his fiancée, but even after five years he has never taken his ring off. Magnus admired him for that.

As soon as Connor set down his empty glass and went back to playing with both hands, he smoothly segued into a slightly more upbeat and soulful tune compared to the slow and serene one he had been playing. The pianist's expression subtly lit up which made Magnus perk up a bit as well. No one was sitting by the bar right then as the few people in attendance were satisfied with the bottles of beer they had on the tables, so Magnus thought to stay with Connor for a moment. They didn't speak, if one could believe Magnus capable of not speaking for more than a minute, but he was more than satisfied with just listening to Connor play.

“Magnus Bane!” came a voice that echoed throughout the room. Magnus recognized it but did not want to hear it at all, not when it was one of the few quiet nights of respite he had at Mr. Dry's. Connor seemed to know who it was too as he simply said, “Good luck,” and punctuated it with a light chuckle.

After getting a pat down from the doorman, the young man who called out to Magnus followed him back to the bar area. He looked to be barely even legal to drink but he was very clearly made of money and people like him normally think they were above the law. His name was George Vanderbluff and was the shining example of the privileged. He had blonde hair combed neatly, parting towards the right. He also had bright, ocean blue eyes which Magnus would normally be enthralled by, but on other people, not George. He was wearing a loud, yellow, patterned full suit lined with jewels at the lapel and a vest to match but he did not wear any dress shirt underneath. He was adorned in fine gold jewelry around his neck and his hands and wrist and just generally stuck out like a sore thumb. If Magnus was going to be honest, he thought the young man was looking quite tacky even for him who, on special occasions, liked to be adorned in all things glittering and sparkling.

“Magnus, my friend, I see business is slow these days,” he spoke in an annoying, nasally voice with a terrible imitation of a Trans-Atlantic accent. Or at least that's how it sounded like to Magnus.

“It's a Wednesday, George, unlike you some people have jobs to busy themselves with,” Magnus replied as he returned to his post behind the counter.

“You wound me, Magnus, is this how you treat your customers?”

“Not normally, no, only with you.”

“I feel special.”

Magnus really disliked George. Not so much as loathing him but he did feel like he was a massive nuisance. He didn't like the way George would treat him. He was trying to be nice to Magnus which wouldn't normally be bad but not when George, just like any other bored elite out there, was currently into foreign exotic cultures. And Magnus being the closest “foreign exotic person” he could find, meant that George was very much interested in him. Despite all that, Magnus was in no position to have him be blacklisted lest he wanted to risk Little Georgie to run and tell daddy—who was quite close with a certain Officer McMantry—about Magnus's little speakeasy. And so he had to endure a little inconvenience, hoping George tires of his fleeting flights of fancy in the exotics soon.

“Will you be drinking or do you plan on wasting both of our time?” Magnus asked, his arms folded across his chest.

“Easy there, Mags, be nice,” said George as he leaned against the edge of the marble bar. “I brought the friend I mentioned before here tonight, see?”

True enough, he did bring someone along with him. Magnus completely missed him on account of his attention and ire have been directed towards George. Unlike him, this new person was dressed simply and sensibly in a white dress shirt and red tie underneath a brown blazer that was a little bit tattered around the edges, and he also wore black slacks and shoes. Thomas Wagner, George said his name was and he had chestnut brown hair, a lovely set of hazel eyes behind his square, thick-framed glasses, and an apparent burnt scarring on his neck and jaw, something Magnus wouldn't want to ask about, or until the third or fourth drink perhaps. Why a seemingly-ordinary young man was friends with George was beyond Magnus.

“Pleased to meet you,” Thomas smiled stiffly as he shook hands with Magnus. His grip was just as stiff as his smile and he felt a bit jittery, like he was nervous or something. It took Thomas a couple of seconds too long before he broke away from the handshake. Perhaps he really was nervous, Magnus thought, but for what, he didn't know.

“Give me the usual, Magnus, and one of your very best for my cousin.”

Magnus rolled his eyes shut immediately got to work. The sooner George gets his fill, the sooner he might stop talking to him. George's ‘usual’ drink was called The Prick's Drink in Magnus's mind, because he was of course a massive prick.

“George told me all about this fun operation you got here,” said Thomas.

“You do know that the main point of this ‘fun operation’ is secrecy?” Magnus was looking at George as he started mixing together equal parts of vodka and rum in a glass jar then followed it with a hefty amount of squeezed lemonade they had in stock.

“Oh, you don't have to worry about me, sir, I haven't any friends to tattle things to,” Thomas smiled. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”

“And that's why I brought my dear cousin here to check out the place before throwing him here 'round the weekend. Fancy schmancy scientists like him ought to be going out more,” George spoke, but Magnus was barely listening, he was filling the jar with ice until it reached its neck before capping it off tightly to shake it and mix the contents until it looked frothy.

“So you're a scientist?” Magnus asked as he uncapped the jar and poured in the icy, frothy, yellow liquid into a glass goblet, and garnished it with a couple of mint leaves before sliding the glass towards George.

“A physicist, yes,” Thomas began and then he continued talking about the kind of work he did.

George laughed and looked at Magnus symapthetically thinking that he might get bored with Thomas's talk of quantum mechanics and equations but he was not. He very much preferred that than listening to another word coming out of George. Magnus would even throw in questions which the physicist was very much excited to answer. Suddenly, he felt grateful for actually listening to Ragnor and his Royal Society friends over coffee all those years ago.

Thomas did a lot of talking but unlike George, Thomas was actually quite pleasant to talk to. He even told him about how he got his scar from an experiment that went awry back in his university days. He was also genuinely interested in what Magnus was doing as he watched him fix him his drink which involved mixing together moonshine, spiced rum, and lime juice in a shaker. Thomas was amused when he saw Magnus also put in a couple of dashes of Tabasco sauce in there as well as honey. He didn't think any of that fit with alcohol but Magnus was more than happy to explain his methods. George would sometimes throw in a few quips here and there but they would remain largely ignored. After some vigorous shaking, Magnus poured in the lime green liquid in a pint glass until it was all in. He picked up the glass and put it under one of the taps behind the bar and filled the rest with a clear, carbonated lemon-lime liquid of Magnus's own making.

“Here you go,” Magnus spoke brightly as he set down the pint glass back to the surface of the marble bar then gave it a little stir before pushing it towards Thomas.

Magnus watched him expectantly as he gulped down from his pint, hoping that the physicist would react well to it. As he drank, his eyes widened and when he set the glass back down a smile formed on his face.

“This is really good,” said Thomas. “It's sweet but I feel it pack a punch and—woah, I think my head just throbbed a bit.”

“Let's call it The Quantum Punch then,” Magnus smiled.

The three of them talked more a bit afterwards, with George finally sounding a lot more tolerable now that he had a drink. By then some of the patrons who had been there on separate tables have started to leave, a few times calling out to Magnus just before they go and he would tell them that he'd be expecting them in a couple of days. Even Connor followed soon after and went home. Not long after that, George already had too much to drink. Thomas held on just fine though and they had the same amount and kind of cocktails to drink.

“We should get going,” Thomas said.

“Good, I can't stand your cousin anymore, and it looks like he physically can't stand anymore either,” said Magnus, looking at George, knocked out and slumped over the counter yet still somehow standing. As soon as he said it he almost regretted it not for George's sake but because he thought he might have offended Thomas. But Thomas just laughed and said,

“Sometimes I can't stand him either, but it's just the money talking, he's a good kid.”

He helped George out from literally slumping over the counter and flung his cousin's arm around his neck as he carried his weight beside him. George still had the sense to walk, or more accurately wobble, next to his cousin.

“See you around, Magnus!” Thomas called out without looking back. He faintly heard him say, “Morning, ma'am,” too and when he looked up from cleaning up the glassware there he saw a woman making her way towards the marble bar sporting a nurse's uniform, a black coat over her white dress uniform and a nurse cap still pinned to her hair.

“That funny looking blonde, was that your admirer?” she asked as soon as she reached the bar and leaned forward and rested her arms over the countertop. She wasn't blue—the literal shade of blue—today as Magnus had observed. She had skin of dark brown and instead of her silvery white hair, her hair was as black as a raven. That was her go to look when under a glamour for the mundanes.

“My greatest nuisance, yes,” Magnus replied as he took out a couple of fresh old fashioned glasswares and set it aside. “But he was kind of alright today, his cousin Thomas was quite nice.”

“Do you like him?” she asked as she unpinned the cap from her head, letting loose her raven hair, flowing like the invisible currents hidden deep in the ocean. Magnus was gathering half-and-half, condensed milk, instant coffee, chocolate syrup, and vanilla at the same time.

“I don't like every well-mannered pretty boy I see, Catarina,” he said as he began pouring in the ingredients he just gathered into an electric blender, mixing them at low speed for half a minute.

“No, but you'd think they're the bee's knees,” Catarina teased. Her elbows were perched on the counter and her hands joined together underneath her chin as she grinned knowingly at Magnus.

“Well, he was,” he replied as he filled the two glasswares he set aside earlier with ice. “How are things at St. Mary's?”

“Where do I even begin,” said Catarina then let out a heavy sigh of exhaustion before she got started on her story.

It wasn't an easy job being a nurse at a children's hospital, even more so when you were one of the few ‘coloured people’ working there since a lot of children of colour going in there don't get the same treatment and care as the white children. Helping those kids was one of the main reasons why Catarina decided to have her glamour be of someone who was a person of colour. She was already technically coloured originally and while her warlock mark wasn't specifically her point of prejudice, she was still someone who can sympathize with those mundanes, especially the children, who would experience a lot worse.

As Magnus was listening to her, he started pouring about an ounce of black coffee liqueur in each glass then filled the rest with sarsaparilla. He then topped off both glass with the crème liqueur he concocted in the mixer. He called this one The Graveyard Shift. He listened on to her as she recounted how her day went all while drinking with her. He would refill it every now and then with the black coffee liqueur and crème liqueur until the very last drop, most of which were served to Catarina since between the two of them, she was the one who needed to relax and let out her weariness.

Before the sun rose, it was finally time to close up shop. Catarina helped Magnus with cleaning up, both sneakily using their magic under the doorman's nose as they did. As soon as they were done, they all came out of the wig shop, which would be open for normal business in a few hours, and parted ways to go home.

Wednesday didn't turn out to be as uneventful as Magnus had originally thought, perhaps he was wrong in thinking that nothing ever happened on Wednesdays. It would seem that Thursday should be the one to take that crown, as he had experienced after opening up Mr. Dry's the next night. He couldn't hardly wait for Friday, he thought, that's when the fun begins and that's when Magnus—and the rest of his weary-hearted, wayward patrons—would begin to shine and live, there in the mundane world's own brand of Downworld.

[patricianandclerk]

Inducement

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“Mr Drumknott,” came the voice from behind him, and Drumknott turned to regard Mr Willikins as he came up the path toward him, and he raised his chin, shifting slightly on his feet. “Are you here to see his grace?” Mr Willikins was walking up from the gate, toward the service entrance Drumknott had been knocking at. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and with flesh heavy on his body, but Drumknott well-knew the difference between a man who looked fat and idle and a fat man built for war.

Mr Willikins was most plainly of the latter class, no matter the whiteness of his service gloves or the neat tailoring of his suit.

“No, Mr Willikins,” Drumknott said lightly, shifting back slightly to look up at the other man as he blocked the light. He had a tendency to do this, although Drumknott did not believe it was out of especial aggression: it was merely one of the ways in which he did his best to display his dominance over other service staff, clerks included. Drumknott found it rather droll. “I have a missive for her ladyship.”

“She’s out with the dragons,” Willikins said pleasantly. “I can take it for you.” He set out one hand, which was broad and well looked-after, with callouses upon the palm and some of the fingers, and very neatly manicured, clean fingernails. He did not, per se, like Mr Drumknott. The little clerk was fastidious, neat, and particular, which was to be respected, but he had a genuinely unobtrusive nature that made him difficult to look at properly, let alone to really get the measure of him.

When you couldn’t get the measure of a man, you couldn’t trust him.

“No, you can’t,” Drumknott said in an equally friendly tone. “Might you walk me down to the dragon sheds?”

“I might,” Willikins said slowly, with a lingering smile, but his eyes had become just that bit harder, and Drumknott exhaled slightly, leaning forward. “I don’t trust you, Mr Drumknott.”

“Don’t you, Mr Willikins?” Drumknott asked.

“No,” Willikins said, and he took one more step toward him. Under the little porch that overlooked the service entrance, Drumknott was left looking up at Mr Willikins, his shoulders almost back against the closed door, and he inhaled, taking in the scent of Willikins’ subtle cologne. Drumknott didn’t wear any, himself: Lord Vetinari was sensitive to the smells of perfumes and colognes, and none of the staff at the Palace were permitted to wear any, but Drumknott had never especially desired to. He liked the one Willikins wore, though. Subtle, earthy. Precisely the sort of scent one might expect of a gentleman’s gentleman.

Willikins’ eyes were slightly narrowed as he looked down at Drumknott, and he said, “Her ladyship said you delivered a letter last week.”

“I did,” Drumknott said.

“And the week before, you were here with one of the coppers from the Watchhouse.”

“Yes,” Drumknott agreed. His expression was quite neutral, revealing nothing but polite attention, and he could see Willikins’ irritation in his face, see the intensity of his suspicion.

“The Patrician can’t send a more junior clerk for petty message taking?”

“I don’t believe it’s really my place to question what Lord Vetinari can or cannot do, Mr Willikins,” Drumknott said softly.

“Do you know what I think, Mr Drumknott?” Willikins asked, and he took another step forward: his gut, which was both prodigious and prominent, shoved Drumknott back against the door, and he leaned over the little man with a scowl twisting his mouth. “I think you’re a spy.”

“A spy?” Drumknott repeated, apparently uncaring of the fact that Willikins had him pinned back against the door. “You believe, perhaps, I am spying on the Watch Commander on Lord Vetinari’s behalf?”

“You think I should believe otherwise, is it?” Willikins asked, and Drumknott shivered: the butler’s accent, smooth and neatly cultivated, was giving way to an accent more like Drumknott’s own, now, a city boy’s accent, and more than that, a rough boy’s accent. “I ain’t fooled by your prim little secretary’s act, you sneaky little sod.”

“Aren’t you?” Mr Drumknott asked in a whisper.

It happened so quickly that in the aftermath, Willikins didn’t know what to think of it. The clerk moved as fast as shadow, and Willikins was a big man, but regardless of how big a man is, there are pressure points that can cause him agony. He let out a bitten back noise as Drumknott bent his arm hard behind his back, twisting the thumb of the other hand in the same movement—

And then the clerk pulled back, and he laughed.

The little bastard laughed, flitting past Willikins and down onto the path.

Willikins lunged, but Drumknott ducked, and Willikins’ hand grabbed at the crop of slicked-back hair instead of at Drumknott’s throat, but Drumknott’s foot hooked about the back of Willikins’ ankle with surprising strength, using his weight against him and sending him tipping back into the grass.

Drumknott went with him, hauled by his hair, and landed heavily on top of him, straddling the butler, red-cheeked, his glasses askew. He was breathing heavily, and Willikins could feel the sticky slickness of the unguent he wore clinging to his hands, could feel the weight of the younger man straddling his belly. He was heavier than Willikins would have thought, too, from how he looked—

“You little—”

“Mr Willikins,” Drumknott said, slightly breathlessly.

“What?”

“You’re very attractive,” Drumknott said.

“Yes,” Willikins said, irritably. “I know.”

“Yes,” Drumknott agreed as understanding dawned on Willikins’ face. The clerk was apparently uncaring of the indignity of each of their positions, and Willikins stared at him, taking in this new context to the situation.

“Oh,” Willikins said.

Judging by how quick he was, Drumknott probably could have struggled away, especially given how hard it was to keep a hold of Drumknott’s hair with the brilliantine thick on it, but when Willikins turned them over to pin Drumknott back into the grass, the clerk went over. Willikins’ knees rested in the grass either side of his hips, not putting his full weight on him, and he grabbed for Drumknott’s hands, pinning them each above his head.

“I can feel your comb pressed against my thigh,” Drumknott said.

“That’s not my comb,” Willikins said.

“Yes, it is,” Drumknott said.

“It was a joke, you little cad. An inducement.”

“I don’t need inducement, Mr Willikins. You might kiss me, if you like, but I should be quick, for I really ought be back at the Palace withi—”

Willikins wasn’t of the belief that everything needed to be talked about. He leaned down and caught Drumknott’s mouth under his own, kissing him hard, and he felt Drumknott’s mouth against his own. The clerk was not yielding: for all of Willikins’ aggression, he met it in kind, and when they drew back from one another, Drumknott’s mouth was kiss-bruised, his lips shining with wetness.

“I’ll take the message,” Willikins said.

Mr Drumknott smiled, his dark eyes full of manufactured innocence. “What message?” he asked.

Willikins wrenched his head to the side by the hair, and Drumknott actually let out a noise, now, a satisfying yelp that made Willikins’ cock give a jolt of interest, his hands grabbing at the butler’s shoulders and uselessly trying to shove him off as Willikins sucked a hard mark at the very top of his neck, where it adjoined his jaw. He didn’t pull back until the bruise had blossomed, dark red in its place and obvious, too far above Drumknott’s high collar to be hidden by it.

Drumknott was breathing heavily when Willikins made to crawl off, but his hand whipped out, catching Willikins’ wrist and shoving up his shirt cuff with the other hand. He didn’t just suck a lovebite into place, but really bit, and Willikins hissed at the quick nip of teeth against the inside of his wrist, just above the heel of his hand. The red marks were plain, although they didn’t break the skin, and Willikins knew they’d leave a bruise. His shirt cuffs should hide them… mostly.

“Bastard,” Willikins said.

Drumknott looked a mess. His hair, usually neatly coiffed back from his head with a perfectly straight parting in the centre, was an absolute mess, and his suit was ruffled. Willikins was dimly aware he likely didn’t look much better himself: he knew this, for the most part, from the satisfied look on Drumknott’s face even as he drew a comb from some inner pocket, fixing his hair.

“You made up reasons to come?” Willikins demanded, aware that his voice was a little huskier than usual, and he noted the way Drumknott’s body language shifted, the way his chin tipped slightly back.

“No,” Drumknott said. “Lord Vetinari encourages my… romantic endeavours.”

“That romance, is it?” Willikins asked, arching an eyebrow as he ran his comb through his own hair.

“I must back to the Palace,” Drumknott said quietly, taking a step back. “Are you free tonight, Mr Willikins?”

“Free as an eastern breeze,” Willikins said, and when Drumknott turned, his gaze flitted down from the back of Drumknott’s head, to his loose-fitting trousers… He had to wonder what exactly the loose lines of his suit were hiding, when it came to Drumknott’s body. He was heavier than he looked, certainly, but his shape…

He supposed he’d find out.

[dictionarywrites]

Like The Sun Married The Moon

4.5k. Complete. Rated T. DashingFrost. 

A little 5+1 style story: five times the Avengers noticed Loki maybe had a secret, and one time it came out.

Then going back through the six in reverse.

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One: Tony Stark

It’s not that Tony’s interested. He’s not.

It’s just that Loki’s been here on Earth for what, nearly a year now? And he’s so comfortable. So confident. Sure, he’s under whatever spell that stops him from hurting people, and that’s the only reason they can really trust him, but the guy is just such a card.

Tony watches him as he laughs, taking a slow sip from his wine glass: the party’s buzzing, and Tony knows who invited him, because, yeah, Tony’s known all across New York in all the rich circles, and as much as he can get annoyed with stuffed shirts and demanding rich girls, a party is a party. But who the Hell invited Loki? This is an event with some of the richest, most upper-class people in New York, and Loki gets an allowance from SHIELD, but it’s nothing super impressive.

Loki can see Tony watching him, and he arches one dark eyebrow, raising his glass.

Tony strides across the room, and Loki murmurs quiet words to the men he’s speaking to, all fashionable guys with coiffed hair and floral shirts, and he comes closer. Loki’s well-dressed for the occasion, at least: he wears a suit in some kinda pastel lilac, the white shirt open and baring the column of his neck to the room at large. And the hair… God, Loki’s hair had been gross when they’d first seen him, greased back from his head, but now it’s well-washed and healthy, tied up in a loose bun with a few strands hanging around his face, the style effortlessly graceful. A new piece of jewellery shines through the shell of Loki’s ear, and a silver stud shines through the side of his nose.

(“Ooh, loving the new look, Reindeer Games. What, taking the time to rebel now that you’re out of the house?” Loki had laughed, the sound loud and wild and free.

“No one pierces anything on Asgard – even earrings are clipped on or held with magic. I could never do this before.” And that… That’d been wild, to hear from a guy nearly three thousand years old. Still new experiences to be found, even at his age.)

“You look like you’re having a good time,” Tony says mildly.

“I am,” Loki replies. He holds his wineglass like the prince he is, his grip delicate on the glass stem, and when he swills the liquid inside, the motion is practised and almost thoughtless, as if it’s pure instinct that makes him do it. “I like parties.”

“Really?” Tony asks, leaning back slightly. “Didn’t have you pegged for a big occasions guy.” Tony’s sarcasm only makes Loki smile, and he takes a slow sip of his drink. “What, you looking for a rich girl to take you home?”

“No,” Loki murmurs, slowly shaking his head. His gaze is momentarily far away, a little sadness shining in his eyes. It’s weird – Loki’s been planet-side for ten months, all-in-all, and he honestly avoids every single one of the Avengers when he’s not at work. Tony keeps vague tabs on him, knows that he keeps himself to himself in his little apartment in Brooklyn, knows that he uses his allowance just to get groceries (guy’s a health food nut, who knew?) and saves the rest, but Loki… It’s not easy to track him. Tony knows he goes places, and meets people, but it’s all but impossible to keep a surveillance on him, and yet he never wants to hang out with the guys from work. Tony doesn’t feel like he knows much more about Loki than he did when the guy first attacked New York. “I don’t partner myself with women these days.”

“Oh,” Tony says, feeling his eyebrows raise despite himself. Shit. “That, uh— How is Asgard? On the whole, um, the whole gay thing?”

“Not good,” Loki answers plainly. “But Asgard isn’t so good on me. It never has been.” Tony reaches up, dragging his fingers over the side of his mouth, feeling the warmth of his own hand against his lips. Loki’s hot. Tony knows Loki’s hot, and he knows damn well that he’s hot himself, and really, there’s no shame in trying—

“You know, uh, I’m not— We could always, uh…” Loki is staring at him, blinking slowly, and then he chuckles. The sound begins low in his throat, dark and slightly foreboding, and when he reaches out, patting the side of Tony’s cheek, his fingers are freezing cold. The condescension should piss Tony off, but instead it makes heat burst in his chest.

“I think not, Stark,” Loki murmurs.

“You know, it’s been nearly a year. I think Tony works. Or— Anthony, right? You wanna call me Anthony?”

“Anthony,” Loki repeats softly. His smile is nothing but fond, despite how patronising his tone had been a second ago, and he draws his hand neatly back, drawing his hand over his hair, tucking a loose strand of dark hair away from his face. “Don’t take this as an insult, but Midgardians… You are so fragile, and all of you so young. Such an interspecies union might be something Thor would take to easily, but not I.”

“We must all seem like babies to you,” Tony murmurs.

“Not babies,” Loki murmurs. “You are adults, each of you. But… Different. As a wolf is different to a fox.” And then Loki is moving across the room, taking up a conversation with a pretentious artist Tony always tries to avoid talking to himself: they greet each other like they’re old friends, touching one another’s arms, and it’s—

Weird.

Loki’s weird. But in a good way, Tony thinks, rejection aside.

Two: Steve Rogers

Loki isn’t a good man. Steve knows that. He’s also not as bad as Steve had thought in the beginning.

Loki is weaving magic upon the air, and every single kid in the classroom is watching raptly, every one of them staring up at the shimmering energy that gathers between Loki’s hand, making up the petals of a shining, transparent flower of gold and silver. It’s artful, poetic – it’s one of the most beautiful things Steve’s ever seen, and he still thinks of it an hour later, when the Avengers are done with the school visit, and when everybody else has started splitting off in different directions. And yet Loki… Loki has a faraway look in his eyes, a kind of sadness, and Steve falls into step beside him.

It’s funny – Loki works with the Avengers, and he’s one of them, sure, but Steve never sees him outside of their official appearances, or when they’re dragged into a fight. Loki’s a solitary kind of guy, it seems.

“You want kids?” Steve asks. Loki turns to him, surprise showing on his face.

“I have children,” Loki says. Steve stares at him, and Loki gives him an awkward smile, shrugging his shoulders. “I am once widowed, once divorced, Captain Rogers. Four of my children yet live, and two are long-since dead.”

Jeeze. No wonder the guy’s sad and distracted.

“Sorry,” Steve says. “I didn’t, um, I didn’t realise.”

“It’s alright,” Loki murmurs, his hands in his pockets. He’s comfortable in Earth clothes, it seems to Steve – more comfortable than Steve feels sometimes, with the subtle differences to the clothes he grew up with. “Perhaps I shall have more, one day. I don’t know.”

“You got anyone in mind to settle down with?” Steve asks, and it comes out so quickly, the flirtation hanging on the air. Loki smiles.

“Yes,” he says, and Steve reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck. Every time he thinks he knows something about this guy, it seems like he’s proved wrong.

“God, really just putting my foot in my mouth again and again today, huh?” Loki reaches out, and his cold fingers gently pat the side of Steve’s shoulder. He says nothing, and walks away.

Thing is… What, the guy’s got somebody in mind? Who?

Three: Clint Barton

“You ever gonna tell ‘em?” Clint asks. They’re in the laboratory in Avengers Tower, and Loki glances up from where he’s bent over some engineering schematics, making adjustments to some old designs they’d dug out of the SHIELD archives. Loki’s an engineer, it turns out – as good an engineer as Clint himself, even if he’s not gonna be patenting a million inventions any time soon.

“Tell them what?” Loki asks. He keeps his distance from Clint, and Clint likes it that way. It’s… Weird. The connection to Loki has been broken, Clint’s sure of that, but sometimes it’s like there’s a lingering instinct hovering in the back of his mind, to fall into step beside Loki, to obey orders…

Clint hates it. He hates following orders, hates the way he feels like he should be swearing fealty to Loki some days, but Loki doesn’t rub it in. He’d apologised, a few weeks after getting thrown down to Midgard, and offered Clint whatever “boon” he wanted, and Clint had just said to leave him alone – and Loki had.

“There’s— I don’t know what it is, who it is,” Clint says. “But there’s someone else. Someone you’re connected to, not Thor, not your mom. Someone else.”

“I’m not going to tell them,” Loki says at length. Clint reads the words on his thin lips, and inexplicably, they make him sad.

“No one hates you, you know,” Clint says. “Not even me. You can trust the Avengers. They’ll all have your back.” Loki’s lips twitch, and he looks up from the schematics, looking at Clint seriously. There’s a short pause as Loki seems to think over what Clint’s said, and then he brings his fingers up to his mouth and chin before bringing his palm outward: Thank you.

Clint didn’t know the guy could sign.

Four: Natasha Romanov

“Truth, or dare,” Nat says, leaning back in her seat, and Loki watches her for a long few moments, his lips quirking into a little smile. The party’s chilled out – sitting around the table, it’s Nat, Loki, Thor, Bruce and Clint, and it’s… It’s almost normal. Almost normal. It’s weird, to settle into the American lifestyle and just hang out with people after work, but today… Today had been pretty rough.

Maybe that’s why they’re all getting drunk together, playing stupid college games, so that none of them has to be alone with their own thoughts – maybe that’s why Loki had stuck around instead of slinking home like he usually does; maybe that’s why Tony had latched onto the excuse of Thor being down on Earth to celebrate.

“Truth,” Loki says.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Nat asks, mildly. “You’re a God of Lies, right?”

“Equally, I am a God of Truth,” Loki says. “I am worshiped for deceit on three planets, but for honesty on three more.” Nat glances to Thor, wanting to judge if this is true on his face, but there’s something pinched about his expression, as if Thor doesn’t know if this is true or not. Loki isn’t looking at Thor; Thor is looking right at Loki, a kind of tired melancholy in his eyes.

“You’re worshiped on more planets than Earth?” Clint asks. “How many?”

“I believe it’s Ms Romanov’s turn to ask her question,” Loki murmurs softly. Thor stands abruptly from the couch, walking across the room to join Sam and Steve in the kitchen, and Loki presses his lips loosely together, closing his eyes for a second. He looks hurt. So does Thor.

Something easy, then – something simple.

“How many times you been married?” Nat asks.

“Three,” Loki answers cleanly, and then he walks away.

Five: Thor

“Is that true?” Thor asks quietly. “You are worshiped as a deity of honesty, on some worlds?”

“Yes,” Loki answers. It ails Thor, to see his brother so easily settled upon Midgard – he ought be glad, to see his brother finally so comfortable in his skin, to see Loki look almost content, but—

He hates it. Hates having Loki so far from Asgard, exiled forevermore; hates to see Loki with pieces of metal piercing through his ears and his nose, hates seeing Loki in foreign clothes and looking comfortable in them. Thor thinks of the times Loki would disappear from Asgard for years at a time, for decades at a time… He thinks of the time he had sought Loki out on the strange planet known as Koom, where Loki was lecturing in applied mathematics, and how Loki had reluctantly returned home with him after nearly eighty years; he recalls finding Loki in a flour mill on the planet Jafara, alone and unfriended, and how Loki had slunk back to Asgard as a cowed dog; he recalls the most recent time, on the golden sands of Hashtor, where Thor had said “Come home,” and Loki had laughed, and retorted, “I am home.”

“I wish you could come home,” Thor says softly.

“This is my home now,” Loki says. The two of them stand on a balcony, overlooking New York City, and Thor feels his heart ache. “How fare the Warriors Three?”

“Well,” Thor says quietly, thinking of how different it is, to travel the Nine Realms without Loki amongst them. It is preferable, in some ways – there is no mischief to be found, but in others… It feels stilted, unnatural, as if there is a part of them missing. Even Volstagg had agreed.

But it can never be the way it once was.

“And your parents?” Loki asks. The words cut Thor like a knife.

“Our parents,” Thor says, sharply. Loki draws away from him, and then he delicately shakes his head.

“No, Thor,” Loki says softly. “Your parents.”

“You would isolate yourself from all who love you,” Thor snaps, feeling fury flare within him. “Here you are, amongst these people, and do you allow any of them to be your friend? Once more, Loki, you have made yourself alone, and to what end?”

“Have you ever considered that I like my solitude?” Loki asks, his voice unerringly calm and cool. “You are glad to be a member of a rollicking band: I prefer to be alone.”

“You lie so much,” Thor mutters. “You deceive even yourself.”

“Perhaps,” Loki murmurs. “Sometimes a lie is kinder than the truth.” Thor cannot take it, and he stalks away, and when he returns, Loki is gone – back to his apartment on the other side of the city, where no one will speak to him, where no one will ask things of him.

Of course. Such is how it is.

There is no limit to how many secrets Loki will keep, if he is able.

Six: Bruce Banner

Loki lies very still in the infirmary bed, laid on his back. His eyes are closed, and Bruce leans over, gently patting the god’s face to try to get him to wake up. Loki groans in quiet pain, and Bruce presses his lips together, leaning away from him. Whatever Loki had done to win them the fight – and yeah, it had definitely been Loki who got them out of it, because he’d turned the damned demon to dust, and then dropped to the ground like a stone – it had taken a lot out of him.

Bruce knows it, because he can see all of Loki now. His true body is showing: the skin is a deep blue, with indents and markings on the skin, and there are scars all over his body. Dappled wet scars that must have been caused by acid are visible around Loki’s eyes, and there are pockmarks and tears around his lips, where once somebody sewed them shut.

But the weirdest thing isn’t that Loki doesn’t look like an Æsir anymore, or that Loki has scars. The weirdest thing is on his right hand, where a golden band shines on his ring finger, catching the light.

(“You’ve been married before, right?” Bruce had asked once. “Do you guys wear wedding rings?”

“No, that is a Midgardian tradition,” Loki had said quietly, but a little smile had caught on his lips, and he’d kept it for the rest of the day.)

The doors to the infirmary burst open, and Bruce presses his lips together. Loki is just beginning to stir into consciousness, and Bruce had hoped to get him awake before Thor arrived – but there’s a reason Bruce had sent word to Asgard as soon as Loki had gone down.

“Thor, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be fine,” Bruce says. “He just—” Bruce freezes. The man striding into the room, his armour clinking, is not Thor. He has a muss of blond hair around his head, and a moustache and a little beard. “Uh, you can’t be—”

“Fandral,” Loki whispers, and he weakly raises his head, leaning into the gloved hand that cups his cheek. The stranger – Fandral – is leaning over the bed, and his expression is tortured, his brown eyes shining with pain. “I’m fine, you needn’t… You needn’t fuss so.” Loki is speaking hoarsely, and it looks like just talking is hurting him.

Bruce pours him a glass of water, taking a step forward, but before he can offer it out, Fandral has thrown both of his gauntlets messily onto the ground, and he takes the glass with a surprisingly soft hand, tipping Loki’s head up to take a sip of the water. Bruce doesn’t miss the glint of silver on his left hand, a ring…

God. Fandral turns away from Loki, giving Bruce a serious, consternated look.

“Healer,” he says quietly. “What ails him?”

“Best guess?” Bruce asks, awkwardly. “Magical exhaustion.”

“Correct,” Loki mutters. “I just need rest.”

“And you shall have it,” Fandral murmurs. Setting the glass aside, he moves to cup Loki’s cheek, tracing over the blue skin with gentle fingers. “I was so— Thor and Sif are abroad in Muspelheim, so t’was I that received the missive before it was brought to your mother… I ought to have come sooner.”

“I was your king,” Loki says quietly. “And you betrayed me.”

“And you didn’t betray me in kind?” Fandral demands, his tone harsh even as his fingers brush featherlight over his cheek. “Throwing yourself from the Bifrost like that, disappearing… I thought you dead. I mourned for you, in silence, knowing no one else could know the grief I bore.”

Bruce feels like he’s intruding, but he really has nowhere else to go. He can’t exactly walk out: there isn’t another doctor around just now, and he doesn’t want Loki on his own. He makes himself busy, looking at charts and Googling basic shit on his laptop, but beside him, it continues.

“And then when you were sent here, to Midgard, as punishment… I ought have resigned my commission immediately,” Fandral whispers. “I ought have retuned to Midgard once more, to be with you.”

“You can’t give up Asgard for me,” Loki whispers. “I can never go back.”

“Then I shan’t either,” Fandral promises, the words ringing through the room. And then he kisses Loki, soundly on the mouth, chaste but full of feeling, and Bruce wonders when the best time would be to interrupt them. He decides to wait until they stop kissing.

It takes a while.

Six: Bruce Banner

“Secretly married, huh?” Bruce asks a few days later, and Loki looks him in the face, taking in the lines of his expression, the uncertainty as he offers Loki a pill to take. Loki swallows it, tasting its bitterness on his tongue.

“I never imagined he could still love me,” Loki whispers. “After all that had happened.”

Bruce glances at him, and he hesitates for only a moment before he says, “Doesn’t seem like he’s the type of guy to back down once he loves something.”

“No,” Loki agrees. “That he is not.”

Fandral is arm-wrestling Sam Wilson, and the two of them are both as charming as the other, exchanging easy, comfortable words over their sport. The two of them seem evenly matched, with their strengths – Loki knows this is but another layer of charm on Fandral’s part, pretending himself to be weaker than he is.

His heart feels warm in his cool chest.

Five: Thor

Loki stands in between Fandral and Thor, shielding Fandral’s body with his own: he can feel Fandral’s heavy breathing against the back of his neck, feel himself shake, and he looks Thor in the eyes, unwavering.

The rage on his brother’s face is unspeakable, indescribable, and Loki stiffens further, keeping himself in place.

“How long?” Thor asks – nay, demands.

“Around a century,” Loki says. “We— You recall when I was gone for five years, and you retrieved me from Hashtor, the planet with the golden spires, and Fandral had been on a sojourn to Midgard? Fandral was with me. The whole time.”

“We couldn’t tell you,” Fandral says from behind Loki’s shoulder, but he isn’t foolish enough to step out. “Asgard would never accept a marriage between two men, least of all of its prince, and a member of its nobility.”

“So you hid it,” Thor growls. “So you hid it, from me, your brother, and you, Fandral – I thought us the greatest of friends!”

“And if you thought I was using our friendship to abuse your brother?” Fandral asks, his charming voice surprisingly sharp. “You would not have jumped to such a conclusion?” Thor freezes, for a second, and a little of the rage seems to fade from his eyes. “Thor… I love you, my friend, but we could not risk being discovered. There was no way to predict how the people of Asgard, how the Allfather, would respond.”

“Now, of course,” Loki says softly. “Such things are immaterial.”

“You mean to stay here, then?” Thor asks, looking past Thor, to Fandral himself. “With him?”

“Yes,” Fandral says. “A century in secrecy, and here… Honesty.”

“A shame, Loki, that you no longer consider us brothers,” Thor says at length.

“Who says I don’t?” Loki demands, surprised by the emotion cracking in his own voice. “We are brothers, Thor, through bond if not in blood.” Thor smiles, softly, his eyes glittering with warmth.

“Why, then,” he says in scarce more than a whisper. “Fandral is my brother as well.” Relief bursts in Loki’s chest like a Midgardian firework: he turns his head, catching Fandral’s eye, and when they laugh, it is as one, full to the brim with relief, and understanding, and love.

Four: Natasha Romanov

Three times married, he’d said – three times. Once widowed, from a Jötunn named Angrboða; once divorced, from a Vanir woman when their children had died – Sigyn. And still married, now, to an Æsir: Fandral.

Nat watches as Fandral and Loki sit on a couch together in the common room of the Avengers Tower, Fandral’s boots on Loki’s lap and one of Stark’s tablets in Fandral’s, the two of them playing either side of some game that looks suspiciously like a two-man version of Candy Crush.

Happiness radiates from Loki like heat, and Nat’s never seen him so happy.

He doesn’t avoid the parties any more, or the times when they chill – him and Fandral both come, and when Loki feels like going silent, Fandral talks instead. The guy is bright and flirtatious, always telling a joke, always telling stories, always full of vim.

It’s like the sun and moon have married each other.

Three: Clint Barton

“He’s hot,” Clint says quietly. “Kudos.”

Loki laughs, and he signs and speaks at the same time: “Thank you.”

Two: Steve Rogers

“You know,” Steve says mildly, “You always told me you thought nationalism was stupid.”

“I do,” Loki murmurs, amusement ringing in his tones.

“Oh, so you make fun of me being a patriot,” Steve says, his hand on his chest, “But him—” He gestures to Fandral, who is telling some cock-and-bull story of Asgard’s founding, a story Loki has heard a thousand times before. Loki’s lip twitches.

“No, I think his patriotism is ridiculous as well,” Loki murmurs. “Asgard and America aren’t so dissimilar – in their flaws, or their strengths. In an ideal world, melting pots of culture; in practice, colonial super powers, feared as much as they are loved.”

“He gave it up for you,” Steve points out. He doesn’t say it unkindly – if anything, it is intended as a kindness, and despite the discomfort within him, despite Loki’s uncertainty… Loki nods.

“I am to be worthy of that sacrifice,” Loki whispers: it is a vow.

One: Tony Stark

“You love him?” Tony asks.

“With all my heart,” Fandral murmurs. The two of them stand together, and Tony glances across the room, watching as Loki holds a group of real estate moguls spellbound in some story or other, gesticulating as he speaks. Fandral… Fandral’s a pretty cool guy. Tony had liked him right off the bat, liked his spunk and his easy manner, liked his sense of style.

They click.

“He said before… Asgard isn’t so good on gay people. Men who’re with men; women who’re with women.”

“No,” Fandral murmurs. “Others in the Nine Realms are like Midgard – Alfheim has no issues at all with such things, and Nidavellir couldn’t care less who you might bed. But Asgard has its traditions, its long-held prejudices…” Fandral is watching Loki like Loki is the greatest piece of art he’s ever seen, like he’s forever picking out new details he loves. Fandral’s glittering brown eyes are full of warmth, and his lips curve into a soft smile. “We married on a foreign planet, in the dead of night, beneath the light of two bright moons. We knew it would be a secret for the longest time, and it didn’t matter at all. So long as we shared our bond, all would be well.”

Fandral is turning the silver band on his left hand again and again, in circles around his ring finger’s base with his thumb. On his middle finger, there is another ring, this one made of gold with a red ruby carved into a coat of arms – a signet ring.

“I have been to Midgard once before, you know,” Fandral says softly. “T’was many years ago, many centuries… I fell to England, and could not get home, so I formed a band of good friends, and I married a princess then, too – her name was Marian.”

“Marian,” Tony repeats. “Like— Like Maid Marian?”

“Yes, that was her,” Fandral confirms, like it’s nothing. “They called me—”

“Robin Hood?” Fandral’s eyes widen slightly, and he leans back.

“Yes,” he says.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says. “You know you’re… Famous, right? Like, I know that’s not the same as being a god, but everybody knows who Robin Hood was. You two—” Tony laughs, running his hand through his hair. “God. You really are made for each other, huh?” Fandral smiles, showing his dazzlingly white teeth.

“Yes,” he agrees easily. “I suppose we are.”

Loki is gesturing for Fandral to come over, and Fandral pats Tony’s shoulder as he slips across the room, putting one hand around Loki’s waist and easily falling into conversation with the moguls, like he’s meant to be here. And don’t they look a pair, Loki in his grey suit and Fandral in his gold, don’t they look—

Honestly, is it so bad that Tony could kinda go for both of them?

Huh. Maybe it’s a… Maybe it’s a thought.

FIN.

[shorthaircutsmodels]

Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles - 15+ - https://shorthaircutsmodels.com/jessica-albas-short-haircuts-and-hairstyles/ - Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, She has a super talent for restraining her hair. A small amount of product is required for brightness and grip. it's a much shorter style than the centre-back length he's been sporting for the past few years. In fact, Alba's hair hasn't been this short since 2020-2021, which was the last time she wore it, barely skimming her shoulders. Shared a boomerang video showing stylist Jesus Guerrero playing with Alba's new cut and Guerrero himself shared several photos of his grilling Alba calling his work CH chop a bit. Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, She is known for her long golden brown tresses, whether styled Jessica Alba in loose beachy waves or fluffy Old Hollywood curls parted from the side. But even celebrities with signature styles are itching to try styles that are exactly 180 from their norm — and Alba is the best example. Jessica Alba is one such actress whose beauty lies in her glossy hair. Here she opted for a stylish style inspired by the vintage look of a princess bun. Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, It's not a mess but just a tweak with headbands and ribbons can give the look an edgy side. Long hair has always been Jessica Alba's method. Whether styled in effortless beach y bends or brushed to a deep side part with bright Hollywood glam barrel curls, the golden brunette has remained fairly constant in recent years in both her length and shade. This shape is perfect for completing an oval face and is perfect for formal occasions. Jessica Alba's Short Hairstyles Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, The product is essential to fly away and tame the hair and will help maintain a healthy look and feel that it regularly corrects. These brown locks were pulled back the length of the roots tease and pinned to the side of the head to create this fancy upstyle. This look heads will turn on any day or night occasion and it's easy to recreate it at home with the right tools. Jessica Alba's Haircuts Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, Keep the product in. Place when necessary. This messy low bun is not only sleek and stylish, but also perfectly adapts to the oval face shape and thick hair texture. Jessica Alba's Hairstyles Jessica Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, The rest of the hair was combed and teased before the nape of the neck was swept away and pulled into a twist. This leaves Jessica with a voluminous hairstyle with style and elegance. 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Jessica Alba hair honey Compliment her curvy body and flawless complexion. These gorgeous brown locks are pulled back and tied to the back of the head to create this formal upstyle, which is best suited for those with a long face shape and great for any occasion. It's easy to recreate the look with the right tools and products. How do you get Jessica Alba hair color? This solid cut style looks great on this Blue Star. Jessica's length was left at shoulder level and short jagged layers were cut around her face to create body and shape. She loves to play with Lasso hair and flaunts a new hairstyle every now and then. Take a look at Jessica Alba's hair. Yes, she later wrote Alba, who also cut her husband Cash Warren's hair. Apparently now a Beauty founder is a barber. at least he's in isolation. Jessica Alba Hairstyles, Hair Cuts and Colors Can we talk about Jessica Alba's hair? While Perfect and ombré tend to be the first words that come to mind, it's actually more experimental than you might think with its appearance. It is hard to fully conceive of her as anything other than dream balayage. Jessica Alba natural hair But trust us with the rest of the hair portfolio to be remembered. Jessica is a staunch defender of anything high pony who is a knitting enthusiast and has one of those face shapes that take off in a fringe and sans fringe style no trouble. The evidence is there. Jessica Alba's New Bob Haircut Is So Short Honey day played with both colour length style and accessories in between the hyper-perm look and the Toffee toned dipping paint that has become her staple. To enhance your memory, we've collected Jessica's 14 Best Hair Moments. Jessica Alba hair blonde Continue to scroll and click on our gallery to see the cuts and colors that make the cut. Fascinating hairstyles always have a profound effect on people. Some haircuts never go out of fashion. What Colour is Jessica Alba? Pixie cuts long waves classic bob these are just some of the permanently stylish looks that never fade. Instagram Jessica Alba's new haircut may have proved she's a new member of her stylish hairstyle. Whether Jessica Alba acts as a superhero in the film or plays the role of a super mom is always noticeable for her stunning hairstyles. Here are the top 21 photos of Jessica Alba's hair through these years and find some ones you can download off too. 7 What is Jessica Alba's natural hair color? This is Jessica's new haircut. Loose mid-curls embrace the face closely, and the light-coloured ends look brisky and vivacious. It's very stylish and all the face shapes and it's great for any occasion. Jessica Alba new haircut Jessica Marie Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, This hairstyle channels an old Hollywood glamorous vibe with large corkscrew curls brushed silky smooth to frame the face and a deep side part. The Jessicaa oval face shape is ideal for this look as it rates the face shape and balances the fringe and cascading curls while flipping her frame. Jessica Alba's Best Hairstyles And Hair Colour This â € do is also ideal for the type of hair that is of medium thickness and natural wave. A large curling iron can be used to create this appearance and works best in women with medium to thick hair that is shoulder length or shorter. Jessica Alba hair tutorial Jessica Alba has a hot tanned complexion and medium brown eyes. She fits her natural dark brunette hair colour well but also looks great in lighter caramel brown and dark golden blonde shades. Her highlighted hair here comes alive and looks extra shiny thanks to big curls and silky smooth finish. Times Jessica Alba Schooled Us in Great Hair Jessica Marie Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, While locked up for so long, there is a chance that little baby Hayes may have wrapped his hands around these wires and no one wanted it. From mid-length waves to a stylish bob haircut, we draw on Jessica Alba's most glamorous hairstyles over the past five years. Jessica Alba haircut short Regardless of long wavy or straight hair or medium-length hair, she always wears it surprisingly and enhances her flawless appearance. The long flowing brown layers are shaped at angles starting from Jessica Alba's striking line towards her face. What color is J Lo's hair? The explosions begin with a short side section and then the midsection becomes heavy under her eyes, which adds mystery to her glossy hairstyle. Jessica Alba hair bob Jessica Marie Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, This classic seductive hairstyle is the option of many celebrities and people looking to win head turns. The long conical edges swayed at the shoulders resembling large wings. Layers and loose curls create a lot of volume to this trendy and oddly long hairstyle. Jessica Alba Debuts Blunt Lob Haircut Jessica Alba styled her ombré long hair in beach waves and a deep centre section. Flowing layers and sweet waves dance on her shoulders. The ends are tapered and jagged to lighten the weight. Jessica Alba long hair Some smoothing spray helps keep you luxurious and supple. This sweetly layered long hairstyle with bright accents and windy tousles turns heads. Elegance and style come with beautiful curls that soften their sides. What color is Jessica Biel's hair? Jessica Marie Alba's Short Haircuts and Hairstyles, Finely tuned curls and waves are formed into glossy locks using a hot iron. The top is dark black brown in colour and lightened with medium-length warm blonde and platinum, which gives her long hair a playful and feminine look. Jessica Alba new hair And bright lipstick adds irresistible charm to the beautiful look. Jessica Alba neatly collects her long smooth hair into a tight ponytail low on the side. A pony rope is pulled to wrap around the hair to hide the elastic. Jessica alba hairstyles pictures Smooth single-length hair delicacy brings a sleek and sophisticated look. Just because of healthy hair this simple hairstyle is enough to be an eye-catching hairstyle. Her long sleek hair is straight and neatly dried with a causal side part. Her healthy hair just flows down like heavy silk and with a rich shine that is sweet and warm. Tapering brings about the striking angle of the chin to the tips of the hair. See Jessica Alba's Layered Haircut The Alba Gala at the weekend featured a new lob of these mid-length ends with a jagged cut to achieve a textured look and feel that gave it a simple but look. This low-fuss style is ideal for thin ones with medium hair and needs regular fixes to avoid split ends. Jessica Alba hair extensions When it comes to hair colour, 37-year-old bronde's signature honey shade is the perfect celebrity hair inspiration for brunettes who want to lighten their locks by highlighting them without the full blonde. Jessica's hairdresser Chad Wood uses a combination of balayage and foils to finely lighten Jess's mid-brown base. Jessica Alba. love her hair color Mimicking a natural sun kiss color and giving the hair a more dimensional appearance. Jessica Alba was a seller of these glamorous hair looks especially in brunette shades before she started fitting. Jessica Alba hair stylist Products she could use to create perfectly styled waves and curls at home. Her brown hair has been a hairstyle inspiration for the past two decades. It makes sense because he wears it in countless different ways. Best Jessica Alba Hairstyles images From blunt bob to deep chocolate go back to Alba's iconic brown hair looks for chestnut curls with golden tips that make them appear in a film of honey. If you're looking for Look here. Jessica Alba hair band Here are some great pictures of Jessica Alba's hairstyles. What are you thinking of? Certainly as evidence that everyone's usual beauty regime was reversed by social distance rules when Jessica Alba cut her own hair. Jessica Alba Hair Color and Best Hairstyles After recording celebrity stylist Jen Atkin's virtual expertise via video call, Alba launched a quarantine cut. Alba shared a clip of her efforts on social media that showed the star taking the front of her hair and cutting off her ends. Jessica Alba hair care The actor and entrepreneur was clearly perturbed at having to attempt a chop at home like the rest of us. These side-swept mid-curls look very healthy and voluminous. Separate your medium curls from one side and put the thinner side back over your ear. Jessica Alba haircut These gorgeous mid-brown locks are worn over one shoulder, showing off the soft wonderful waves added to the mid-length ends. It gives you the look and feel over the whole style and is ideal for any special day or night situation. Regular ornaments are required to prevent split ends. Use the gel and finalise the style and you'll be very gorgeous with such a great hairstyle. Jessica Alba hair color These stylish loose curls look very hot on those cold days. Ombre's hair color has a sun-kissed effect and her beautiful locks on her face work great for her face shape. That sounds good, Rock. Jessica looks very sweet with this simple yet stylish hairstyle. Just put one side of the hair over the ear and let the other side fall naturally. So beautiful. Jessica Alba hair colour You may want to use some hair products to maintain style. Jessica Alba is a talented and talented young actress. spectacular highlights with enviable volume and head-turn length. But it seems that even if. Jessica Alba hairstyle Alba is as beautiful as her hair, it's possible to get bored even if just having her foot halved is any indication. For many of us, Jennifer Aniston's The Rachel shag instantly comes to mind when our stylist suggests a heavily layered haircut. Jessica Alba hair short But the look does not automatically equal retro. Jessica Alba's new post-pregnancy cut is the latest example of the magic powers of layers and how much they can enhance your style. Known for sharing the document of all the changes to her hair on. Jessica Alba hair products Alba uploaded the post captioning shot of her cut before and after pregnancy hair was feeling sooo good to shed. The actor and Honest Company founder was ready to shed her pregnancy hair, according to her Instagram account. Jessica Alba blonde hair That's exactly what pregnancy hair looks like. He looks pretty good, to be honest. The pregnancy hair moniker for Alba seemed to refer to her long layered locks that fell past her bust line. Of course her hair still looked gorgeous pregnancy hair or not but her new lobe style makes it look like it could be lower maintenance. Jessica Alba hair color 2020 - 2021 This mid-length is worn in waves from the back and sides to give the entire hairstyle plenty of bounce and movement. Jessica is known for her diverse film roles and fashion sense, and is an excellent style icon. Jessica Alba new hairstyle This beautiful superstar takes her hair along with her beautiful clothes. She looks great with her flowing blonde locks and looks good when her hair is a flared Gold colour. Bold and beautiful Jessica Alba hairstyles make for cool pictures. Jessica Alba is an American actress model and businesswoman. Jessica Alba natural hair color She has won many awards for acting, including the Teen Choice Award for Best Actress and the Saturn Award for Best Actress. From a short brown bob to an elegant long mane, Jessica Alba proves that a hairstyle change can be effortlessly versatile. View yourself with Jessica Alba hairstyles. waves are added to mid-lengths at the ends for these gorgeous locks, which give all styles plenty of movement and shape. Jessica Alba hair color formula The side part creates a great picture to frame a long face for any particular occasion. Regular fixes will help to make these locks look healthy by preventing split ends. It provides you with tips on how to style your hair by letting you know which facial.7 Jessica Alba brown hair Shape matches your hair texture and hair density as well. But now the 38-year-old actress and Honest Beauty founder has taken a giant step outside her comfort zone by cutting six inches clean from her hair and flaunting the polished lob that slips off her collarbone. Jessica Alba hair highlights Alba made a fresh cut at the Baby2Baby premiere this weekend, reaching the nines in a pearl studded headband diamond earrings and a white furry Ralph & Russo dress. It has been statistically proven that gyms show an. Jessica Marie Alba Increase in new memberships at the start of each year, when expectations of New Year's resolutions bring ambitious fitness goals and healthy lifestyle changes. But for some of us it's not our bodies we want to get struggling in shape when spring rolls around: it's our hair. Jessica Alba haircut bob We're jonesing for a more refreshing new cut of green juice and Jessica Alba on her latest Instagram looks on the same page. This classic bob is blunt-cut to sit just below the jawline and is smooth-blown, showing added accents at the top for contrast. Jessica Alba hair in honey This was a casual look for Jessica, who kept her hairstyle simple at the 2020 Film Independent's Spirit Awards. Its length sits below the shoulders with small layers from its tips to increase its waves. Long blasts are cut from the front to soften its overall style. Jessica Alba black hair This is a and funky design for Ms Alba from the 2021 Oscars. The sides are fixed back and teased until the top is high and placed back to add the body and increase curling. This style is ideal for medium and thick hair types.

[ramajmedia]

10 Storylines From Hannibal That Never Got Resolved | ScreenRant

One of the most artistic and visually controversial contributions to network television in recent years, Hannibal ran for only three seasons on NBC but left a lasting impression. Boasting a stand-out cast of Hugh Dancy, Laurence Fishburne, and Mads Mikkelsen as the titular character, it followed the formidable cinematic villain Hannibal Lecter from his days as a psychiatrist working with the FBI to becoming one of their most hunted.

RELATED: 8 Best Roles Mads Mikkelsen Has Taken On (Besides Hannibal)

Fans of author Thomas Harris already knew the story of Hannibal's beginnings from reading The Silence of the Lambs and Red Dragon, but most of them never dreamed that they'd see his works realized with such strong acting, compelling storytelling, and beautiful imagery anywhere other than on HBO. Below you'll find 10 storylines that we'll sadly never know the outcomes of.

10 WILL AND HANNIBAL'S FATE

At the conclusion of Season 3, Will and Hannibal have just both participated in the ruthless murder of Francis Dolarhyde, aka the "Tooth Fairy" or "Red Dragon." While it can be argued it was in self-defense, Hannibal turns to Will at one point when they're both bathed in blood and asks him what he thinks of what he's done, to which Will replies, "It's beautiful." right before he pulls Hannibal over the cliffside.

Will's inability to live with what he could become under Hannibal's tutelage led to their poetic end. Wrapped in each other's bloody arms, they plunged into the sea. Was that the end of them, or could they have survived? After all, Hannibal appears in The Silence of the Lambs.

9 DOCTOR CHILTON

Even for being a repugnant character in the series, Dr. Chilton didn't deserve the truly heinous violence inflicted on him during its run. He also didn't deserve to survive it, leaving him in a state of gross disfigurement.

Chilton had been shot in the face, which left him blind in one eye, and with so much damage to his jaw and cheek bones that they needed to be reconstructed with a prosthetic and makeup. He would go on to have his lips bitten off by Francis Dolarhyde and be set on fire. What happens to him, considering that he retains the same position at the hospital in The Silence of the Lambs?

8 JACK HAVING TO CONFRONT WILL

When last we saw Jack Crawford, he'd spent the majority of Season 3 fighting for his life with Hannibal Lecter (now known to be the Chesapeake Ripper), who very nearly killed him with a grievous neck injury. He warned Will not to go after Hannibal alone, knowing the effect the enigmatic killer had on him, but Will disregarded the sentiment and ultimately shared Hannibal's fate.

Jack Crawford plays a fairly large part in Silence of the Lambs, still heading up the behavioral science unit of the FBI in Virginia. Since Bryan Fuller has implied that both Will and Hannbal survived their fall, how would Jack and Will's relationship have to change? Especially with the fact that he now knows Will to be capable of the same depravity as Hannibal?

7 MIRIAM LASS

At the time of Hannibal's third season, the rights to secure Silence of the Lambs couldn't be acquired, and the ratings weren't what NBC wanted. However, that didn't stop series creator Bryan Fuller from finding ways to hint at some of its hallmarks, including the archetype of an inquisitive forensics criminologist.

The character of Miriam Lass was intended to mimic Clarice Starling, famous protagonist of Silence of the Lambs. After she shot Dr. Chilton in the face, mistaking him for the Chesapeake Ripper, her fate is unclear. It's also unclear if a fourth season would have managed to pursue the plot of Silence of the Lambs.

6 CHIYOH

Chiyoh was, at one time, the handmaiden of Hannibal's aunt. When Will Graham encounters her, she's desperate for freedom, ultimately leaving with Will on his mission to find Hannibal in Italy.

RELATED: MBTI® Of TV's Hannibal Characters

Chiyoh proved a complicated character, both foiling Will's abilities to harm Hannibal, as well as saving the lives of his friends (Jack Crawford). When we last saw her, she was killing cronies on the Muskrat Farm attempting to harm Will and Hannibal. Would she have showed up again, or returned to Japan as she did in the novels?

5 HANNIBAL'S EVENTUAL IMPRISONMENT

If Bryan Fuller chose to follow Thomas Harris' novels to the letter, Hannibal went back to the hospital, where he eventually encounters Clarice Starling and provided the same "assistance" he gave Will Graham.

RELATED: 10 Most Dangerous Horror Movie Villains, Ranked

We saw that scenario somewhat played out in Season 3, with fans already getting their chance to see Hannibal wear his iconic mask. Assuming Hannibal survived the fall, would he be on the run again? Would Fuller choose for him to embark on a killing spree, with Will as his hostage? They never seemed to be able to be separated for very long.

4 THE VERGER BABY

Margot Verger is just one tragic character in a long line of them in the series. After spending years with her sadistic twin brother Mason, she finally found some semblance of peace after he died. In true Hannibal fashion, he was forcefully held underwater while an electric eel forced its way down his throat. Charming.

Margot did have a chance to have a child, by way of Alana carrying the baby to term. Something "pure" came from the union, but would it last, given Hannibal's promise to Alana?

3 HANNIBAL'S PROMISE TO ALANA

When last we saw Hannibal and Alana in Season 3, he was under her charge as chief administrator of the hospital. She allowed him to escape in order to save Will Graham from his fate at the hands of the Red Dragon.

RELATED: 10 Chilling Hannibal Lecter Quotes That Will Give You Goosebumps

Hannibal never forgot her little punishments, however, and vowed that if he indeed escaped, her "family" belonged to him, because as far as he was concerned, she died in his kitchen in Season 2.

2 SILENCE OF THE LAMBS

One of the most famous depictions of Hannibal Lecter appeared in Silence of the Lambs, incidentally considered one of the best horror films of all time. Based on the events in Season 3, it seemed hard to set up its plot, with Hannibal not yet in police custody and possibly dead.

Still, had Season 4 happened, Bryan Fuller assured fans Clarice Starling and Dr. Lecter would make their appearances. He had eyed Ellen Page to portray Starling, and its unclear if she'd have interacted with Will Graham, or who would be Buffalo Bill. Perhaps Doctor Chilton, looking for skin grafts...

1 BEDELIA'S LEG

After we see Will and Hannibal fall over the cliffside, we have no idea what happens to them after they plummet to the dark waters below. It's left ambiguous. We then flash to a post-credit like scene where we see Bedelia Du Maurier looking lovely in a posh dress, her hair perfectly coiffed, her skin sun-kissed.

She takes a fork from the table settings and conceals it under the table cloth. As the camera pans, we see there's a human leg just as neatly dressed on the table - hers. It looks as though she's waiting for two guests. Hannibal and Will? Someone else? We'll sadly never know, and we'll never know what becomes of her.

NEXT: 10 Good TV Shows That Failed (That Even A-List Actors Couldn't Save)

source https://screenrant.com/hannibal-nbc-storylines-plot-points-never-resolved/

[tarysande]

That fic of Rose and her jobs was so cute! I think there's something missing. One chilly November day, as Rose is trying to make a perfect pink carnation for a thank you party, a man enters the bakery. Rose notices his blonde curly hair, a scar on his upper lip, and his dark red suit with a brown coat with fur on the collar. You're welcome. ;)

(Modern AU Rose and her jobs, in case people are wondering.)

#

Deep in the delicate work of creating the last of the perfect pink carnations required for the Thank You cake Mr. Tethras had ordered, Rose didn’t look up when the cheery little chime over the door announced a new customer. She called out a hello, however, and followed it with a polite, “Be right with you!”

When the last petal had been wriggled into place and the cake returned to the cooler to set, Rose dashed bits of icing from her hands against the front of her apron and stepped up to the counter.

“Hello,” she repeated. “Can I help--oh. I--I’ve seen you on the news.”

The man turned away from his perusal of her display with a faint grimace that creased the scar at the corner of his mouth. He had a nice mouth; the scar only drew attention to the kind of lips that practically begged for kissing. If kissing were on the agenda. Which it wasn’t. She forced herself to look away from them before he could catch her staring.

Raindrops clung to his fur-trimmed coat and the wind had disheveled what had obviously once been neatly coiffed hair, leaving his blonde curls in charming--but, she thought, likely unintentional--disarray.

When he didn’t immediately reply, Rose shrugged helplessly. “Pretend I didn’t say that. Your secret’s safe with me, um, sir.”

“Anything but sir, please,” he said, in the kind of voice that put her in mind of spiced cake and cream cheese frosting with maybe just a hint of something unexpected. Candied orange, maybe. Or hazelnuts. A whiff of brandy. Delicious. “It’s just Cullen, Miss, uh--”

“Just Rose,” she said, tapping at the breast of her apron only to realize she wasn’t actually wearing her name tag. A faint flush heated her cheeks. “Sorry. Normally it would say ‘Rose’ there. It’s been a morning.”

He chuckled. “For me as well.”

“No place better than a bakery when you’ve had a morning, though. Are you--would you like something for here? Or did you want to place an order? We’ve got a bit of a backlog, but I’m sure I can figure something out. It was pretty--we all--I mean, what you did for those kids, standing up to that General like that--”

Again the wince and the pull at his scar. Rose brought a hand rainbow-stained with food coloring to her lips in an effort to stop her mouth from betraying her by revealing every thought in her head.

“A coffee, please. And...” He trailed off, gaze returning to the display case. “Maybe just a coffee.”

“Shortbread,” she said.

His amber eyes widened--and how on Earth was that even a fair color for eyes, to say nothing of the absolutely ridiculous length of his dark eyelashes. Amber. Eyes like his should probably be illegal. Her blush showed no sign of lessening. She wondered if she could blame the heat of the kitchen for it, even though the bakery proper was cool.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” She attempted to cover the awkwardness with a smile; his raised eyebrows told her he didn’t quite buy it. On a sigh, she explained, “Sometimes I just know. What someone wants. You can tell me if I’m wrong, though. I won’t be offended.” Here her smile widened into something irrepressible and genuine. “Unless, of course, you really do only order a coffee. You cannot come into a place like this filled with treats like those and nurse a black coffee. It’s unacceptable. It’s torture. For me and for you.”

Now, she thought--hoped--it was mirth pulling at his scar as his lips curved ever so faintly. “How do you know I take my coffee black?”

Snorting indelicately, she said, “Don’t you?”

He inclined his head.

“So, whipped then?” Rose asked, only realizing when his cheeks flushed how it might have sounded. “Um. Shortbread. Whipped shortbread. I meant whipped shortbread.”

“Thank you, Rose,” he said. “And perhaps... perhaps just a slice of that cherry pie as well? A small one.”

“Perfect,” she said, already knowing she’d add a scoop of ice cream, and really rather hoping no one came into the bakery to interrupt. Or gawk. Or chase him off.

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Jade Lee's Winning a Bride (Part 4) - Free Newsletter Serial

  But it was Josephine’s appearance that gave him his first shock of the day. She was beautiful! And not in her usual spinning top kind of beautiful, but in the way of her sister.  New to WINNING A BRIDE? Catch up with Will and Josephine here >>

  Chapter 4  

Will expected that time would dull his decision. After all, that was his pattern. He might rage hot for a time, but eventually good sense prevailed. Since seducing, then marrying a woman he sometimes hated was not good sense, he thought two days away from Josephine would moderate his determination. It did not. By the time he rode to the manor house two days later, his plan had coalesced into a cold hard fact. In his mind, the deed was already done. All that remained was the manner of her fall into his matrimonial trap. With that thought in mind, he dressed with extra care and then made sure to be near the manor on the day his opponent arrived. Will already hated the man just because he was Josephine’s other suitor. But when Mr. Alastair Montgomery appeared, that hate became a living thing. The man was a popinjay! He rode up on a fine chestnut stallion. A good horse, Will begrudgingly admitted, but the rest was too much. The man wore blue! Dark jacket and pants above his black boots, but his waistcoat was a light blue with gold threads that shone in the sunlight. His cravat was elegant, which for riding was beyond silly, and his hat sported a peacock feather. A peacock, for Heaven’s sake! Will knew he was being harsh. After all, he had enjoyed wearing different colored clothing as well, back when he was a child. But in Yorkshire, a man wore black or brown because the mud destroyed everything else. That’s what he was wearing—a good, solid Yorkshire brown—while this Scotsman wore blue that showed him for the dandy he was. Sadly, women tended to like dandies, and the Lawton ladies all seemed to like this knave. The butler opened the door, and the women filed out with beaming smiles of welcome and giggles of delight. Lady Lawton stepped out first, her gown a fine dark green. She greeted the man formally, as was proper, while her daughters stepped quietly behind her. The younger one—Megan—was first in a spotless white dress. Her head was bowed, her hands folded neatly at her waist, and she curtsied very prettily. But it was Josephine’s appearance that gave him his first shock of the day. She was beautiful! And not in her usual spinning top kind of beautiful, but in the way of her sister. Her gown was a flowing yellow, dark enough to make her look like a woman set in gold. Her hair that usually appeared a living flame was tamed and coiffed, pulled tight to her head with only a single curl bouncing free. Her hands were gripped together—too tightly he thought—but when it came time for her to greet the man, she extended her arm like a queen greeting her knight errant. The blackguard kissed it, of course, because that’s what dandies did. And he must have said something clever because Will watched as Josephine blushed a very becoming pink. In the background, the dandy’s horse was pulled away, the butler opened the door wider to reveal a maid waiting with refreshments, and Lord Lawton made his appearance with a hearty laugh that carried easily across the lawn to where Will stood glowering. But that was all in the background. What Will saw most clearly was the way Josephine’s eyes followed the fancy boy. She watched him turn to greet her father. She took a demure step back, her eyes never leaving him as the man stripped out of his hat and gloves. She even tilted her head so she could watch him enter the house. What was she thinking? He couldn’t read her expression from here, though her entire body screamed at him. It wasn’t that she was projecting her emotions. Far from it. She stood as if encased in stone: still, compact, and vibrating with tension that he could sense but not see. Or perhaps he’d stood there too long and was beginning to get a brain fever. It was entirely possible, and yet he remained where he was. He watched her watch the Scot until everyone else had stepped inside. Then he saw her take a deep breath, shake out her skirt, and calmly step through the entryway. Will was taking his own deep breath, ready to go back to work when he saw the butler hold the door open a moment longer. A footman came out, frowning as he looked to the near field where Will was supposed to be working this day. Ah, so he was being summoned already. Either Lord Lawton or the fancy Mr. Montgomery was wasting no time in learning about Josephine’s dowry. Very well. After all, he had a plan for this meeting and now was the perfect time to set it into motion. Moving quickly through the trees, he cut around such that he nearly ran into the footman. It was Mark Brams’s youngest boy Hank. The boy gasped and stumbled backward. “Mr. Benton!” he said when he regained his breath. “I was just sent to find you, sir.” “And now you have.” The boy nodded. “You’re to report to the manor house, sir. But Mr. Ransey said as that there was no need to hurry. You should take your lunch first.” “Did he now?” That was the butler again, putting words in Lord Lawton’s mouth that likely hadn’t been said. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.” The boy nodded and was about to turn back to the house when Will gripped his arm. “How’s your papa faring? Can he walk yet?” The boy’s face darkened. “Just round the house and the like. The knee was bad enough, but his hip won’t hold him after his fall.” “That’d be hard on a man like him.” The boy nodded but didn’t speak. It was clear that the family was going to struggle without the father’s work on the farm. Even worse, Hank had no interest in farming. He preferred to toil at the manor and was hoping to be butler there one day. And he’d be a much better one than Ransey, but not if he had to quit to work his family’s farm. “You know, Coop’s two boys are looking for work. They’re a mite young, but I know their ma would appreciate getting them off her hands.” Hank shook his head. “We can’t pay them—” “You leave it to me and your papa to figure out the pay. Now go back to Ransey and tell him I’ll be there in a lick. And that I’d like a word with him if he’s a moment to spare.” The boy nodded, excitement warring with hope on his face. “Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” He started to turn, but then stopped suddenly to shake Will’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you!” Will smiled, knowing he was committed now. He would have to find a way to make the money work, even if it meant supplementing from his own pocket. But it was the right solution, and so he didn’t begrudge the money. At least he didn’t begrudge it much, though he wondered again if his brother had saved any money. If together they could buy back what should never have been sold. If… If… If… He clamped down on his thoughts and turned his attention to the coming meeting. He walked steadily, as was his habit, and arrived just as the butler was opening the door for him. “Master William! You didn’t need to come so quickly, sir.” “Didn’t I now?” he asked, his expression on the cool side of friendly. “No, sir. The call from Hisself was not urgent. But Hank said you wished to speak with me?” “I did.” “We can go into my sitting room. His lordship is in his library, but he can wait. Especially as the room isn’t all that pleasant right now. Much nicer in my parlor.” Will frowned. “There is something wrong with the library?” “Terrible shame. Seems a maid spilled some rotten cream. Fumble fingers, but Hisself frightens the staff, you know.” Ransey gave Will a sly wink, showing that he had been the one to purposely spill the cream. “In any event, come along here, Master Will. Mary’s even made us a pot of tea.” William didn’t respond until the door was shut behind them in the butler’s sitting room. It wasn’t a large room by aristocratic standards, but for a butler, it was huge. He shared it with his wife, Mary the housekeeper, and at one time he and Grant had played here with their children. Will knew every stain in the floorboards and mark on the wall. Hell, he’d been the one to put most of them there. But unlike Mr. Ransey, he also knew that children grew up, land changed hands, and that a man either adjusted to the new wind or was destroyed by it. “Well now, a little cream then with your tea, Master Will?” “No thank you, Mr. Ransey, I’m afraid I won’t be staying that long.” “Hisself will wait. Rest easy on that.” William looked about the room. He saw his childhood here, and he saw everything that might have been. Like a vast panorama, he remembered it, knew the dreams he’d had, and in one mental sweep of his arm, he threw it all away. It would never be, and it was damn well time for everyone to see it. When he spoke, his voice was cold and clipped as had never been heard by this elderly retainer. Especially since this man had been more father to him than his own. “Hisself is Lord Lawton and the master of this house,” he snapped. “Well he shouldn’t be! You are the rightful lord here with your brother gone. The Lawtons will never be one of us. We in Yorkshire know what’s what. We know—” “That Lord Lawton is your employer? Do you understand that he is directly responsible for the food on your table and the clothes on your back?” Mr. Ransey’s eyes widened in shock, but Will was on a roll, his voice and his anger finding a target in a man who had pushed too far. “Do you think you are helping me?” he continued. “Do you think by making me appear before Lawton covered in mud one day, then have him wait on my attention the next, that you are helping anyone at all? Because I assure you, you are not. I had to stop the man from sacking you yesterday—” “Sacking me! Well just let him try! I’ll have all the maids—” “Pouring bad cream in the corners? Good God man, don’t you understand? The Crowles are no more!” Ransey’s two fists slammed down hard on the table, rattling the saucers and spilling the tea. “Never say that, Master Will! You’ll rise again, you wait and see.” “And if I do, I will sack you myself! Goddamn it Ransey, you do me no credit, spoiling the library and sending false messages. Do you think you’re untouchable here? Do you think I’d like to see you and Mary tossed out on your ear?” The man straightened to his full height. He barely topped Will’s nose, but it didn’t matter. The man could put on airs as well as any duke. But for the first time, the attitude just looked sad to Will. A man holding on to something that could never be. “Let Hisself try! I won’t be leaving this house until my deathbed!” Will just looked at him and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was soft and sad. And that tone, more than anything else, seemed to shake the aged man to the core. “You shame me and the Crowle name, Ransey. With every botched message, with every bad odor, you show that the Crowle rot infected everything. Not just my father and his father, but the staff, the town, everything. That not a one of us can do our jobs with the strength and the stamina of a true man. You are the head of the house staff, man. Everyone takes their lead from you. Show yourself to be a true butler to his lordship, or for God’s sake, step aside and let Hank do the job.” “Hank!” the man gasped. “Hank is a boy!” “But he knows how to do his job. Do you?” The man swallowed, his eyes rimming red with tears that he would not shed. Will didn’t compromise his stance. He couldn’t. He couldn’t let a man who had been a father to him risk his livelihood pursuing a dream of bygone days. And in the end, Ransey proved himself to be a man worthy of respect. “I will do you proud, Master Will.” “Thank you, Ransey.” The man nodded, took another moment to gather himself, then walked stiffly to the door. “I will show you to Lord Lawton now, sir. If you would please follow me?” Will knew the way. Of course he knew the way. He’d grown up here. But protocol had to be observed, so he followed as if he were… well, as if he were exactly what he was: a steward to Lord Lawton, here to report to his employer. Ransey escorted him to the library and announced him in sonorous tones. Lord Lawton was there, along with the damned Scot. Will walked in with his hat in his hand. Meanwhile, Ransey followed him, walked to the library’s corner and grabbed a large potted plant. Will didn’t help the old man as he lifted the heavy thing. That was presumably the source of the sour milk scent that permeated the room. He merely stepped out of the way as the man shuffle-stepped out of the room. “What the devil are you about Ransey?” asked Lord Lawton. “The plant has gone bad, my lord. I thought to remove it.” Lawton frowned. After all, the thing looked healthy enough, but surely he knew it was the source of the sour milk smell. A moment later, he proved that he was no fool because he simply nodded and waited for the door to close. Then he leveled a hard look at Will. “So can I hope to have hot food now? Sheets that are not scorched? No dead cats in my bed?” Will’s eyebrows raised. “There was a dead cat in your bed?” “Um, no, sorry. That was a rat. And I believe that was courtesy of my wife’s cat. Damned thing is always leaving me gifts.” To the side, the Scotsman choked back a laugh. “My sister’s feline was always doing the same thing. Which is why I got a dog as soon as I was able. A big, ugly, cat-­eating dog. Never found another present—dead or otherwise. God, I loved that dog.” “Miss Josephine prefers cats,” Will said. The Scot turned and frowned down at him. “What did you say?” Will lifted his chin, not backing down even though it was a ridiculous discussion and not at all relevant to anything. “Miss Josephine, sir. Your intended? She prefers cats. Hates dogs.” “Does she now?” No hint of malice, just an underlying current of wariness. “And how do you know that?” “Nearly five years ago when she first came to this village, she was attacked by a crofter’s dog. Ever since then we keep the dogs back from her.” In truth, the crofter had set his dog on Josephine, so Will had tossed that man and his mangy dog out the very next day. And good riddance to the blackguard. Meanwhile, the Scotsman was watching him with eyes that were much too intelligent. “So she developed a fear, did she?” “Yes, sir. So if you want the woman, perhaps you’d best learn to like cats.” “Or perhaps I’ll teach her to overcome her fear.” And just like that, the battle lines were drawn.  

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                                          Original post: kkmalott.booklikes.com/post/1319321/jade-lee-s-winning-a-bride-part-4-free-newsletter-serial

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10 Storylines From Hannibal That Never Got Resolved | ScreenRant

One of the most artistic and visually controversial contributions to network television in recent years, Hannibal ran for only three seasons on NBC but left a lasting impression. Boasting a stand-out cast of Hugh Dancy, Laurence Fishburne, and Mads Mikkelsen as the titular character, it followed the formidable cinematic villain Hannibal Lecter from his days as a psychiatrist working with the FBI to becoming one of their most hunted.

RELATED: 8 Best Roles Mads Mikkelsen Has Taken On (Besides Hannibal)

Fans of author Thomas Harris already knew the story of Hannibal's beginnings from reading The Silence of the Lambs and Red Dragon, but most of them never dreamed that they'd see his works realized with such strong acting, compelling storytelling, and beautiful imagery anywhere other than on HBO. Below you'll find 10 storylines that we'll sadly never know the outcomes of.

10 WILL AND HANNIBAL'S FATE

At the conclusion of Season 3, Will and Hannibal have just both participated in the ruthless murder of Francis Dolarhyde, aka the "Tooth Fairy" or "Red Dragon." While it can be argued it was in self-defense, Hannibal turns to Will at one point when they're both bathed in blood and asks him what he thinks of what he's done, to which Will replies, "It's beautiful." right before he pulls Hannibal over the cliffside.

Will's inability to live with what he could become under Hannibal's tutelage led to their poetic end. Wrapped in each other's bloody arms, they plunged into the sea. Was that the end of them, or could they have survived? After all, Hannibal appears in The Silence of the Lambs.

9 DOCTOR CHILTON

Even for being a repugnant character in the series, Dr. Chilton didn't deserve the truly heinous violence inflicted on him during its run. He also didn't deserve to survive it, leaving him in a state of gross disfigurement.

Chilton had been shot in the face, which left him blind in one eye, and with so much damage to his jaw and cheek bones that they needed to be reconstructed with a prosthetic and makeup. He would go on to have his lips bitten off by Francis Dolarhyde and be set on fire. What happens to him, considering that he retains the same position at the hospital in The Silence of the Lambs?

8 JACK HAVING TO CONFRONT WILL

When last we saw Jack Crawford, he'd spent the majority of Season 3 fighting for his life with Hannibal Lecter (now known to be the Chesapeake Ripper), who very nearly killed him with a grievous neck injury. He warned Will not to go after Hannibal alone, knowing the effect the enigmatic killer had on him, but Will disregarded the sentiment and ultimately shared Hannibal's fate.

Jack Crawford plays a fairly large part in Silence of the Lambs, still heading up the behavioral science unit of the FBI in Virginia. Since Bryan Fuller has implied that both Will and Hannbal survived their fall, how would Jack and Will's relationship have to change? Especially with the fact that he now knows Will to be capable of the same depravity as Hannibal?

7 MIRIAM LASS

At the time of Hannibal's third season, the rights to secure Silence of the Lambs couldn't be acquired, and the ratings weren't what NBC wanted. However, that didn't stop series creator Bryan Fuller from finding ways to hint at some of its hallmarks, including the archetype of an inquisitive forensics criminologist.

The character of Miriam Lass was intended to mimic Clarice Starling, famous protagonist of Silence of the Lambs. After she shot Dr. Chilton in the face, mistaking him for the Chesapeake Ripper, her fate is unclear. It's also unclear if a fourth season would have managed to pursue the plot of Silence of the Lambs.

6 CHIYOH

Chiyoh was, at one time, the handmaiden of Hannibal's aunt. When Will Graham encounters her, she's desperate for freedom, ultimately leaving with Will on his mission to find Hannibal in Italy.

RELATED: MBTI® Of TV's Hannibal Characters

Chiyoh proved a complicated character, both foiling Will's abilities to harm Hannibal, as well as saving the lives of his friends (Jack Crawford). When we last saw her, she was killing cronies on the Muskrat Farm attempting to harm Will and Hannibal. Would she have showed up again, or returned to Japan as she did in the novels?

5 HANNIBAL'S EVENTUAL IMPRISONMENT

If Bryan Fuller chose to follow Thomas Harris' novels to the letter, Hannibal went back to the hospital, where he eventually encounters Clarice Starling and provided the same "assistance" he gave Will Graham.

RELATED: 10 Most Dangerous Horror Movie Villains, Ranked

We saw that scenario somewhat played out in Season 3, with fans already getting their chance to see Hannibal wear his iconic mask. Assuming Hannibal survived the fall, would he be on the run again? Would Fuller choose for him to embark on a killing spree, with Will as his hostage? They never seemed to be able to be separated for very long.

4 THE VERGER BABY

Margot Verger is just one tragic character in a long line of them in the series. After spending years with her sadistic twin brother Mason, she finally found some semblance of peace after he died. In true Hannibal fashion, he was forcefully held underwater while an electric eel forced its way down his throat. Charming.

Margot did have a chance to have a child, by way of Alana carrying the baby to term. Something "pure" came from the union, but would it last, given Hannibal's promise to Alana?

3 HANNIBAL'S PROMISE TO ALANA

When last we saw Hannibal and Alana in Season 3, he was under her charge as chief administrator of the hospital. She allowed him to escape in order to save Will Graham from his fate at the hands of the Red Dragon.

RELATED: 10 Chilling Hannibal Lecter Quotes That Will Give You Goosebumps

Hannibal never forgot her little punishments, however, and vowed that if he indeed escaped, her "family" belonged to him, because as far as he was concerned, she died in his kitchen in Season 2.

2 SILENCE OF THE LAMBS

One of the most famous depictions of Hannibal Lecter appeared in Silence of the Lambs, incidentally considered one of the best horror films of all time. Based on the events in Season 3, it seemed hard to set up its plot, with Hannibal not yet in police custody and possibly dead.

Still, had Season 4 happened, Bryan Fuller assured fans Clarice Starling and Dr. Lecter would make their appearances. He had eyed Ellen Page to portray Starling, and its unclear if she'd have interacted with Will Graham, or who would be Buffalo Bill. Perhaps Doctor Chilton, looking for skin grafts...

1 BEDELIA'S LEG

After we see Will and Hannibal fall over the cliffside, we have no idea what happens to them after they plummet to the dark waters below. It's left ambiguous. We then flash to a post-credit like scene where we see Bedelia Du Maurier looking lovely in a posh dress, her hair perfectly coiffed, her skin sun-kissed.

She takes a fork from the table settings and conceals it under the table cloth. As the camera pans, we see there's a human leg just as neatly dressed on the table - hers. It looks as though she's waiting for two guests. Hannibal and Will? Someone else? We'll sadly never know, and we'll never know what becomes of her.

NEXT: 10 Good TV Shows That Failed (That Even A-List Actors Couldn't Save)

source https://screenrant.com/hannibal-nbc-storylines-plot-points-never-resolved/