#like to the point where he's calling our landline at least once a week

[egoludes]

let me come home: two.

Summary: After years at a dead-end job shouldering everyone’s expectations for you but your own, you’re finally free to be whoever you want, go wherever you want. That is, until a series of unfortunate events strand you in Amber’s End, where the sheriff – and notoriously unmated pack alpha – decides to take you in.

Pairings: alpha!Steve Rogers x omega!Reader; side alpha!Bucky Barnes x beta!Sam Wilson

Notes: Wowowow - I don’t even want to count how many months it’s been, but we are finally back in business! I can’t thank you all enough for the love you showed on the first chapter of this and I am beyond excited to share this and hear what you think. Big reminder from the last chapter that parts one and two are all about setting the stage for Steve and our lovely reader. So,  this is more or less 5k of more background. But, I really loved introducing Bucky, Sam, and Nat (Bucky especially because he’s going to be huge here!) and hope you enjoy them too. Especially my Heat Wave readers - mechanic!Bucky returns! And I promise parts three and four will be extra juicy to make up for it. Divider credit goes to @writeyourmindaway​!

Chapter warnings: Werewolf AU, A/B/O dynamics, incredibly basic knowledge of cars that is probably incorrect

The drive to Steve’s home is short: five minutes from the diner to the base of a wooded hill, another ten to reach the peak. You follow him up a slanted stretch of road with eyes trained on his tail lights, but there are moments when your gaze strays. Sunset lingers on either side of you, framing the forest in a pretty glow. The blend of deep orange and soft pink is hard to look away from, even when you know you should be focused elsewhere, and you make your way to the top in that dizzying in-between. 

When you finally come to a stop, it’s on a patch of paved road - a welcome change to the gravel before it - in front of a large wooden cabin. Behind you, the town’s spread out in a panorama, spanning for what feels like an eternity. You can see everything from here: the humble spread of Main Street; the blues and greens of the Hummingbird; and finally, the mountains, majestic and steady beyond that.

It’s the perfect place for the pack’s alpha to be and, coincidentally, has been the home of Rogers alphas for three generations now.

That lived in feel is the first thing you notice when you make it inside. The structure is sturdy, hasn’t so much as gnarled over the years. The decor, on the other hand, is dated. Doilies on some surfaces and beer coasters on others, there are hints of Steve and the alphas who came before him throughout. Still, it’s cozy, and you say as much in an appreciative hum as you pull your bag off your shoulder. 

The first floor is all open space, and you can see most of it from your spot in the foyer. It doesn’t take long for Steve to situate you - sitting room, kitchen, bathroom, and master bedroom — before leading you towards the stairs. The walls along the staircase are full of memory; pictures of him and his loved ones that catch your eye as you ascend. You don’t have time to linger now, but make a point to look them over before you go. He’s piqued your interest too much not to be a little nosy.

The second floor, on the other hand, isn’t nearly as wide as the first. There are three doors in the whole hallway, two on either side with the third directly in front of you. He identifies each as the guest room, the storage room, and a study in that order, though he’s careful to call out that no one’s used the study in a long time. 

There’s a story there, you’re sure, but any interest in it leaves when Steve presses the guest bedroom door open. The bed inside is too big for the room, one side even touching the walls. And like the rest of the house, it’s decorated in a way that reminds you of your grandmother; a quaintness that’s endearing on a man like Steve. But, as out of place as things might be, there’s an undeniable comfort walking into that room. Steve smiles when he smells it on you -- that cinnamon-sweet rise of contentment as you sink down on the bed at his behest.

“It’s a short tour,” he admits, leaning against the doorjamb, “but this is about it. You’re welcome to anything in the kitchen if you get hungry again tonight or before you go tomorrow. I’m usually up early, so in case I don’t see you, enjoy the rest of your trip. Take care of yourself.” 

It’s new to you, how easily people can offer such genuine acts of care. He hardly knows you, yet there’s no doubt that he means what he says. The thought of it makes you return that thoughtful smile. “Thank you, Steve - you’re seriously a lifesaver.”

With a final smile, he leaves you to it, shutting the door behind him.

At the click, you settle further into the bed, toeing your shoes off and sifting through your bag for house clothes and a towel. Your travels so far have been an adventure, to say the least. Just a few months ago, you’d been working a stressful entry-level job on Wall Street. Pressed skirts, sharp teeth, the days were full of routine, but not the kind that’s pleasant. Everything was uncertainty and fleeting gratification as you competed, day after day, for a seat at the table. 

Add to that the constant nagging from your family to find a mate  — the endless string of blind dates, the passive-aggressive mentions of other friends’ announcements; it’s a wonder you’d endured it all as long as you had.

The decision to quit had been a long time coming. The decision to leave was a whim - the first you’d had in a long time. It was freeing to even be able to make the choice and the lack of commitment only grew more intoxicating from there. You feel freer, less suffocated, and so does your wolf  — it’s a change you’d desperately needed.

That feeling is what follows you into the shower as you wash away the day, and back to bed in your loose pjs. As you settle in, you have to stop yourself from sighing out loud. The mattress is as tender as a cloud, molding to your body at every point, and after weeks of motel beds (and the back of your Jeep), you fall headfirst into that comfort. Sleep comes fast and stays put.

                                                       ----

When you wake in the morning, the world is quiet. It’s a long way from New York’s chaos and you bask in it, eagerly at that. The sun filtering in through the window above you leaves kaleidoscope patterns on the sheets. Your hand moves to trace them for a bit, thumb to fractured color, until you’re awake enough to focus your ear to the house. 

Like outside, Steve’s cabin is tranquil, not even a hint of the alpha’s presence. Given his warning the night before, it isn’t surprising, but you’re still a little disappointed. You’d hoped to repay him for his kindness somehow — maybe with breakfast, or whatever change you could spare. But, you’ll settle for what you can get: you make a mental note to try and catch him at his office before you leave town.

Weeks on the road have made your morning routine as efficient as it gets. So once you’re completely up, you’re out the door not long after, a slice of buttered toast between your teeth to get your system going. You find your car where you left it at the end of Steve’s drive and you approach with a bounce in your step, all thanks to the night of comfortable sleep. 

Maybe you ought to grab Steve a fruit basket before you stop by.

You’re racking your memory of Main Street for bakeries or something close when you settle into the driver’s seat. But, gratitude towards Steve quickly becomes the last thing on your mind when you try to start your Jeep and get nothing but a grinding sound. It isn’t promising, but you try it again, only to get even less response before the car dies altogether. 

You groan out loud, head dropping to the steering wheel while your shoulders sink in defeat. It was inevitable, really - it’s been years since you inherited the car from your older sister and it was only through a slew of band-aid fixes that it made it this far. 

Still, the timing can’t be any worse; you don’t have a schedule to meet, but it isn’t much of a road trip if you can’t make it on the road. You fish your cell out of your jacket pocket, hoping that your service has somehow improved between last night and this morning. But, you only have a couple bars - finicky connection at best - so, you head back into Steve’s home where you’re certain you’d noticed a landline. 

When you find it, you also come across a phone book --- not the newest edition, but recent enough. The list of mechanics in the area isn’t long, so you thumb in the first number you see. The phone rings only twice before someone picks up. 

“Barnes Garage?”

“Hi,” you start, perking up at the quick answer, “I just tried to start my car and it’s not working. It made this weird sound at first, then when I tried again, it just died.”

The man on the other end hums and you can hear paper rustling in the background like he’s taking notes. “Alright, we can send someone out right now to tow you in and take a look - what’s your address?”

“I don’t...actually know,” you admit, face hot from embarrassment when he goes silent. You must sound ridiculous. “I’m not from around here, so I’m just staying with someone. I’m not sure about the address.” 

A chuckle rises from him that eases your shame just a bit. “Alrighty. Well, it’s a small town  — tell me who you’re stayin’ with and I’m sure between the three of us here, we’ll know where to find ‘em.”

There’s a part of you that’s skeptical of that; but for a town so small and a pack so close-knit, maybe it’s possible. “Uh, sure. I stayed with Steve Rogers  — the sheriff?”

The line goes silent again, this time so prolonged you think the call dropped. Then, the mechanic speaks up and you can almost swear he’s smiling. “No shit. I know exactly where that is, I can be there in fifteen? Maybe twenty? That work for you?”

“Well, I won’t be going anywhere, so that works perfectly.”

                                                        ----

The mechanic manages the trip in ten, when you glance out the window at the sound of an engine to see a dark blue tow truck stalking up Steve’s driveway. You come out to greet it just as the man driving climbs out and nearly gasp. He’s as handsome as Steve had been: piercing blue eyes, an angled, stubble-lined face, and deep brown hair gathered at his nape. There’s something familiar about him you can’t seem to place, but it’s out of sight and out of mind when he closes the distance with a wide smile. “Well, hi there -- ‘m Bucky. Spoke to you on the phone.” You give him your name, to which he nods. “So, I’ll get your car down to the shop and we’ll take a look, see if we can’t fix you up today. You wanna come with me, or you staying at Stevi -- uh, Steve’s for the day?”

You shake your head . “Nah, I can come with - I was planning to head out of town today anyway, so I’m hoping I can just head out from your garage.”

“Hop on in then.”

The ride with Bucky is surprisingly warm. He’s not exactly talkative, but he’s engaging; asking questions where he needs to, humming out his interest when he doesn’t. You get so settled into the flow of quiet radio and chatter that you don’t realize you’ve made it to his shop until the truck comes to a full stop. 

Barnes Garage sits at the corner of some of Amber’s End’s quieter streets. The large lot outside has a few cars parked with a path between them for new ones to be driven into the workshop. Bucky’s pulled your Jeep right into that path, though he’s stopped halfway between the curb and the garage building. “It’ll take me maybe a half hour to really dig in --- you can stick around or explore, it’s up to you, but I’ll let you out here.”

You climb out with a nod, thanking him before nodding towards the streets behind you. “I’ll probably head out - grab a few more things before I go. See you in thirty?” 

For the second time in as many days, you’re exploring Main Street, this time with an eye out for the stores you didn’t visit the day before. There aren’t many, to be frank, so after the first few, you take to stopping in on some of the people you’ve met already. They seem surprised to see you again, but take advantage of your presence to tell you more about themselves, the town, their wares. 

You realize quickly that none of the stories about Amber’s End really do it justice. It’s quainter than what you’re used to, sure, but there’s so much history there. It’s romantic almost - like the first turn of an old book or light filtering into a tea shop. 

You think you’ll miss it when you leave, even if just for a little while.

When you get back to the shop, you’re a few souvenirs richer and have something nice to give Steve on your way out of town as well. Bucky is sitting at a computer - the model recognizably old but reliable like the rest of the town. He perks up at the sight of you, already waving before you make it all the way in the door and pull your scarf from around your face. “So,” he starts, walking to your car with a hand under his chin. “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”

You grimace. “Ok --- good news first.”

“Well, I know what’s wrong with the car. The starter motor,” he taps a finger on the hood over the spot where the part lives, “is out. Completely done. But, we can get a part delivered here to get you back on the road.”

“Okay,” you eye him suspiciously. “Then, what’s the bad news?”

“Lookin’ at the places we get our parts from, they’re all outta stock for the model you’ve got. The soonest the part could be here is in a month, and even that might be generous with all the storms lately.” As if pre-empting your shock, he hands over an invoice to confirm it.

Seeing it written out, plain as day, makes you grimace. Staying anywhere for a whole month (or more) had never been in the cards; but, there’s no way you can afford a new car either - you were just barely making it through with the money you’ve budgeted as is. You take a long, hard look at the estimate Bucky’s handed you before taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts. “Okay,” you start slowly, “so how does this work? If I decide to wait for the part.”

He gestures to the door behind you that leads to the lot from earlier. “We have a reserve lot - it’s where we keep all the cars that are waiting on a part for service. I’d keep your car here - free of charge - until the part comes, then we fix ‘er up. You’d pay for the part now and the fix later, when we call you to make sure it all looks good.”

You nod, glancing up from the sheet briefly before looking back at the part expense. It isn’t bad in the grand scheme of things - certainly cheaper than a used car that’ll just give up on you in a few months anyway. But, it will be a good chunk of what you’d set aside for your trip and if you’re staying put for the month, there’s no way you can afford to do it without really settling in. Job and all. “Okay - let’s do it.”

“Sounds good.” Bucky’s eyes are full of sympathy as he watches you; from what little you’d told him in the ride over, being stuck in one place is the last thing you wanted right now. “You want me to get you to Steve? He’ll have some good ideas for what you can do next.”

The nervous knots that’ve been building since the conversation started uncoil some at the mention of the other Alpha, though you try your best to ignore it with another nod to Bucky. “That would be great.”

                                                       ----

The sheriff’s station is small but busy when you walk in. Bucky trails ahead of you, walking with purpose that surprises you. At first, you chalk it up to the town being so small  — maybe there’s an open door policy for the residents. But, then you notice the way deputies and junior deputies let him by without even batting an eye. The ones who do simply nod, offering a smile while Bucky walks right past them and reception into Steve’s open office door. 

“Buck?” You can hear ahead of him. “What are you doing here..?” It dawns on you then that they must know each other; intimately, judging by the nickname and the pure ease that Bucky has as he maneuvers the station.

You hesitate to interrupt their moment, but Bucky’s response to Steve’s question is to angle himself so you can be seen from behind him. That’s when Steve notices you and you wave with a sheepish smile. “He brought me, actually - my car’s broken down and I don’t think I’ll be able to leave for a bit. I wanted to make sure you knew before you came home and found me still there…”

Your presence brings Steve to his feet and you notice that he’s in his sheriff’s uniform for the first time. Somehow, he seems more comfortable in it than the casual wear you’ve seen him in so far, but there’s no denying that he looks just as good. “Hey -- you don’t have to worry about that, I wouldn’t just kick you out. I’m sorry to hear about the car, though - anything I can do to help?” 

“Unless there’s a way the local sheriff’s office can put a little muscle on an auto-parts dealer,” you tease, drawing a snort from Bucky beside you, “I think I’m okay. I’m hoping we can talk more about where I should stay when you get back, though?” 

“Sounds good to me.”

With your big news out in the open, you turn on your heel to leave, but pause as another thought strikes you. “Actually, one thing I could use some help with: know of anyone hiring?”

Steve’s face turns pensively and you can see his mind working for an answer. “Not that I can think of, no…,” he offers, a little remorse in his tone, “but you know what? Most places are willin’ if you know who to talk to. How about Bucky take you around? See what you find?”

After giving his instructions to a suspiciously enthusiastic Bucky, Steve turns his attention back to you. You expect to see pity, but there’s nothing there but genuine concern. You feel a little warmth from it, like you’re protected just by standing in front of him, and wonder if this is how everyone in his pack must feel. “I’ll be back late today, so you can feel free to eat without me. Bucky will take care of you until then and help you talk to some folks about a job. You call me if you need me.” He brandishes a business card from a holder on his desk and pencils his cell number on the back before handing it over. “If you’re still awake when I get in, we can talk about your living situation. Otherwise, settle in for one more night and we’ll talk in the morning.”

                                                       ----

Over the rest of the day, Bucky takes you to a few shops with vacancies: pharmacy, market, the doctor’s office. Nothing seems to strike a chord for you, though, and you start to grow dejected, anticipating yet another job you have to work  out of necessity.

Then, Bucky pulls into the gravel lot of a tavern.

Widow’s Den is the name carved in large wooden blocks over the front door, and despite the afternoon hour, there are a few cars parked in front of it. When you duck inside, a group of older men and women sit, talking over beers.

A tall, broad man is working the bar, his laughter booming over a pop song you haven’t heard in years. Beside you, Bucky beams, scent thickening at the sight, and you realize quickly that this must be the person behind the ring on his left hand and the soft pink mark on the right side of his neck. His mate. It’s adorable to see — this charismatic alpha unraveled at one glimpse of the man he loves. 

“Babe,” Bucky chimes for the bartender’s attention as you approach the bartop. Not that he needs to, though; it’s obvious in the way his scent spikes that he’s long since noticed Bucky’s presence and you nearly coo at that too. “Nat in the back?”

“Yeah,” he responds, not looking your way yet as he finishes pouring a drink. “Doing inventory, I think.” Once the drink’s delivered, he offers his full attention and that’s when he notices you. “Who’s this?”

Bucky grins, smile taking on a boyish quality as he slings an arm around your shoulders. “New girl, looking for a job. Her car’s in the shop with me now, so she’s staying with our lovely sheriff until it gets fixed up.” 

The bartender’s intrigue is immediate, eyes widening before he grins slyly — as if privy to a secret you’re not — and folds arms over his chest. The pose accentuates the corded muscle along his arms and chest and you have to stop yourself from sighing. Is there anyone in this town that isn’t woefully in shape? “You’re kiddin'. With Steve?” You have more questions than you know what to do with, but there’s no time to think about asking one when his hand is thrust your way. “Well, then, nice to meet you, girlie. I’m Sam.” 

The smile he offers you is welcoming, and you forget about the odd focus on your staying with Steve (it isn’t even official yet!) to accept his hand. When you share your name in return, the smile widens and he tips his head towards the stretch of hallway by the other end of the bar. “Head on back to talk to Nat -- Bucky can show you the way.”

The brunet rests a hand to your back, pausing only to give Sam a quick kiss over the bar before he takes you towards the back hallway. The vibe in this half of the building is noticeably different. Homey, like the staircase at Steve’s cabin. You recognize many of the same faces in these pictures as the ones back at Steve’s. Bucky’s against Sam’s shoulder, Steve head and shoulders over the rest. There are a few where he’s even bare faced, looking eons younger than he does now, but not a smidgen less intense, and you work out easily that they’ve all been friends for some time, maybe even since puphood.

It’s admirable to you, maybe even enviable too. You have friends from that age as well, but the unforgiving pace of city life had made it hard to stay close. The smiles in the bar’s pictures, in comparison, speak to nothing but growing bonds, year after year.

You can’t help but smile too.

“This way.” Bucky’s voice brings you out of your thoughts and into a half-cracked doorway. The room is cluttered, stacked with boxes and bottles. And in the center of the chaos is a woman with striking red hair, pulled up and out of her face. Her aura holds a candle to Steve’s; far-reaching, imposing, and immediate. There’s no mistaking her as anything but an Alpha, and when her eyes leave the clipboard she’s holding to focus on you instead, you struggle against the instinctive need to bow into yourself. But, years of Wall Street’s brutal pace (that cares very little for rank) steel you. You see something akin to amusement flash in her eyes when you meet her gaze head-on.

“What did I tell you about bringing in strays, James?” Her tone is level, but the words have no real bite. You look up at Bucky warily still, who reassures you with a little smile.

“This one’s not a stray --- not really, anyway.” He loops an arm around your shoulder again and you can tell the familiarity intrigues Nat. “She’s new in town - staying for a month or two until I can get her car squared up, so we’re hopin’ to find her a place to work.”

“Just a couple? That’s not a long time --- I mean, by the time you get settled in, you’re gonna be out of here.” A valid concern; one that the other shop owners had shared when Bucky told them your predicament. There isn’t much you can say to ease the worry, but it turns out you don’t have to. Nat turns the rest of the way to set her scrutinizing gaze on you properly and the look compels you to stay put; almost as if you’re presenting yourself to her. A stretch of silence sets in and the longer it goes, the more convinced you are that she’s about to reject you outright. Then, she clicks her tongue. “Hm. We don’t need much right now, but I could throw you a couple bucks if you want to help us bus tables or something. This is the only spot to really drink in town, so we could always use the help on busy nights.”

You’re so relieved you could kiss her, but you don’t need superhuman instinct to know that would not go well. You settle instead for a wide smile, the sort that’s contagious to the Alphas in the room who start beaming with you. “That would work for me!”

“Good,” she grins, setting her clipboard aside to cross her arms, “now to celebrate our new arrival.”

                                                       ----

You spend the rest of the day at Widow’s Den, getting to know Sam, Bucky, and Natasha over glasses of their best liquor. They confirm your suspicion that they’ve known each other for some time: Steve and Bucky are lifelong friends, brought together by a schoolyard fight started by a Steve who wasn’t even half the other boys’ heights. Meanwhile, Sam and Natasha came into the fray during high school years, transfers from their deep South and Russian hometowns respectively. But, they folded into the fabric of the boyhood duo easily and had been a foursome ever since.

You still don’t know where Sam and Bucky’s relationship turned romantic, but there’s an ease there that makes you guess it has been a while. Natasha, like you, is unmarked, but it’s rare for Alphas to do that anyway. You’re curious to learn more about her in particular. 

As time moves on, the bar fills more and more and you get a glimpse of what your life will be like for the next few weeks. The crowd is certainly diverse - people of all ages filing in with friends or on their own. In an odd way, there’s two bars existing in one - young and old, energetic chatter and introspective talk. 

By the time you leave, you’re a little tipsy and Bucky guides you out with a hand on your back. So far, you haven’t come across any other omega in their circle, and you wonder if his constant touch is a result of that instinct to protect you. The conversation on the ride back to Steve’s flows more freely now that you’ve spent so much time together and when he drops you off, he surprises you with an offer for a hug. When he glimpses that surprise, he laughs. “None of that now - you’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on, so we’re friends, sweetheart.” 

You laugh and step into his arms - you suppose he’s right.

                                                       ----

It’s near one in the morning when Steve finally comes home. His midnight patrol had been as uneventful as usual ---- a blessing, he thinks, considering how distracted he’d been during the run. His wolf is restless, agitated by the thought of this new omega being around longer than expected. He found his thoughts trailing to her during his time in the woods, particularly as he passed the quarry he’d found her in, and there was an eagerness to find out how the rest of the day with Bucky had gone.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little nervous. His friend, dear as he is, can be a handful, even for him. 

When he comes in, he’s shocked to find you still awake in the living room, a mug of what smells like herbal tea in your hand as you flip through a book from his shelf. You look up at him from the book, a dopey smile to your face, and that’s when the other, underlying smell on you hits. Alcohol --- something woody that’s familiar. He guesses Bucky must’ve taken you to Widow’s Den, which would explain why you’re still up at this time.

“Hey,” he speaks up, nodding at you, “couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head, book forgotten as you cradle your tea with your other hand. “It’s been a busy night - still a bit wired!” 

Fair, he thinks. “Tell me about it - did it go well with Buck?”

You start to ramble about the day - the places you tried, the time at Widow’s Den, the offer from Nat you ultimately accepted. He tries not to tense too visibly, but he can’t hide the way his scent sharpens the way it often does when an Alpha is on edge. He can see the impact it has on you instantly; the way your excitement slows and your eyes dart to try and pick out what caused it.

He reassures you - or does his best to - with a smile, urging you on. He won’t explain this yet, but the crowd at Widow’s Den can be rowdy when they want to be, especially when they’re from out of town. Nat and Sam will show you the ropes --- and step in where they have to --- so you’ll be in good hands; but he wouldn’t be Steve if he didn’t worry. You’re the newest wolf in town now --- a part of his pack, even if just for a short while.

When you’re done recapping the day, his smile grows, the gesture deliberately wide to make up for his worry catching you off-guard. “Well, I’m glad to hear it went well - Nat and Sam are good people, they’ll take care of you.”

“I believe it.” You pause, running a finger along the rim of your mug. “Which reminds me, I… I don’t have to stay here. Once I start working, I think I’ll be able to check in at the Hummingbird, see if that room’s opened up.”

Steve gives you the same stern look from the diner and you almost giggle at the sight. It’s hard to see the same intimidating alpha now that you’ve heard a little about him from his friends.  “Come on - what kind of pack leader would I be if I kicked you out now?” He stands from the couch, eyes -- and stomach -- starting to turn towards the kitchen. “I won’t stop you if you prefer the motel, of course,  but the offer to stay here will be open until your car’s ready to go.” 

“Are you sure...?”

His stern face softens, giving way to another smile. “Positive - don’t worry about it, okay?” 

After the last twenty four hours, it’s hard to doubt his capacity for kindness, but reassurance is always appreciated. You thank him one last time as he stalks into the kitchen, wishing you a good night, and when your tea is finished, you pad up to the guest bedroom with your chest feeling as warm as your tummy. 

As you finally doze, it’s with a head full of excitement; like a kid the night before a field trip. You didn’t expect it, sure, but you’re ready, anticipant, for the start of your life for the next two months.

[cycwrites]

WIP Things aka Unofficial Fic Tease

In order to remind myself that I’ve left all of you hanging for the rest of my trilogy rewrite, I thought I would post my unbeta’d, unedited, good with the bad chapter 1 for the second movie. I also have hope that it will make me feel guilty for taking so damn long and get back to it. Especially since I’ve basically closed myself off from writing (and the muses) and I’m trying to pry the doors back open because I really do miss sharing my stories with you guys.

I wrote this well over a year ago, along with a 2nd chapter that deals with the Dean’s office, and really just hope you like it. 

--------

About Damn Time 

Chapter One: So That Happened

Word Count: 2600 -------- ~B~

At the end of Beca’s junior year, two things of note happened.

First: Chloe, once again, made the decision to stay with Beca and the Bellas and failed Russian Lit for the third time.  Beca had tried to talk her out of it, torn between wanting Chloe to move forward in her life beyond Barden and guilt that she was relieved they wouldn’t have to figure out how to work a long distance relationship. She wasn’t ready to try that and couldn’t imagine leading the group without her.  But Chloe had insisted this was where she’d wanted to be and she didn’t feel like she was missing out on anything.

Second: The Bellas were asked to perform at President Obama’s 50th birthday celebration at the Kennedy Center on August 8th.

Beca had laughed when the call had come through the never used landline at the Bella house.

“Good afternoon, this is Mack Johnson and I’m calling on behalf of the White House…”

“Yeah right. Nice try, Jesse.” She hung up and pulled out her cell phone as she walked into the kitchen. Pausing by the counter she typed out a quick message to him.

Beca: I’ve gotta give you points for originality though. You almost sounded like an actual adult.

She poured herself a glass of lemonade before he answered.

Jesse: I’m going to take that as a compliment and ignore the wound to my manly pride, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Beca: Whatever you say, ‘Mack.’ If you’d said you were calling from anywhere but the White House I might’ve let you keep talking.

Instead of answering via text, Jesse called her.

“Are you day drinking, Mitchell?” Jesse clucked his tongue. “Without your lesbro? I’m hurt, Becaw.”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Beca lifted her glass and took a sip. “What inspired your call today?”

“Uh, your cryptic and confusing texts to me, of course.” Jesse chuckled. “Want to clue me in?”

Beca sighed. “Man you’re committed to this.”

“To what?”

Beca set her glass on the counter. “Fine – you just called me and –” She jumped as the phone in the living room rang for only the second time in her years at Barden. “Pretended… to be… from the White House.”

“I thought you said you weren’t drinking?” Jesse laughed but it sounded distant as Beca watched Chloe answer the phone.

Her girlfriend’s blue eyes went wide and locked on Beca’s as she said, “I’m sorry, did you say you’re calling from the White House?”

“Jesse?” Beca said absently.

“Yes, Beca?” His voice took on an echo as all the blood drained from her face.

“I gotta go pass out now.” She swallowed dryly. “I’ll call you later.”

“Beca wa-”

Beca had remained frozen in the kitchen while Chloe became more and more animated, frantically scribbling down notes on the notepad sitting beside the phone, though her voice was carefully calm and collected. Then she’d run into the kitchen, screaming and jumping in excitement and talking faster than Beca’s shocked mind could process. Drawn by the commotion like a frat boy to a kegger, the rest of the girls soon joined the chaos while Beca still stood frozen by the counter as they swirled around her.

The school had allowed them to stay on campus through the summer so they could discuss songs and choreography. The time had been a whirlwind of security checks and practice and everything they planned needed to be vetted by the performance organizers. Of course, since they’d come to the Bellas after their third ICCA win in a row, there weren’t any real problems.

Until the night of the performance when one set of tangled silks and a desire for no panty lines wrecked everything.

No pun intended.

~B~ Sunday, August 24th, 2014

Beca lay on their bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to Chloe pace beside her.

“I’ve ruined everything.” Pace to the head of the bed. “Destroyed our reputation.” Pace back to the foot. “Made the Bellas a joke.”

Beca sighed and pushed herself up on her elbows. “Chloe. It’s a capella. It’s already a jo-” She stopped as Chloe spun to face her, outraged. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” Beca tried a smile. “I was just trying to lighten the mood.” She let it slip when Chloe just stared at her and Beca dropped back down to gaze at the ceiling. “Won’t make that mistake again.”

“I’m the one who gave Amy the green-light to do ‘Wrecking Ball.’” Chloe resumed pacing.

“Because, despite most of her claims, she actually had done some training on the silks before coming to the states.” Beca countered, as she had for the past three weeks. “She was good on them and never once in our rehearsals did she get tangled up.”

“But-”

“No.” Beca cut her off and sat up, pulling her legs up to sit cross legged and face her. “We all agreed to let her do it. It was a group vote.” She softened her voice and held out her hand. “This isn’t all on you, Chlo.”

With a sigh, Chloe took her hand and let herself be tugged onto the bed. Beca stretched back out and Chloe settled against her side. “It feels like it.”

“That’s because you’re the one who looks out for us.” Beca gently rubbed her back. “No one could’ve predicted this, love.”

“No…” Chloe said grudgingly. “But…”

Beca cut her off again. “There’s no buts.”

“Except Amy’s.” Chloe huffed, tension that had begun to fade making her stiffen up again in Beca’s arms. “All over the news.” She groaned. “Why didn’t I just use the cloth I was freaking holding to cover her up?”

“Same reason I didn’t,” Beca said reasonably, having heard a version of this several times before. “My mind went blank and I couldn’t move. I just… kept waiting to wake up.”

“Same.” Chloe pressed her nose to Beca’s shoulder. “I still am. This is such a nightmare.”

“She feels bad.” Beca offered. “It was her idea to do that press conference.” She winced as Chloe snorted.

“Yeah, where she then tried to show her ‘silk burn’ to the entire world.” Chloe sat up and pushed herself off the bed. “Again.” She resumed pacing and Beca’s mind hunted around for anything she could say to defuse things.

“At least we saved Aubrey’s college legacy from Pukegate?” Even as the words were out of her mouth Beca knew they were stupid and wrong.

“And ruined ours with Muffgate.” Chloe snarled.

“I wish I could find the asshole that came up with that. Bet it was those podcast people and of course everyone else jumped on it.” Beca made a face. “It was an accident and eventually there will be another crisis for them to focus on.” She slid over to the edge of the bed and swung her legs over. “It won’t be forever, Chlo.”

Pace, turn. “But tomorrow we go see the Dean.” Pace, turn. “With those podcast people who are apparently actually part of the Collegiate A Cappella Association.”

“They’re still weird and he’s an ass.” Beca stood up and stretched as she heard the door open at the bottom of the stairs. “Think you’ll be able to enjoy yourself at dinner tonight?”

Chloe stopped by the small table they inherited from Aubrey and took a deep breath. “Of course. It’s Amy’s birthday. I’m not going to ruin it for her.” She flashed Beca a small grin, the first in an hour. “Why do you think I’m up here instead of downstairs?”

“Speaking of,” a new voice said from the stairs. “There’s maybe… A situation.” Jessica smiled apologetically when they both looked at her as she reached the top.

Beca sighed. “Of course there is.”

“Do I even want to know?” Chloe pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Probably not, but Stacie sent me to get you.”

“Coward,” Beca muttered. “She knows I can’t hit you because you’re too nice.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, quick like ripping off a band-aid.”

“Amy’s sitting on the couch. With a towel on her lap.” Jessica hesitated.

“That’s… Why is that a big deal?” Chloe asked, confused.

“She’s… commando. Because of her silk burn.” The blonde’s shoulders bounced once but she didn’t say anything else.

“I swear to fucking god I’m going to glue underwear on her,” Chloe muttered under her breath.

Beca was struck by a horrible thought. “Is she sitting on another towel?”

“We were afraid she’d show us if we asked.” Jessica looked at Beca. “That’s when Stacie sent me to get you.”

“Why do I have to do it?” Beca knew she was whining but couldn’t help it.

“Because you’re the captain.” Jessica shrugged again. “You can threaten her with cardio if she tries to flash us again.”

“Yeah but Amy doesn’t always listen to me and I don’t want to have flashbacks.” Beca reluctantly headed for the stairs as Jessica started back down.

“Birthday or not…” Chloe muttered as she followed.

“I’m sure Lilly has a hot glue gun you can use,” Beca mused, not surprised to find Ashley hanging out in the hallway when they left the attic.

“Don’t tempt me.” Chloe didn’t say anything else the entire trip down the stairs.

Beca rounded the corner, passing Jessica and Ashley who had stopped in the entry and came to a halt herself, Chloe running into her back.

All she could see was the back of Amy’s head but she appeared to be looking straight at Lilly who sat cross-legged on the ottoman and staring back.

“Do I even want to know?” Beca turned her head toward Jessica but didn’t take her eyes off the scene.

“I didn’t ask that either,” came the whispered reply.

Beca took a bracing breath then walked into the living room. Despite the reassurance that the covering towel existed, Beca didn’t relax until she saw it for herself. It was nothing personal against Amy, but Beca just didn’t want to see any of the Bellas naked, Chloe being the obvious exception. You never knew when the visual would pop back in your head and Amy had already shown up enough in the past few weeks to last a lifetime.

“Amy.” Beca looked up at a sound from the kitchen and saw Stacie leaning in the doorway with Cynthia Rose and Flo sitting at the center island.

“Captain.” Amy didn’t turn her head or avert her gaze.

“Are you guys in a staring contest?” Beca frowned, looking between the two women. “And if so why?”

“I don’t know,” Amy lifted one shoulder. “All I know is she hasn’t blinked since she sat down and why take the risk of losing.”

Beca felt her eyes twitch at the thought. “Jesus, please cut it out before my eyes start watering.” She stepped between them and Amy closed her eyes in relief.

“Thanks, Shawshank. That was starting to burn.” She started to lift one corner of the towel to wipe her eyes and Beca threw out her hand.

“Nope. That stays there.” Chloe said it before Beca could.

“Please tell me you’re sitting on another towel.” Beca sighed and ran her hand through her hair.

“Of course I am!” Amy actually looked indignant. “I’m not a heathen, Beca.” She rolled her eyes. “The pants I want to wear to dinner are tight, so I’m giving my bits time to breathe first.”

“Now that’s in my head.” Cynthia Rose muttered from the kitchen.

“That’s in all our heads,” Ashley said from the doorway behind them.

“You could always wear that blue skirt,” Chloe offered diplomatically. “That way you’re not uncomfortable for your birthday dinner.”

“I do look hot in that.” Amy thought about it while the rest of them made sounds of agreement. “Alright, you’ve swayed me. And as it’s almost that time, guess I’ll go upstairs and change.” She started to stand as Beca moved back then paused. “If you’d all turn around and give me some privacy while I wrap?”

Beca rolled her eyes as she turned to face the front window that, thankfully, had the curtains drawn. “That’s what you get for being half naked in the public areas of the house.”

“I got bored in my room.” Beca heard Amy stand up and the rustle of fabric. “Alright, I’m decent.”

“Hey!”

Beca jumped at the unexpected shout and looked over her shoulder. Stacie had come out of the kitchen and was pointing at the couch.

“That’s my favorite towel!” Outage filled her face. “I was looking for that for over a week!”

“It’s also the softest towel in the house.” Amy said as she picked it up, tucking the other firmly around her waist. “It’s the only thing that doesn’t hurt when I’m sitting.”

A choked sound from behind her brought Beca’s eyes back around to Chloe, who was biting the inside of her cheek and trying not to giggle. “I’m sure she’ll wash it before she gives it back.”

Beca tried to choke back her laugh and ended up sounding like a pug with a cold as she snickered into her hand.

“I think…” Stacie sighed. “Happy Birthday, Amy. It’s all yours.”

“You sure, Stretch?” Amy threw the towel in question over her shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll need it for much longer.”

“Yup.” Stacie nodded emphatically. “I’ll go get another one this weekend.”

“Thanks, Stacie.” Amy smiled at her before her lips twisted slightly. “Sorry I didn’t ask first.”

“’S okay.” Stacie shrugged. “Now go get changed so we can celebrate your day.”

“Are you allowed to give me orders on my birthday?” Amy mused as she headed for the stairs.

“Probably not,” Beca said. “But I’ll probably do it anyway.”

“Bossy.” Chloe whispered behind her and Beca flashed her a grin.

“Alright.” Beca clapped her hands once. “Show’s over, let’s go get our party outfits on and get some grub. We’ve got a Bella to celebrate.”

Stacie walked past her, shaking her head. “Bossy.”

Beca let her head fall back as she stared at the ceiling. “I can’t with you two.”

“What?” Stacie paused in the door to the entry. “Did we do the thing again?”

“Yup.” Chloe pushed Beca toward the stairs. “I called her that thirty seconds ago.” She high fived Stacie over Beca’s shoulder when the tall woman grinned and held out her hand.

“Score one for us.” Stacie laughed and started up the stairs.

“I hate you guys.” Beca said weakly as she followed.

“Liar,” Chloe laughed and ran her hand down Beca’s back.

“Maybe.” Beca let Chloe go before her.

“Definitely.”

“Yeah yeah,” Beca waved her up the stairs, unable to help admiring the way Chloe’s muscles flexed as she moved. “But seriously, my stomach just woke up and if I don’t feed it soon it’s going to take over the world.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Stacie saluted as she stepped into her room.

“Smartass,” Beca threw back.

“And you love it.” Stacie closed the door with a laugh.

“Stop flirting with Stacie and let’s go change before you get hangry.” Chloe took her hand and tugged on it.

“She wishes,” Beca muttered but followed Chloe up to their room, ignoring the ‘Often’ that came from Stacie’s room behind them.

‘She’s got bat hearing, I swear.’ Beca thought to herself as she went to the closet to get her outfit for the night.

Tomorrow was still looming over them, but Beca pushed it all away, determined to think about Amy and the Bellas for the rest of the night.

It was one mistake and they’d just won three years in a row. Surely they weren’t in that much trouble.

Right?

[your-eternal-muse]

To hold on, To let go.

Heather Bonus Chapter.

Summery: In which you get to sneak a peek into the life of Dr. Spencer Reid, and one Aaron Hotchner.

Words: 1.7k because I have absolutely no self control

Warnings: Mentions of cheating, light swearing, and the fruition of an opinion of mine that is kinda controversial in the fandom, but I said what I said, and I ain’t backing down from it

A/N: Hi. So, I thought I would have both this chapter and chapter 9 ready to go to post at relatively  the same time, but I was up for 18 hours straight and crashed before I could. I woke up because I was hungry and decided to finish this. That being said, hopefully, I can get chapter 9 up for you guys at some point tomorrow. I’ve just been really tired is all, but I’ll push through because I love this series so much. Anyway, enjoy! Oh, also, I didn’t name this one after a lyric because it didn’t really fit, but its a bonus so its fine.

~~~~~

45% of marriages end in divorce.

Spencer knew this.

He knew the odds of his marriage to Heather ending badly.

He just didn’t think it would be this soon.

He had expected it to be years down the road, when his hair was turning gray and his time at the B.A.U was in the past.  

He hadn’t expected it to fail in mere months.

He expected it to be because of his job, or the fact that no matter how hard Heather tried, she never could quite get him to open up about the demons residing in his head.

Not because she had been cheating on him.

He felt like an idiot.

The signs were all there.

The sudden disappearances, the nervous tics whenever he asked a question she could never quite answer.

What kind of profiler was he if he couldn’t even tell that his wife was cheating on him?

He sat at his desk, alone in the bullpen, the only noise in the room coming from the video playing on his phone before him.

He couldn’t stop playing it, even though it killed him to watch.

He paused and played back the very beginning over and over again, watching her kiss that man in a way he thought was only meant for him.

He felt sick.

Knowing her lips had been on that man's hours before coming home and kissing him.

Knowing they had sex, and than having her come home and beg to be fucked by him.

He started the video again, watching Heather, the way her hands balled into his shirt, the sound of her laugh at the person behind her. 

Then, his eyes start to drift.

He starts it again, this time watching the anger radiate off of y/n.

It was almost palpable.

He couldn’t help the warmth swarm his chest, circling his heart before squeezing tightly.

She was fiery.

The way the words came from her chest, how her shoulders were straight and her chin was raised, filled his stomach with a sense of pride.

When she said she loved him, she meant it.

“I found your letter. I was right about you.”

His eyes shift to the card currently laying on top of the stack of divorce papers laying on his desk.

He knows he should have hidden it better.

Stuffed it in a thick book and placed it on a high shelf, somewhere she never would have thought to look.

He shouldn’t have even kept it.

With his memory, he could read it over and over again in his head, and Heather would be none the wiser.

But there was something about tracing his fingertips over the ink, feeling the indents of her words in the paper.

It was physical evidence, that after all these years of thinking she didn’t feel the same, that he was wrong.

She loves him, as he loves her.

Yes, loves.

Not loved.

Spencer Reid, is in love with y/n y/l/n.

However, he can’t say he doesn’t love Heather.

He had convinced himself that y/n hadn’t felt the same, and had all but given up hope. So when a pretty girl offered her number to him one morning at a coffee shop, he accepted, forcing himself to move on.

And for a while, he believed that he was happy.

But it doesn’t work like that.

There were too many sleepless nights, too many words unsaid that kept him from fully committing to Heather, even if on paper it looked like he worshiped the ground she walked on.

He shouldn’t have proposed.

He had hoped y/n would say something, call him a fool, be selfish and kiss him in the middle of the banquet hall, not caring about what other people thought because it was only them existing at that moment in time.

But she didn’t.

So he did.

It was selfish of him. 

To want another girl, while one who had claimed to love him hung on his arm. 

He shouldn’t have danced with her.

He should have just smiled and thanked her for coming, ignoring the pain registering in her eyes. 

She was intoxicating though. 

And even though it was his wedding, he needed to let her know. 

Let her know that he loved her, and that even if he didn’t have a choice, he would always choose her. 

He would go and catch her without a thought's hesitation.

Last week, he found out she understood.

God, this is a mess.

He rubs his face, resting his chin on his hand as he reads through the papers again. Should he sign them? Should he give themselves another chance? Or should he say fuck it? Heather had her chance, and in the process broke him. He didn’t think it was worth it.

A door above him opens.

“Reid, can I speak with you?”

It wasn’t weird for Hotch to stay late.

It was for Spencer.

But he didn’t want to go home, where Heather would be inevitably waiting to try and plead with him to not go through it, where another fight is waiting to be fought, and going to the one place he truly wanted to, felt wrong. 

It would put y/n in a position he never wants to put her.

So he stayed, and rewatched the video, and reread the papers, until he felt his eyes droop, and his heart rate slow.

Hotch had spent the last few nights watching him.

He could relate to how Spencer was probably feeling, and he wasn’t about to stand back and watch like he did y/n. He was going to help before it got to the extreme.

So Spencer set down the papers, put his phone in his pocket and walked up to meet Hotch in his office. 

When he enters, Hotch motions for him to take a seat.

Spencer sits, curious and kind of anxious about the conversation that was about to be had.

“I just wanted to let you know, that I know what you’re going through. And that I sympathize with what you’re feeling. If you need to take any personal time, any at all, you can.”

The next statement pops out of Spencer's mouth before he can even think.

“You didn’t.”

Hotch doesn’t even blink, not the least bit fazed by the observation.

“I should have. And I wish I did.”

He takes a breath.

“I loved Haley. A part of me still does, and will always love her, even now. But I want you to know that I sympathize with how you feel on more than just the divorce.”

Spencer furrows his brow.

What?

Hotch had wanted to keep this from the team for a very personal reason.

He didn’t want anyone judging him for continuing to love her, even after she hurt him. 

He didn’t want them to hate her after her passing.

He didn’t want Jack to grow up to despise his mother.

“I didn’t realize it at first. I’m sure my line of work didn’t help much. I was gone often, and for long periods of time, during which I have no clue what she did.”

Spencer couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

Haley cheated on Hotch?

“But when I was home, she was distant. I again blamed it on the rift my job created, which I think is what drove her to do it in the first place.”

Hotch has never really talked about it out loud before now.

Was it bad, that he felt a little relieved, to finally get it out into the air?

“How did you find out?” Spencer's voice was soft, quite. He was afraid that if he spoke too loud, Hotch would back down, stop telling the story.

Hotch takes another deep breath, bringing forth the painful memory.

“It was a rare night where I was home. We had been arguing over an offer I had gotten here. It would have given me a 9-5 schedule, allowed me to be home for dinner and on the weekends, a shorter commute. She wanted me to take it, said it was a no brainer. I told her it was more complicated than that.”

Spencer is leaning forward onto his knees, hanging on to every word.

“We were talking about it, when our landline rang. When I picked it up, no one answered, so I hung up. Not ten seconds after, her cell phone started ringing.”

Why hadn’t Hotch told anyone?

Spencer was beginning to realize they had more in common than he thought.

“But what solidified it for me, was the fear in her eyes. She was petrified. I stared at her as her phone rang, and while she didn’t make a move to grab it, she crossed her arms, subconsciously telling me not to ask.”

He rubs his nose, and looks down at the files on his desk. “I did a little more research after that and found that I was correct.”

He folds his hands in front of him, the words becoming harder to say as he continues. 

“What I’m trying to say, is that even when I loved her, even when I wanted it to work out, it didn’t.”

He was hoping Spencer would understand what he was implying. Hotch knew he was smart. It was getting to do something for himself that was the hard part. 

Spencer’s head felt clear for the first time that week. 

It had helped, hearing Hotch's own experience. 

Hotch fought because he loved Haley, and he wanted to hang on to that as long as he could.

Spencer couldn’t wait to let go. That was the difference between the similarities.

Spencer nods, moving to stand up, his mind picking up speed as he did. 

“If you ever need to talk about anything, and I mean anything, Spencer, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

A small smile graces Spencer’s lips. “I won’t.” He walks towards the door before pausing, and turning back around. “And Hotch,”

Hotch looks up from his paperwork.

“Thank you.”

Hotch smiles, soft and rare. “You’re welcome.”

Spencer makes his way back to his desk, sitting down, picking up the papers once again, digging a pen out of his satchel.

He flips through the papers, finding where x marks the spot.

He signs his name.

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[theheartsmistakes]

Any Other Name

.Chapter 1.

The London Institute hadn’t changed in the five years since Cordelia had last seen it. Its pointed rooftops disappeared into the alloy colored clouds that perpetually covered the sky of London making Cordelia sometimes wonder if underneath the constant precipitation the sky was purple or grey rather than blue. The arched glossy windows reflected the view of the city with the billowing smoke from the factories, the lines from the bridges, and the diamond-like flecks that glittered off of the Thames.

It rivaled the Institute in Tehran in size alone, but otherwise, the cold, steel gray of the stones had nothing on the warmth and light of the sand-colored building that she had been living in for the past five years. Already she missed the way the sun warmed the inside of the building and filled the rooms with its light that sent fractals of color off of the beads that adorned the bright colored drapes in her bedroom. She missed the smells of spices, burning applewood, and whatever flower bloomed wildly in that season as she walked the crowded merchant-lined streets.

She’d only been in London all of ten minutes and already she wanted to climb back through the portal and take her grandmother up on her offer to let her live there with her in her small one-bedroom flat.

“We are a family,” said her father proudly when he informed them at the dinner table only a week before that they (he) were offered the position to be head of the London Institute after the removal of William and Tessa Herondale. “This is a family decision. No one is staying behind. We are moving as a family.”

It didn’t feel like a family decision when he removed her bedroom door after she’d locked herself in for twenty-four hours in protest.

One year, she told herself. One measly little year in the dreary, desolate wasteland that was London, and then she would be eighteen and free to make her own decisions including where she wanted to live.

Her older brother Alastair, the bastard, had turned eighteen only a month ago and had opted to remain in Tehran to help oversee the Institute until the Clave found a family to take over. Cordelia bristled at the idea of someone else living in her room which she’d just managed to decorate according to her taste. What if they turned it into a boring old office or Angel forbid a crafts room.

Never, in her seventeen years, did she hate her parents. Not for any reason for they were quite good parents. They let her go out with her friends any night of the week she wanted, they supported her in whatever protest or interest she happened to be on even if it pertained to mundane issues, and she rather liked spending time with them when she wasn’t training or out in the city with her small, but loyal group of friends.

Her friends.

They’d only said goodbye a few hours ago, but she’d at least hoped for one fire message of encouragement to help her through these trying times.

She’d scold them for it later.

When she’d come to London as a child during her parent's annual Clave meetings, the only enjoyable part of being here visiting with the ever eccentric Lucie Herondale. They’d become fast friends when they first met at ten years old and remained in touch either through fire messages, the occasional visits, or annual Clave meetings. Until about six months, when all correspondence stopped. Cordelia sent her dozens of messages, but none of them were answered. When she attempted to call from a city payphone on the landline she knew Lucie kept, the automated message said the phone number had been disconnected.

Cordelia wondered if it was something that she had done or said that upset Lucie. That was until a week ago when her parents sat down with her and her brother and told them of the Clave’s decision to exile the Herondale’s for their demon blood.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” Cordelia yelled when her parents informed both her and Alastair. “They’re exiled? What does that even mean?”

“It means they’re no longer considered Shadowhunters,” said Alastair from where he sat across from her at the dining room table. He was rather unperturbed by the situation which didn’t surprise Cordelia in the least. He never liked the Herondale’s; least of all James Herondale, Lucie’s older brother.

“I know what it means, Alastair, I’m being dramatic,” snapped Cordelia. “What did they do to deserve this? Will has always been an esteemed member of the Clave and Tessa as well. They can’t do this to them!”

Elias, Cordelia’s traitorous father looked to her mother Sona for assistance but her mother looked just as angry as Cordelia felt.

“It’s all to do with their blood,” said Elias carefully.

“Their blood?” Cordelia said as if he’d just announced he was infected with some virulent disease.

“Bigotry, darling,” said Sona and glanced at him over the edge of the purple scarf that concealed her hair. “I think the word you are looking for is ‘bigotry’.”

“No,” said Elias. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Why not,” said Sona, flippantly. “It’s not as if the Clave is here to hear you. We’ve always been honest with the children, it won’t do to stop now.”

“Sona, please.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was an argument that they have had before and did not side with one another. “We agreed to be a unified front.”

“I agreed to no such thing,” said Sona and turned her gaze to Cordelia. “The Clave upon hearing that Tessa’s father is the greater demon Belial, has decided that despite her angelic heritage, her blood is tainted and we cannot allow tainted blood into the community in fear that her demon-side will eventually take over and she— or her children— will be responsible for something horrendous which is the nature of their kind.”

Cordelia gapped like a landlocked fish. “That’s the most idiotic thing I have ever heard!”

Sona nodded.

“Tessa is one of the kindest, sweetest, most good-natured people that I have ever met!” Her voice inched up an octave that had Alastair grimacing. She didn’t care. This was criminal. This went against everything she’d ever believed. Tessa was someone as close to an aunt as Cordelia would ever have. “Doesn’t the angelic blood dominate the demon side anyway!”

Sona nodded. “The Clave claims they do not have enough evidence of this and therefore cannot risk it.”

“You keep saying the Clave,” said Cordelia vehemently. “Who exactly are you referring to?”

“It’s all of them, darling,” said Elias.

Sona rolled her eyes. “Inquisitor Bridgetstock, the toad, is who I am referring to and the hoard of Clave members that he has fear-mongered into following after him. This is what we deserve for establishing a democracy.”

“You’d prefer totalitarianism?” said Elias.

Sona just shrugged again. “If it meant avoiding this lunacy, then yes, I suppose I do.”

Cordelia felt like screaming to release some of the frustration building in her chest. “What about Will?”

“His mother was a mundane,” said Elias.

“Oh.” Cordelia felt her cheeks fill with heat. “So the Clave has something against Mundanes, as well. So was Sophie Lightwood, are they going to exile her too?”

“The Clave is trying to keep the Shadowhunter bloodline pure,” said Elias, carefully, but there was a note of distaste in the last word. “Sophie ascended so therefore she is for all intents and purposes a Shadowhunter. Also, Will wouldn’t abandon Tessa or his children even if it meant keeping his marks. He was very adamant about that part.”

Cordelia slumped back against her chair and crossed her arms in a way she hadn’t done since she was a child. “So what, we’re just meant to pretend like they never existed? Is that what you’re saying?”

Both of her parents averted their eyes. Sona looked down at her hands resting in her lap and Elias stared at the plate of food he hadn’t touched in front of him. “Yes,” he finally said. “The punishment for fraternizing with ‘the exiled’ or any Downworlder unless it is for official Clave business is deemed punishable.”

Cordelia scoffed, but it was Alastair who asked, “Punishable, how?”

“It depends on the severity,” said Elias and meant to leave it at that.

“Meaning,” inquired Cordelia.

“Meaning,” said Elias in a tone that implied he was finished with this conversation. “They are not our friends, colleagues, or otherwise. They are our enemies and we are to treat them as such. They are working on making this into a new law and if broken, it could mean the stripping of your marks.”

Even Alastair’s eyebrows rose at that. “It seems the Inquisitor is finally getting what he wanted after all, a cease and desist on any camaraderie with Downworlders. He always did see them as a vile group.”

Elias nodded but reached over to put his hand on Cordelia’s arm. “I know Lucie was a dear friend.”

Cordelia’s eyes swam with tears at the mention of Lucie’s name. She couldn’t imagine what Lucie was going through now. Was she afraid, angry, lonely, feeling everything all at once? At least she had her family, but was it enough? Would it be enough for Cordelia?

“I cannot stress how important it is that you obey these laws until we can come up with a way to have them disbanded,” said Elias. “I know your heart, Layla, I see its fire at any signs of adversity and I don’t want to be the one to temper it, but I need you to be careful and believe me when I saw, I will do everything within my capabilities to fix this.” He looked at each person sitting at the table with him. “I may not agree with the Clave’s decision, but for our own protection, we must comply. Do you understand?”

“You want us to be silent,” said Cordelia.

Elias’s hand slipped from his daughter’s arm.

“Sometimes words are not enough,” said Sona on the other end of the table. “Sometimes we can speak louder with our action. We have raised you to be free-thinkers, to defend the innocent, and protect the ones that need protecting. We trust that you will use your best judgement on how to do just that.”

Cordelia uncross her arms and dropped her hands into her lap. She wanted more than anything to go to her room and try to send another fire message to Lucie; to rage about how ridiculous this all was, and let her friend know that she wasn’t alone. That not for one moment would she, Cordelia Carstairs, who once painted herself red and marched through the streets of Tehran as a message to their mundane government that she did not agree with the patriarchal rules placed on women, would go along with these laws.

She thought of the Blackthorn family motto: Lex malla, lex nulla.

A bad law is no law and how she wished she could claim it is her own.

But she couldn’t message Lucie. She didn’t even have a way to reach her and maybe Lucie didn’t want to speak to her anyway if she hadn’t even attempted to contact her in some other way.

“I hate this,” she said quietly.

“I know, Layla,” said her mother. “I know.”

“What of the Fairchilds?” asked Alastair, stirring his mashed potatoes around with his fork. “How did the Clave get Charlotte to agree to this? They’re practically family. Isn’t the blond one parabatai with the eldest of the Herondales?”

Elias sighed and nodded. “He is— was. He is being stripped of his mark this week.”

Cordelia gasped and felt as if she might vomit. “Matthew would never!”

“He didn’t have a choice,” said Elias. “It was either have his parabatai mark removed or be exiled.”

“He’d choose to be exiled.” Cordelia didn’t know Matthew Fairchild all that well, but she knew he wouldn’t abandon his dearest and oldest friend. The friend he chose to tie his own life.

“He’s not yet eighteen,” said Elias. “He cannot make that choice.”

“Charlotte is allowing this?”

“Charlotte has been removed from her place as Consul for not agreeing to any of this and is being replaced by Marcus Pounceby.”

“Marcus Pounceby!” said Alastair and Cordelia together.

Their father just nodded though his expression had grown increasingly tired. “Yes, it appears that if one just bends every which way for the Clave one can achieve a lot.”

Cordelia had to physically restrain herself from flipping the table. “This is bullshit!”

“Cordelia!” Her mother hissed. “I know you’re upset, but I won’t hear that sort of language at the table.”

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t, and saying ‘this is crap’ just didn’t justify how she felt. “I can’t believe this is happening. I thought we were supposed to be better than mundanes. This feels like its been torn directly out of one of their history books. Next they’ll have use hunting Downworlders and demons.” She couldn’t sit there any longer. She couldn’t handle any more information that made her want to portal directly to Alicante and demand they strip her of her marks. What was stopping them from exiling her family next? What if they stopped liking her hair color or decided she wasn’t fit to be a Shadowhunter because she was a woman? “May I be excused?”

“You haven’t eaten anything,” said her mother.

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Your mother worked—“ Elias started but Sona shook her head and said, “Yes, just clear your plate and you can go.”

——————

In the week that followed that conversation things progressively got worse. It helped that she was in Tehran with her friends, battling demons that terrorized the night and training during the day, until that fateful night when her father declared that they were moving to the London Institute.

The inside seemed as dark and cold as the outside. She didn’t remember it being this way when she visited as a girl. It used to be so full of light, but perhaps it was the people that occupied it that made it that way. Now, it seemed as lonely and depressed by their absence as Cordelia felt.

She dragged her suitcase up the flight of stairs to the second story and shuffled down the hall at a glacial pace as if every step was a concession to agreeing to live here. The hallway had holes in it where pictures were once hung by Tessa of her family and their lives there. Cordelia could remember a few: one of Tessa and Will on their wedding day, another of Tessa heavily pregnant while hanging a Christmas ornament on the tree, one of Will holding a baby, and one of all four of them together underneath the Eiffel Tower. Lucie was only six in the picture and resting her tired head on her father’s shoulder. James stood in front of his mum with a half-smile on his face and a baguette in each of his hands.

The barren walls seemed to groan and sigh as she walked past.

The door she knew to be hers was already opened, a dull strip of light came out into the hallway. Cordelia stood in front of the dark red wood of the door and nudged it open with the toe of her boot. It squeaked on its hinges as it slowly revealed the bedroom inside.

Memories of laughter crashed into her like a blast of icy, winter wind. Two little girls sitting on the massive bed, the covers were thrown over their heads with a witch light glowing between them, as they brought their collection of dolls to life in elaborate stories.

It still smelled like her— like Lucie. A mixture of Damascus roses, ink, and freshly printed papers.

Cordelia sighed and dropped her bag at her feet.

The bed was the only thing that remained of what used to be Lucie’s old bedroom. Stripped of the colorful coverlet and sheets that Lucie had chosen, it was just an old mattress with a plush, lavender velvet headboard. The only sign of there ever having been any more furniture were the marks in the wooden floorboard where Lucie’s writing desk sat and piles of dust in the corners.

“It’s not much now,” said her mother whom she hadn’t heard come up behind her. “But you can make it your own.”

Cordelia scoffed. “I don’t want to make it my own.” It was Lucie’s. It would always be Lucie’s.

She felt her mother’s hand on her waist. “I know this is difficult for you, Layla, but we must make the best of it. It’s what Lucie would have wanted.”

Cordelia turned. “Please don’t talk about her as if she’s dead. I did what you asked, I moved here, please don’t expect me to be happy about it. It’s not enough that I have to stay in this house, but I have to live in her room and make it my own. I won’t. My stuff may be stored in here, but it’s not mine. My room is in Tehran.” She turned back around and glared at the large space before her as if it’d done her some great wrong.

Sona patted her daughter on the waist before releasing her. “I didn’t come up here to upset you more, but I feel I should warn you. The Inquisitor and the Consul are coming by in an hour to meet us. They want to discuss a few things with your father over dinner. I was told to tell you to please be on your absolute best behavior.”

“So you’re asking me to sit there and look pretty?”

Sona’s eyebrows quirked. “We need to support your father. He is the only one in the Clave that has any semblance of reason. They trust him, we need to help strengthen that trust if he is to help make sense of some of this nonsense. Do you understand?”

Cordelia hugged herself. “I hate them.”

“Hate them all you like,” said Sona. “You don’t even have to speak to them if you don’t want to, but you do need to be present. The Consul’s son will be there.”

“Augustus?” said Cordelia with distaste. “Can’t you tell them I’m ill or tired from our travels. Jet lag is still a thing even if you portal.”

Sona tapped her wrist where a watch should be. “Dinner is at seven. Dress respectably.”

Cordelia looked down at the black bike shorts she had under the oversized gray sweatshirt she’d thrown on that morning while she finished all her last-minute packing. By respectable, she knew her mother meant nice, pretty, clean. Look how they want you to look so we can attempt to impress Inquisitor Bridgestock and Consul Pounceby because even though we don’t agree with their decisions, we still have to abide by their laws.

It made her want to punch a hole in the wall or throw something out the window.

She pulled the strap for the scabbard holding Cortana, her beloved sword, over her neck and rested her blade against the wall beside the closet door, and walked across the room to sit on the edge of the mattress.

Never once in her life was she ever not proud to be a Shadowhunter. It was as much a part of her as the color of skin, her name, or the distinct tone of her voice. The angelic blood sang in her veins and powered her limbs to protect those who could not protect themselves against the darkness and evil that threatened it. Never once did she consider that darkness and evil could ever touch or harm her community; that it would never be found there. Now, she came to realize, it was not so far away.

How could she fight her government? She couldn’t, not without consequences, but how could she stay silent either about what she knew to be wrong and unjust.

Her whole existence felt like the inside of a snow globe after it was turned upside down and shaken. Now, she just had to wait for the dust to settle, and perhaps things would not look so different then.

———————

The Consul was the first to arrive.

Cordelia stood in the bathroom mirror smoothing out the dress she’d thrown in the bag she packed while they waited for the rest of their things to arrive from Tehran. The white of the soft fabric warmed her skin and brought out the flecks of copper in her red hair that she left down and curled at the ends. Her mother would scoff at the length of the hem, falling to the middle of her thighs. It wasn’t exactly what Cordelia would have chosen to wear to this dinner either, but she’d left her Fuck the Patriarchy t-shirt and ripped jeans in the box with all of her clothes in Tehran. It may be written in Persian, but the look on her parents’ face would have been worth it, and who knows, perhaps it could have been a conversation starter.

She was pulling on a pair of dark leather sandals when she heard the sound of voices fill the foray. Her mother’s warm, but fake laughter sent a pinch across Cordelia’s spine. She knew it wasn’t sincere, but she still would rather hear the sound of her mother kicking them out of her house rather than welcoming them in.

I am not being complicit, she told herself as she turned towards the bedroom door. I am infiltrating the enemy. I will find their weakness. I will attempt to understand them so I can use the knowledge later to destroy them… And I will spit in their water glasses and lick their bread rolls.

With a practiced smile, she marched towards the door when she felt the give and heard the groan from a floorboard beneath her foot. She looked down and carefully lifted her right foot and watched as the board rose back up.

Interesting. None of the other boards did that.

Carefully, she got down onto her knees and dug her nails into the crack around the board. The perimeters showed markings of being dug out before. She pried it up enough to get her fingers underneath and it popped up with ease. She slid it away and beneath was a white sheet of paper with a garden stone sitting on top of it and Cordelia’s name written on the front.

Cordelia looked up to make sure no one was coming. The voices could still be heard from the foray and dinner didn’t technically start for five more minutes.

She reached down into the hole and slid the paper out from underneath the rock.

Sitting back on her hip, she unfolded it and read:

50 Ernest St, Bethnal Green, London

The Old Clock Tower

February 3, at 10 P.M.

Cielu Rhonelade

Cielu Rhonelade. Cordelia smiled as she mentally rearranged the letters to read Lucie Herondale. It was her nom de plume for a time when they were kids and Lucie wanted to be like the author George Eliot and claim her work under a different name.

But it was Lucie, of that Cordelia was sure, and she wanted to meet with Cordelia tonight.

A/N:

This story can also be found on AO3 if you would prefer to read it there.

Likes, comments, and reblog are always appreciated!

Next update: Friday, 5/14

[1dffchallenges]

Boundless As the Sea

Written By: @wokeuptired​

Characters: Niall/Bea

Summary: There's nothing Beatrix Madison finds as silly as Romeo and Juliet, but Niall Horan's a sucker for a love story—even though his own has gone off the rails. When he finds a letter from Bea's grandmother dated half a century ago in the wall below Juliet's balcony, he has to write back. He doesn't expect anything to come of it, and he certainly doesn't expect to find himself going head to head with Bea. 

Author's note: The title is from Act 2, scene 2, when Juliet, on her balcony, says to Romeo, "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep. The more I give to thee, / The more I have, for both are infinite." 

Warnings: enough f words to earn an R rating

One - Bea

For as long as she could remember, Beatrix Madison’s grandmother had never taken lunch without a glass of wine. White, red, sparkling, it didn’t matter, so long as it was alcoholic and complimented the dish. So when Bea arrives for lunch today and sits down at a table devoid of wine glasses, she knows instantly that something is up.

There’s water waiting for her, and a cup of tea that Gran always orders for Bea even though Bea never drinks it. That’s their weekly ritual: lunch every Thursday at Gran’s favorite restaurant, the same meals every time, same table, same waitstaff, and same cup of tea that Bea will never, ever, drink.

The only thing out of place today is the missing wineglass that always sits beside Gran’s plate. Nothing seems amiss about Gran herself: her gray hair is piled primly on top of her head, her lips are touched with a pale mauve, and her cardigan is neatly buttoned all the way up. She’s Gran as always. Except for the wine.

“Is everything all right?” Bea asks, sliding her phone underneath her thigh so that she can give her grandmother her full attention. That’s another one of Gran’s things: she hates cell phones at the table as much as she loves wine. She hates them so much that she didn’t even have one, instead relying on a landline that she often fails to answer.

“Of course, dear,” her grandmother answers. Though she’s coming up on her 75th birthday, Gran certainly doesn’t look it. Nothing has slowed her down, not even taking on the responsibility of raising Bea from the time she was 9, after her parents’ death in a car accident. Gran was in her mid-fifties at the time, looking forward to retiring and traveling and a life free of responsibility, and then life saddled her with Bea.

Now, coming up on 80, she seems to be thriving, which is something that Bea does her best not to be too upset about. It wasn’t her fault her parents died, leaving her grandmother to raise her, but Bea feels guilty about it nonetheless, even now that she’s 25 and hasn’t been a burden to Gran for several years.

“Eat your salad,” Gran says just as a waiter appears and sets it down in front of her.

Bea picks up her fork and stabs at a tomato, misses, and spends another ten seconds chasing it around her plate before she catches it. When she puts it in her mouth and looks up, her grandmother is watching her.

“Are you sure everything’s alright, Gran?” Bea asks again. Her heart clenches, thinking of the worst. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Of course not,” her grandmother says, smiling. Bea can’t remember the last time she saw her grandmother smile this much. Something is definitely going on. Maybe Gran has mastered a new banana bread recipe or purchased a new piece of art for the hallway and she’s eager to show it off. Yes, that’s probably it. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong. Tell me about your date on Friday. Did it go as expected?”

Bea grimaces. It was much, much worse than expected. “Not at all. He was twenty minutes late and then spent another twenty minutes talking about his ex. And he was wearing far too much cologne.”

Gran laughs. “You’re far too picky, Bea Bug. Maybe that’s your problem.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Bea says. “He really was awful, Gran. You’re lucky you’ll never have to meet him.”

“Mmm.” Gran’s eyes twitch to the side, where Bea notices an envelope sitting on the table. She also notices that her grandmother has barely touched her own salad, dressing on the side, just how she always orders it. “Speaking of love…”

“Speaking of love?”

Gran touches the envelope and slides it across the table towards Bea. “Fancy a trip to Italy?”

“Italy?” Bea turns the envelope over. It’s addressed to Gran at her estate just outside London, which, if you’re old and snooty, is what’s known as “the family seat.” It’s the house that Bea will begrudgingly inherit someday (hopefully not someday soon), along with all the accrued debt that will come with it. She slips her finger under the flap, which has already been unsealed, and finds a folded letter and another, smaller envelope inside.

“Juliet” is written on the outside of the envelope. Bea opens it and takes out the letter it contains.

Verona, 1965

Juliet, I don’t know what to do. I’m meant to leave tomorrow to return to London, where Robert is waiting for me. We’ve been betrothed since we were teenagers, and he is my destiny, the one I’ve always known about.

But now there is Alessandro, whose dark hair shines under the moonlight when I sneak out after dark to meet him. I feel like a teenager again, not like a university student months away from graduation and marriage. Alessandro makes me feel invincible. He makes me feel like I am worth the world.

Oh, Juliet, what would you do? I know what you’d do. You’d pack up your suitcase and run away with Alessandro tonight. You’d leave behind your destined life in England and choose a new destiny for yourself.

But what if, Juliet, what if I’m not brave enough?

Yours,

Carolyn

Bea reads the letter through a second time, her mind spinning. Finally, she raises her eyes from the wrinkled piece of paper and meets her Gran’s gaze. “Gran, did you write this?”

Her Gran smiles, nods. “Years ago, yes. Now you must read the other letter.”

Oh, God. What could it possibly be? Is it from Alessandro, writing to Gran after all these years, asking her to return to Verona and marry him? Did he find out that Gramps passed away ages ago and is regretting all the years he spent away from Gran?

And then another thought pops up, this one worse than all the rest. Gramps died just before Bea’s parents, which meant Gran was a free agent… until she had to take over caring for Bea.

Oh, God, Bea thinks.

Did I keep Gran away from her true love for 25 years?

Bea shakes off the question, for the moment, at least, and unfolds the remaining letter, keenly aware that it is about to turn her life upside down.

   Two - Niall

It’s a strange thing, how you can go from being engaged one moment to being completely unengaged the next. Engaged, and then you’re not. Your whole life planned out, and then—nothing. Blissful, empty, beautiful nothing. 

Rhiannon had gone from Niall’s favorite person on earth to his least favorite overnight. Or maybe it wasn’t overnight: he didn’t wake up, feel the sun breaking through the blinds, and realize that he needed to break off his engagement. But it only took a second for Rhiannon to react to the suggestion that maybe getting married wasn’t the best idea, and Niall knew he’d made the right choice. 

“Oh, thank God,” she’d said. They were having dinner at their favorite restaurant in Seven Dials, which was to say, Rhiannon’s favorite restaurant and a place that Niall had neither particularly negative or positive feelings about. She’d started telling people it was their favorite restaurant, and then it became too late to correct her, and now they’d been going there at least once a month since the early days of their relationship. 

Niall didn’t intend to initiate the breakup there, at their so-called favorite restaurant, but he was watching Rhiannon peruse the menu just as he had the month before, and he knew she was only moments away from ordering for him, and in his mind he imagined doing this for the rest of his life, and he knew he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. 

And Rhiannon had reacted better than expected. She’d always been a bit of a dramatic person, so he’d been prepared for her to throw down her fork and storm out, or at least raise her voice a bit. But instead she thanked him. 

“I’ve been meaning to say something for ages!” she’d said. “But you know how my mum is. Which is why we can’t tell anyone.” 

“I—what?” Niall had been reasonably confused. The whole point of ending their engagement was so they didn’t have to still be engaged. He did not want to pretend. 

“Our Italy trip. My mum’s already paid for it, and if we tell her we broke up, she’ll cancel the whole thing, and you know how much I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Right. Niall knew. She talked about it constantly, was constantly texting him pictures of places she wanted to see and restaurants she wanted to try. He was not looking forward to three weeks of following her around a country where he didn’t speak the language, eating too many carbs. 

But as he’d looked in her eyes that night, the night that should’ve been their last together, he figured he could do her this one last favor. He could stick it out for another month, spend three weeks with her in Italy and then be done with it. 

So that’s how he’d ended up here, sitting on a bench in a square in Verona, staring up at a balcony purported to be the one from Shakespeare’s famous Romeo and Juliet, even though Shakespeare never even traveled to Italy. Rhiannon ditched him this morning, boarding a bus for a wine tour in the countryside that he had absolutely no interest in. Instead, he caught a walking tour and ended up here. 

This bench is apparently his new home, as he’s been here for three hours and, try as he might, he just can’t get himself to move. He’s fascinated by what he is seeing: girl after girl, and even the occasional guy, shoving letters into the loose bricks under the balcony, tears running down their faces. The tour guide had said that people came here from all over the world to leave letters to Juliet, begging her to fix their love woes. 

A while ago, someone had left a notepad on Niall’s bench after finishing their own letter, and someone else had discarded a pen on the ground. Niall had spent half an hour staring at it, feeling as if it was beckoning him. No one needs love advice more than him right now. He’s probably the only one in this country on vacation with their ex-fiancée and zero desire to win her back.

Now, finally, he stills the pen after spending twenty minutes spinning it between his fingers, and he begins to write. 

Dear Juliet,

No offense, but I think your story is a load of bull. Love isn’t real, and it certainly wasn’t real for you and Romeo. You were only 14 years old, and neither of you made it out alive. That certainly isn’t the kind of love I want. 

So what do I want? I’m not sure, but I know it isn’t Rhiannon. I thought I loved her once, but I know better now. I know that I just wanted to be in love. I just wanted someone to spend evenings on the couch with, to go to the cinema with, to introduce to my mates. Rhiannon was all of those things, but she was also annoying and difficult and after a while, not very much fun to be around. She made me forget what I once liked about myself. 

Is that what love is, then? Someone who makes the things you like about yourself shine like neon? Someone who brings out the best in you, like they say in all the films? 

Does such a thing exist? I guess I’ll just have to keep looking. 

-- Niall Horan

London, England

When he finishes, he folds it up before he can think better of it and approaches the wall, looking for a good spot to stick it. It’s nearing sunset, and the wall is bursting with letters shoved here and there, crammed into every visible crack. If he can’t find room for his, how will anyone who came tomorrow find a place for theirs? 

He turns, looking at the other visitors to the wall. A few feet away, a teenager presses a kiss to her envelope before jamming it underneath a loose brick. Further down, a woman takes a letter from the wall and drops it in a basket. Wait—she’s taking a letter from the wall? Niall inches closer.

Yep, that’s definitely what she’s doing. She stretches onto her tiptoes to grab a letter just above her head, and when she can’t quite reach it, Niall steps forward to pluck it from the brick for her. 

“Grazie,” she says, smiling at him and holding out her hand for the letter. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Niall says. He holds the letter hostage for a second, though. “Are you stealing the letters?” 

The woman laughs. “Stealing? No, of course not. We write back.” 

“You write back?” Niall turns his own letter over in his hand and considers throwing it away. He didn’t realize someone would read it. 

“Yes.” The woman slips her basket over her arm and holds out her hand. “I’m Sonia.” 

“Niall.” She reminds him a bit of his mum, with soft smile lines around her mouth and light eyes. That must be why he returns her handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Niall,” Sonia says. “Would you like to help?”

Would I like to help? Niall repeats the question in his mind. On the one hand, he’s absolutely shit when it comes to love—the letter he’s hiding behind his back right now is proof enough of that—but on the other hand, he doesn’t have anything else to do. 

“Sure,” he says. “I’d love to help.” 

   Three - Bea

Verona is full to the brim with tourists, something Bea should’ve been expecting. She’d deluded herself into thinking that since it wasn’t Florence or Rome or Venice, it’d be quieter, she’d be able to wander the streets and appreciate the cobblestones and worn door knockers without bumping into American tourists, but she was wrong. 

American tourists are everywhere, and Japanese tourists and French tourists and Indian tourists, huge groups of them wearing matching lanyards and giggling as they clog the narrow roads, and Bea regrets this entire trip. 

She’s regretted the decision to come since the word “yes” came out of her mouth, but once she saw Gran's smile, there was no going back. This was something Gran had been waiting years for. 

Not that they’ve talked about that. Bea’s just turned it over and over in her mind, convincing herself that she’s held her Gran back from living a full life with the hot Italian man she loved when she was twenty years old. She can’t begrudge Gran her chance at happiness now. 

“Mi scusi,” Bea mutters, pushing her way through a crowd of American teenagers. She’s just slipped out of lunch with Gran, telling her she was running into a store they’d passed to get a gift for her boss, and her time is limited. Now she’s going to have to do what she intends and duck into a store for a gift in the time it would take to do only the latter. 

The alleyway ahead is crowded, which is a good indication that Bea is approaching her target: the house where the women who respond to Juliet’s letters meet. After reading the letter in the envelope and agreeing to Gran’s insane Italy plan, Bea had done a quick Google search, just to understand what she was dealing with. 

From what she found online, the letter writers seem harmless, for the most part—just middle-aged and older women who like indulging the whims of lovesick teenagers. Teenagers being the key word. Gran isn’t a teenager, though—she’s a grown woman with disposable income and the ability to pick up her life and bloody move to Italy if she so chooses—and Bea needs to let these letter writers know just how much damage they’ve done. 

Particularly N. Nancy? Natalia? Nicola? Bea will waste no time finding out when she arrives. N is the one who answered Gran’s letter, encouraging her to abandon her life and seek out her lost love, potentially setting herself up for heartbreak. Heartbreak again, because her heart was already broken once, 55 years ago, when she returned to England to marry Bea’s grandfather instead of running away with Alessandro. 

What if’s are dangerous things, N had written, suggesting that it was better to avoid them at all, if one could help it. It was better to go after the things you wanted, even if those things might end up disappointing you.

This is not, suffice it to say, Bea’s life philosophy.

Bea passes the courtyard where all the tourists are gathering beneath Juliet’s balcony and makes a left. There is so much potential chaos ahead, so Bea rolls her shoulders back and focuses on the things she can control. First on the list, giving this N a piece of her mind. 

At the end of the alleyway, Bea stops in front of the door that has a knocker shaped like an envelope. She’d read a description of it online, but there weren’t any photos: the letter writers like the anonymity, she gathered, of having a headquarters with no address. Bea smiles, proud of herself for locating it, and knocks. 

A second later, the door opens, revealing a woman with dark hair and pasta sauce on her apron. “Bonjourno?”

“Hello,” Bea says, playing the odds that this woman speaks English. She grabs the letter out of the back pocket of her shorts and holds it up. “I’m looking for the writer of this letter.” 

“Hmm.” The woman frowns and holds her hand out for the letter. 

Bea hesitates. What if the woman doesn’t give it back? What if she destroys it because Bea’s breaking some unspoken rule by coming here? Maybe Bea shouldn’t hand it over. 

“It’s alright,” the woman says, seeming to sense Bea’s reluctance. “I’ll just look at the signature, and then you can have it back.”

Bea nods, handing it over. 

“Ah,” the woman says a second later, returning the letter to Bea. “He’s here today, actually. You’re in luck. Please, come in.”

He? But Bea doesn’t have time to think it through as she follows the woman into the house. They pass through a narrow corridor and emerge into a dining room, where ten people sit around a table covered in letters. Piles of letters, baskets full of letters, letters everywhere. It reminds Bea of that scene in “Harry Potter” when Harry’s letters from Hogwarts burst through the fireplace. It’s complete chaos.

“Niall, she’s here for you,” the woman says. A man with dark hair seated at the far end of the table looks up. 

“For me?” he says, standing up and walking towards her. He has some kind of ridiculous, cartoon character accent.

“You?” Bea stares at him. This is impossible. This entire thing is impossible. It’s a dream, this all has to be a dream, that’s the only reasonable explanation. She clutches the letter in front of her like she’s warding off a demon. “You wrote this letter?”

Niall nods. He’s taller than her and wearing khaki pants, which, she decides, is the strangest thing about him, the whole writing-letters-with-old-Italian-ladies thing notwithstanding. An Irish, khaki pants-wearing, letter-writing, heart-breaking demon.

“I did,” he says. “But I take it you’re not the recipient?” 

“Of course not,” Bea says roughly. “I’m her granddaughter whose life has just been entirely upended because of this letter, because my Gran has dragged me all the way to bloody Italy to try to find this bloke she loved 55 years ago, who might not even still be alive, and it’s your fault!” 

Said bloke, instead of taking responsibility for his actions, smiles at her. He fucking smiles at her. 

“Carolyn is here?” he says. “That’s excellent. Can I meet her?” 

That is so not what Bea was expecting to hear, so it takes her a moment and a bit of sputtering to muster a sensible response. “No, of course not. Absolutely not. That is not happening.” 

“Okay,” Niall says, nodding slowly, his smile lessening slightly. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, then. It was nice to meet you.”

“It wasn’t nice to meet you!” Bea snaps before turning and rushing from the building before she can say anything else. 

Jesus H. Christ, she thinks as she reenters the alleyway and slides around another group of tourists. Could she have been any more embarrassing? She’d had a whole speech planned out—she was going to tell the letter writer, who, yes, she’d assumed would be a woman, how irresponsible it was to respond to a letter from 55 years ago, knowing it was possible and even likely that she’d be upsetting the balance of someone’s life. She was going to lay it out simply and with such biting and intelligent language that the letter writer would be begging at her feet for forgiveness by the end of it. 

Instead, she’d responded with a comeback worthy of a ten year old on a playground and run away in shame. 

Best not dwell on it. Next mission: buy the first tacky gift she sees and get back to lunch. 

Seven minutes later, snow globe bagged in her hand, Bea slides back into the chair across from her grandmother. 

“Sorry about that,” she says, over-exaggerating her breathing to make it seem like she’d hurried back. “The line was crazy! This was the perfect gift, though, so I couldn’t let it get away.” 

“Of course, dear,” Gran says. “I ordered dessert while you were gone. I got you tiramisu.” 

“Thanks, Gran.” Bea smiles. Good old Gran, always taking care of her. Even now that she’s a full-grown adult, capable of ordering her own food and embarrassing herself in front of strangers all by herself, her Gran is still helping her along. “After lunch, do you want to—”

“Carolyn?” 

Bea whips her head around and, oh, crud, he’s followed her. He strides up to their table like he’s been invited and extends a hand to Gran. 

“I’m Niall,” he says. “I wrote the letter.”

“Oh!” Gran grabs his hand and uses it to pull herself to her feet, though Bea isn’t sure that’s what he intended. “It’s so nice to meet you! Thank you so much for your letter! Please join us.”

“Are you sure?” Niall says, putting a hand on the back of the empty chair. He looks at Bea, an eyebrow raised. “Bea invited me, but I really don’t want to intrude.” 

Bea raises an eyebrow right back. The nerve of him, this Irish bloke with bright blue eyes and the audacity to upend her grandmother’s life and butt in on their lunch. How rude. How inconvenient. How inconvenient and rude. 

“You’re not intruding. Please, sit!”

“Thank you!” He sits down right next to Bea as Gran flags over the waitress and orders three cups of hot tea. Niall will probably drink his, the bastard. 

   Four - Niall

An hour later, Niall has the full story and plans for at least the next two days. Caro, as she likes to be called, invites him to join her and her granddaughter on their Alessandro hunt, and who is Niall to refuse? Especially when it seems to be driving Caro’s granddaughter—Bea is her name—so crazy. 

It’s been a long time since Niall’s had the pleasure of annoying a beautiful woman, and he’s not about to pass up an opportunity to continue doing so. 

“You’re sure you don’t have other plans?” Bea asks for the third time, her voice so high-pitched that Niall wonders if she’s stopped breathing. 

“No, definitely not,” Niall says, taking a sip of the tea that Caro ordered for him. Very polite, she is. “My, um, fiancée is off on a wine tour for the next few days, so I’m free.” 

“You’re in Italy with your fiancée and you want to spend your vacation going on a snipe hunt with us across the whole countryside?” 

Caro laughs. “You’re so dramatic, Bea Bug. It’s hardly the whole countryside, just one region. And a snipe hunt, what nonsense!” 

Niall grins. He likes Caro; she has a pleasant voice and speaks warmly, as if it’s a pleasure to be listened to. “I’d love to join, if you’ll both have me.” 

“I don’t think—”

Caro cuts Bea off. “Of course we will. It will be our pleasure.” 

“It will be my pleasure,” Niall says. Bea scoffs. 

Back at his hotel room that evening, Niall waits for Rhiannon to return from today’s food tour with a ball of anxiety swirling around his stomach. This is something he probably should’ve discussed with her before he agreed to it, right? Or maybe not. Now that they’re no longer engaged, they don’t have to clear things with each other anymore. Niall can do what he wants, when he wants. He can make decisions for himself without considering how they’ll impact anyone else.

So it’s a force of habit, then, that has him sitting in the armchair next to their bed—the bed they’re sharing, though it feels more like sleeping next to a friend than an ex-lover—and picking at his cuticles. He keeps glancing at the door, waiting for the moment Rhiannon is going to burst through. She’ll have acquired at least two bottles of wine on her bus tour, a slight sunburn on the tip of her nose, and, he’d bet 10 quid, plans for dinner with a new American friend.

Twenty minutes later, there she is, red-faced and smiling, exactly as he expected.

“Oh, Niall, you weren’t waiting for me, would you?” she says, setting her bags down on the bed. “I’ve got plans with my new American mate for dinner. We’re absolutely dying to try this place near the Piazza delle Erbe. I hope that’s alright? You can come with us, if you’d like.” 

“That’s okay,” Niall says. “Actually, Rhi, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure.” Rhiannon flips open her suitcase and begins digging through it, throwing a pair of shoes on the floor, and then another. She’s looking for a particular dress, he expects, one that will show her new American friend just how London cool she is. “What’s up?”

Niall contemplates how to explain. Best to keep things as simple as possible, he reckons. “I met some people today and they invited me to travel with them for a couple of days.”

“Hmm?” Rhiannon finds the dress she was searching for and smiles at it triumphantly before picking up her makeup bag. “A few days? That sounds nice. Travel where?” 

“Around Verona, to some of the vineyards and smaller towns.” That sounds truthful enough, doesn’t it? There’s no need to mention Caro or the letter or Juliet’s balcony, and there especially isn’t any need to mention Bea, the granddaughter whose sass and long legs make Niall’s blood boil. 

“Sounds like fun,” Rhiannon says. She looks up from her makeup bag, a tube of mascara in her hand, and smiles at him. Crazy how that smile used to make him smile in return, and now it does nothing to him. “Teresa, that’s my new American mate, wants to take the train out to Venice for a day or two. Should we touch base in a few days?”

“Oh,” Niall says, feeling strangely hurt by this information. He’d expected Rhiannon to be upset, or at least slightly inconvenienced by the plans he’d made that did not involve her, and instead, here she is, with Niall-less plans of her own. Would she have even told him about her plans if he hadn’t brought up his first? He doubts it. 

As soon as they’d landed in Italy, Rhiannon had taken off her engagement ring, sealing it into the inner pocket of her makeup bag. 

“I’ll give it back to you when we have our staged breakup, when we get back home,” she’d told him. 

Some bit of Niall, some deep, ego-driven bit of his soul, had been hoping that Rhiannon was using this trip as a ruse to win him back. She didn’t want to break up, not really, so she conned him into coming on the trip with her so she could prance around in skimpy summer wear and lure him into loving her again. 

He didn’t want to love her again, of course, but part of him, that ugly, prideful part, wanted her to want him to lover her again.

It didn’t make any sense, he knew that, and it wasn’t until Rhiannon took off her ring that he realized he was being tremendously silly. But part of him still aches, even now, a week later. 

A breakup is a rejection, even a mutual breakup. As Niall was rejecting Rhiannon, she was rejecting him right back, and part of him, though he’s loath to admit it, is hurt by that. This conversation has just reinforced those feelings.

“Sure,” Niall says, attempting to shake off the emotion welling in the back of his throat. “We’ll touch base in a few days. I’m leaving in the morning, so you can check out of the hotel whenever you’d like.” 

Rhiannon smiles. “Thanks for being so understanding about all this, Ni,” she says. “Coming on the trip and everything. You really didn’t have to do all this for me.” 

Niall shrugs. “I’d be crazy to turn down a free trip to Italy.”

   Five - Bea

“He should be here any minute, dear.”

Bea looks up from her phone and resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Great,” she says. “I’m eager to get on the road.” 

Eager is a bit of an exaggeration. Bea knows she would’ve been crazy to pass up a trip to Italy, even a trip with her grandmother, but this is far from ideal. Their travel companion is as far from ideal as one could get. 

But this matters to her grandmother, so Bea will suck it up, put her best face forward, and pretend she likes the Irish bloke. 

Well, she’ll at least pretend to tolerate him. 

As they wait, Bea begins to develop a list of things that she doesn’t like about Niall, just to fill the time. First, he doesn’t care about anyone aside from himself: he didn’t give a thought to how his letter would cause upheaval to Gran’s life (or the lives of those around her) before he wrote it. Second, he hides his evil tendencies under a charming appearance, complete with sweet blue eyes and a homey accent and well-fitted shirts. Gran, bless her heart, will never discover just how disingenuous he really is. 

But Bea knows. And, she decides, it will be her mission on this trip to make sure that Gran realizes it. 

She’ll have to do it subtly, though. Very subtly—no big speeches or yelling, or Gran will realize what Bea’s trying to do, and she will not be pleased. She’ll pull Bea aside and scold her just like she did when Bea was a child on the playground, cutting other little kids in the queue for the swings.

“Oh, there he is!” Gran says now. “Beatrix, look!” Niall is climbing out of a taxi at the end of the hotel’s round driveway. He accepts his bag from the driver in exchange for a couple of folded bills and steps out of the way so the car can leave. 

Bea considers him as he pauses and adjusts the roll of his shirtsleeves—they’re cuffed just above his elbows, which is definitely not attractive in any way—before he grabs his duffle bag off the ground, swings it over his shoulder, and turns towards the building. Even the way he walks is infuriating, all jovial, like he doesn’t have anywhere he’d rather be.

Bea can think of a thousand places she’d rather be.

Gran waves instantly. “Niall! Over here!” 

Bea forces a smile onto her face as he approaches. He’s smiling too, though it dulls significantly when his eyes meet hers. 

Go away, she attempts to communicate through her glare alone.

Over my dead body, she imagines his glare answering.

“Good morning, Caro, Bea,” he says. “Are you two ready to go?” 

“Yes, certainly,” Gran says. “We’re so excited to have you joining us. Bea will drive. Bea, can you help Niall with his bag?” 

“Of course—”

“That’s not—”

Bea and Niall speak at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes in a staring contest of wills that ends when Niall looks away and picks up his bag. 

“Pop the trunk, would you please, Bea?” he asks. 

Bea grits her teeth and complies. This is going to be a long, long few days.

Five minutes later, they’re all in the car, Gran and Niall chatting as Bea tries not to grip the steering wheel too tightly. Driving has never been easy for Bea. She’s always worried about what the other drivers are going to do. Will someone merge into her lane without signaling, leaving her little time to brake or merge out of their way? Will someone run a red and bash into her car? There are so many things that can go wrong, and none of them are in her control. 

Which is why Bea has remained in London, even as so many of her mates moved out to the suburbs. In London, you don’t need to drive. You take the Tube or an Uber or a taxi to get where you want to go, and you never have to worry about having enough petrol or parking illegally by accident and getting a ticket. 

Driving in Verona is nearly as bad, or maybe worse, than driving in London, Bea decides as yet another taxi driver forces his way in front of her car. She grits her teeth again; her dentist is not going to be happy with her. 

“Macbeth is my favorite,” Niall is saying, and, were Bea less focused on the road, she would pipe up to tell him how wrong he is (Hamlet is obviously Shakespeare’s best work), but as it is, there’s nothing she can do. She comes to a stop at a red light and forces herself to take a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth. 

“Make a left at the next signal,” the Apple Maps robot voice chirps from her phone, which is clipped to a vent on the dashboard. 

Fuck you, Bea thinks, gritting her teeth. She can see the next intersection, and a left turn there isn’t going to be easy. Protected lefts do not, apparently, exist in this country. The light changes and Bea eases into the intersection. The car in front of her appears to be looking for a parking space, but the entire block is packed on both sides of the street.

“Gah,” she huffs, letting out a breath. 

“Don’t forget to turn left up ahead, Bea bug,” Gran says.

“Got it, Gran.”

Bea takes another calming breath, but she feels anything but calm.

   Six - Niall

Bea is the most tense driver Niall has ever witnessed, but that shouldn’t surprise him, considering how tense she is as a human being just existing. They’ve only been in the car half an hour, but from the looks she’s sending him in the rearview mirror, he’s sure she’s thought about ways to kill him at least half a dozen times.

Before they got in the car, when he pulled her aside so he could tell her the address of their first Alessandro, she looked at him like she wanted to murder him. Not just murder him, but chop him into tiny pieces and scatter him about the Italian countryside.

If Caro wasn’t in the car as well, he’d probably already be dead. She’d flip the car off the side of the road and land them in a field full of grazing cattle, where, if he by some miracle didn’t die in the crash, he would be licked to death by cows. 

“What was it you studied in uni, dear?” Caro asks him, drawing his attention away from Bea, who absolutely doesn’t care what he studied in uni. 

“Political science,” he says. “But I’m a journalist now.” 

Bea scoffs. “Of course you are,” she says quietly. 

Caro either doesn’t hear or decides to pretend that she didn’t. “That’s wonderful. What do you write?” 

“Human interest, mostly,” Niall says, which is the simplest way of saying, I spent six months shadowing a homeless encampment on the South Bank last year. “My last piece was published in The Guardian, but I freelance.”

“Oh, how freeing!” Caro exclaims. “Bea, you should consider that. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have no boss? No schedule! You could have as many vacation days as you wanted! And no one would shake his finger at you and tell you to work harder.”

Niall tries not to smile as Bea’s grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“Gran,” she says, her annoyance obvious to Niall, but Caro keeps on smiling. “I don’t think you can teach primary school from your sitting room.”

“Oh, poo,” Caro says, swatting her hand in Bea’s direction. “I’ve always told you that you can do anything you set your mind to, Bea bug.”

Bea bug? There’s a lot to grab onto in what’s just been said, but Niall’s not an idiot; he knows that teasing Bea about her Gran’s nickname for her would not be the smartest move right now. She is in control of the car, after all. So he goes for the second lowest hanging fruit.

“You teach primary school?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Her glare in the rearview mirror nearly burns him alive. “Yes,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m goddamn delightful.”

Niall can’t hold back his laughter at that. “I’m sure you are.”

“All of the children love her,” Caro says, turning in her seat slightly to look at Niall head-on. She’s apparently missed the hint of sarcasm in his last statement. “She sings the sweetest songs for them. I knew those piano lessons would pay off someday, but I certainly didn’t imagine Bea would use her talents to entertain five year olds.”

“They’re seven, Gran,” Bea corrects.

Caro waves a hand and continues. “You’ve a beautiful voice nonetheless, dear. You really do spoil those children. Perhaps we can convince you do sing for us tonight after dinner.”

Niall looks from the pride on Caro’s face back to Bea, who looks more annoyed than she has all afternoon. Her grandmother goes on and on about how all the parents positively adore her and how Caro knew she was destined to be a teacher since she was a child herself, and Bea seethes.

She’s seething. That’s the only way he can think to describe the way she keeps her eyes steady on the road and her grip tight on the steering wheel and a perpetual frown on her mouth. His gaze traces the slope of her sharp nose and the indent of her cheek that suggests, were she to smile, a real smile, she might have a dimple.

Dimples. On this girl. This stubborn, tempestuous, argumentative, always frowning girl. Preposterous.

Dimples, he supposes, would make her almost appealing.

But as of now, she’s nothing but a nuisance. She probably thinks the same of him, though, he supposes. As Caro continues to sing Bea’s praises, much to Bea’s chagrin, Niall reaches into his backpack and pulls out the notebook where he’s made some notes about the mysterious Alessandro Bianchi. Based on Caro’s letter and some details she’s filled in for him, he has determined the following:

1. Alessandro would be about 80 years old now, as he’s a few years older than Caro.

2. He is likely still in the Veneto region of Italy, as when Caro knew him, he was set to inherit the family lands and winery.

3. He rides horses.

4. He is, in Caro’s words, “the handsomest man I’d ever set my eyes on.”

It’s not a lot to go on, and there are some major issues. The Veneto region first of all, is massive: nearly 5 million people live there, and it stretches all the way north to the Austrian border. Niall’s hopeful Alessandro is still in the province of Verona, a much smaller area that only has a million people.

That’s still a million people to sort through, though. From some database searches on his laptop last night, Niall turned up a list of Alessandro Bianchi’s from that million and then narrowed down by age. His smaller list contains 50 names, smaller in comparison but still a huge number when one is driving around the country going door to door.

There has to be some way to narrow the names further. Niall pulls out the list, which he printed in the hotel business center, and, when there’s a lull in the conversation, passes it up to Caro.

“This are the Alessandro Bianchi’s I’ve found,” he says. “I know the list is long, so I’m hoping you know something else that can help us narrow it down.”

Bea glances sideways as Caro examines the list. Niall’s distracted by her mouth, which has morphed from a frown into something sadder, more regretful. Intriguing.

What’s she hiding? he thinks.

But that’s not a question for now.

“Does anything stand out to you?” he asks Caro. She slides her reading glasses up her nose and moves the paper closer to her face. “Anyone look familiar?”

After a moment, she shakes her head. “I don’t suppose this list comes with photos?”

“Unfortunately not,” Niall says. “It’s a combination of property ownership and voter registration, but it’s not one hundred percent reliable, since people move and don’t change the address on their licenses and such.” 

“Of course,” Caro says. She lowers the paper to her lap and pulls her glasses down, allowing them to hang around her neck. “It was rather silly of me to expect this to be easy, wasn’t it?”

“No—” Niall begins, but Bea cuts him off.

“You’re not being silly at all, Gran,” Bea says. She reaches across the center console to take Caro’s hand. “Alessandro is important to you, so we will find him. With or without Niall’s help.”

“Thank you, dear,” Caro says, squeezing Bea’s hand. “But since we’ve got him here with us, we should absolutely take advantage of Niall’s help. He is a journalist, dear, don’t forget.”

Niall is certain that his occupation has done nothing to endear him to her, if the look Bea gives him in the rearview mirror is anything to go by.

“Take the next exit,” the GPS chirps, drawing Bea’s attention away. He misses the fire in her gaze immediately, and that unwelcome realization occupies his mind for several minutes—seriously, what the fuck, brain—until the car turns up a winding dirt road and comes to a stop in front of a cute, if modest, country house.

“This is the first address,” Bea says, voice completely devoid of excitement.

   Seven - Bea

“This is the first address,” Bea says, but what she’s thinking is, this cannot be the first address.

The house is, she supposes, cute enough, but it’s run-down. It hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, the steps leading up to the porch are crumbling, and the house’s facade is covered in overgrown vines, the kind that slither in cracks in the plaster and make their way into the pipes and destroy everything.

“Let’s get out, then,” Niall says, already opening his door and climbing out of the backseat. He opens Gran’s door for her and helps her out, so Bea has no choice but to follow. She pockets the car keys and follows them up to the front steps.

“Should we knock?” Gran asks, looking from Bea to Niall and back to Bea. Bea can see a bit of nervousness in her gran’s face, and a hint of timidness. It’s strange, seeing it there; it’s not an emotion Gran normally expresses. Gran is always in control, taking the lead, charging headfirst into battle, Bea trailing behind her. That’s how they ended up in Italy, .

But right now, it seems like Gran needs Bea to take the lead. So she steps forward, planting herself between Niall and Gran, and puts a hand on Gran’s shoulder.

“What do you want to do, Gran?” she says in a tone she hopes is gentle and encouraging. She squeezes Gran’s bony shoulder and tries not to think about how much of Gran’s life she’s spent alone, dreaming of her lost love. “Do you want us to knock?” 

Gran’s hand drifts to her neck, her fingers playing with her necklace. It’s a thin gold chain, gifted to her, Bea knows, by her husband, Bea’s grandfather, who died before Bea’s parents did. She wonders what Gran is thinking. Is she concerned about being unfaithful to her deceased husband? Is she regretting her marriage to someone who wasn’t Alessandro entirely? Or is she simply nervous about the possibility of seeing Alessandro again after so much time has passed?

“Gran,” Bea says again. “We can stay here as long as you need.”

Bea can feel Niall’s eyes on her, but she ignores him. He shouldn’t even be here; he’s intruding on a private family moment, no matter what Gran says to the contrary. But at least he’s smart enough to be keeping his mouth shut right now.

“No, that’s alright,” Gran says, dropping her hand from her necklace and shaking her head. “I’m being silly. We came all this way, and it’s probably not him. We’ll have wasted a trip if we don’t find out for sure.”

Bea looks up, toward the front door, but on the way, her gaze runs into Niall’s. He’s frowning slightly, like he’s confused. She wrinkles her nose at him, and he grins. If he weren’t so annoying, it might be cute. He might be cute.

“Okay, Gran,” Bea says, slipping her hand into Gran’s for a squeeze. “Let’s go, then?”

“Let’s go,” Gran repeats. She takes a step, then hesitates. “Niall, will you do the honors?”

“Me?” Niall meets Bea’s eyes, his eyebrows raised, but she’s just as surprised as he is. Niall is a guest here—and barely that. He’s an interloper. But Gran wants what Gran wants. Bea shrugs.

Bea watches with bated breath as Niall climbs the battered steps to the house and knocks on the door—twice, and then a third time, louder. She counts the seconds, waiting.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Finally, the door opens.

The man is backlit by the sun as he steps outside, so it takes a minute before she can see him fully. Dark mustache, suspenders over his shoulders, tan shirt, and a face that’s much, much too young. He can’t be Gran’s Alessandro.

Gran asks anyway, though, drawing on her rusty Italian to ask for Alessandro Bianchi. The man shakes his head.

“It’s not him,” Gran says quietly, tugging on Bea’s sleeve. “He says no one with that name has lived here for years. Decades.”

Bea looks back at the man, who is standing on his front porch looking irritated, like the knock on his door has interrupted his entire day.

“Grazie, signore,” she says, allowing Gran to tug her back to the car, Niall following behind.

As she starts up the car and waits for Gran and Niall to decide where they’re headed next, Bea analyzes her feelings. Annoyance, of course, at Niall for being present, and a smidge at Gran for dragging her all the way out here. Frustration at the poor infrastructure of Italy’s backcountry roads. And—wait, is that disappointment?

Yes, Bea admits to herself. It sucks to strike out this early in the game. It sucks that Gran has spent so many years without Alessandro, and now she’ll have to wait even longer to find him. And what if they never find him? How long will they keep looking? How long will Niall follow them around the country, riding in the backseat and running new Google searches to grow their list of possibles?

Bea looks at Gran, who has pulled her gray hair back in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck to get it out of the way while she compares Niall’s list with a paper map. Gran, who has weathered so many storms. Gran, who has carried Bea through the worst of them.

Gran, who has bounced back from this disappointment like it was nothing.

So Bea will do the same. She will put on a brave face and input the next address Niall gives her into the GPS app, and she will force herself to be hopeful that this Alessandro will be the one they’re looking for.

And if that one’s not him, she’ll hope the same for the next Alessandro.

And the one after that.

   Eight - Niall

After they scratch three possible Alessandros off the list, they stop for the night at a boutique winery hotel buried in a valley. It’s dark by the time Bea parks the car, but Niall expects that the surrounding countryside will be beautiful in the morning. Maybe he’ll wake up early and watch the sunrise, notebook and pen in hand, knowing he’ll never have words enough to describe its beauty. Back in college, he took a poetry class and tried his hand at some sonnets, but it was never really his thing.

Maybe now it will be, though. He’s only been in Italy a week and a half, and he’s already done things he never expected to do. Write a letter to a fictional character, for example, and join a girl and her grandmother in the search for a long-lost love.He’s been surprising himself for a while, actually, ever since he made the decision to end his relationship with Rhiannon.

Rhiannon. As Niall unloads the bags from the car, he wonders what she’s doing right now, who she’s spending her time with. Rhiannon has never had trouble making friends, and neither has Niall. That’s one of the reasons they were so good together. At least, that’s what he used to think. He also used to think that any time spent away from Rhiannon was wasted time, but now he knows better.

Today was not wasted, despite three failed attempts to find Caro’s Alessandro. The first man was too young and not named Alessandro anyway, the second man was far too old, and the third was a woman who was completely aghast to find out that she was misnamed and misgendered in the census data. Caro kept in good spirits, always positive in the car, but Niall could tell that her energy was waning. And Bea, meanwhile, was growing more and more annoyed with every grape vine they passed.

Now, as Niall walks the ladies to their rooms, it’s obvious that Bea is ready to be rid of him. Caro hugs both him and Bea goodnight outside her room, whispering, “thank you for being here” in Niall’s ear before she lets him go. Bea takes off down the hall, clearly in disagreement with the sentiment.

“I told you I could carry my own bag,” Bea scoffs when Niall reaches her door. He rolls her suitcase to a stop and chuckles as she grabs the handle, eager to have it back in her possession.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t help you with your bags?” Niall asks.

“You’re no kind of gentleman.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “I can carry your bag back out to the car, if you’d like. Then you can wheel it in yourself.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Bea huffs. “You’re so infuriating.”

She turns around, sliding her keycard into the door and pushing it open. Niall grabs her suitcase again and passes it to her as she goes into the room. She flips on a lightswitch, illuminating the space behind her, but Niall doesn’t pay any attention. He’s too fixated on Bea’s face.

She has light brown eyes, the color so diluted that he wonders if they might actually be green, or maybe blue. And the sweep of her nose, the pout on her lips as she frowns at him—God, she’s beautiful. She’s the kind of beautiful where it’s not the first thing you notice about her, but once you notice it, you can never stop seeing it. From now on, she’ll be beautiful every time Niall looks at her, every minute he thinks about her, every second he spends looking at her from the backseat of the rental car.

“Thanks for the help, I guess,” she says to him now, one hand on the door handle.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He steps forward without thinking, needing to be closer to her. “I can let you handle your own suitcase next time, though.”

“Thanks for that, too. But I meant, thanks for being here, for helping with Gran. This is really important to her, and I’m grateful to you for taking her seriously and respecting what she wants.”

“Of course,” Niall says. “She’s wonderful. And this is such a great story. Why wouldn’t I want to help her find Alessandro?”

“I don’t know. Because I’m not sure I do, maybe.” Bea looks over his shoulder, not meeting his gaze. This is hard for her to talk about, and it’s probably even harder for her to talk to him about it. “She loved my granddad, I know she did. If she finds Alessandro again, will her love for him cancel out her love for my granddad? And where does that leave me?”

“The same place you’ve always been.”

Bea’s eyes meet his; she’s startled, surprised that he answered her questions. Or maybe surprised that she was speaking out loud in the first place.

“Your gran loves you the same no matter what,” Niall continues. “I can see that every time she looks at you. That’s not going to change, no matter what happens with Alessandro. And her love for Alessandro won’t change how she loved your granddad. Someone can have two great loves in their life, don’t you think?”

It takes Bea a few seconds to respond, like she’s catching up with what he just said. “I don’t know. If that’s true, then what are all the stories and poems about? What’s Romeo and Juliet about?”

Niall asked himself that question days ago, looking up at Juliet’s balcony just like Romeo, except in his reality there was no beautiful young girl standing there, ready to throw away her life of privilege to be with him. Now, looking at Bea, he feels differently.

“That is what it’s about,” he says. “Those questions. How do you know when someone loves you? How do you know you’re worthy of their love, or that their love is going to last? How do you know when to risk your heart?

“Hmm.” Bea’s eyes drop to her shoes. “Sometimes I think it’s better not to try. Too much risk.”

“You know what they say. No risk, no reward.”

Bea goes quiet, and Niall doesn’t know what to say next. So he waits, waits for her to fill the silence. He finds himself reluctant to remove himself from her doorstep, reluctant to go to end this conversation and go to his room and be alone with his thoughts when he could be here, sharing them with her.

“Right,” Bea says abruptly. “As nice as it was talking to you, Niall”—he can tell from her tone that she doesn’t think it was nice at all—“I think it’s time for me to go to bed. We’ve got an early start in the morning.”

“Right.”

“Goodnight, then,” she says.

“Goodnight.”

It’s baffling, really, how quickly his feelings toward her changed, Niall thinks as he looks at her looking at him. Maybe it happened this afternoon, as Bea comforted her disappointed grandmother over and over again. Or maybe it happened even earlier, on their way out of Verona this morning, when she cursed at a taxi driver under her breath.

She’s beautiful, still. Beautiful, again. Beautiful, always.

Damn, this is not what he thought would happen when he agreed to help an old woman track down the man she loved half a century ago.

“Goodnight, Niall,” Bea repeats, staring at him.

“Goodnight,” he says again, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are glued to her face, and he can’t look away. It’s probably starting to get a little bit creepy, but she’s a mystery, and maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll be able to discern some tiny clue.

“You’re blocking my door,” she says, looking, as per usual, less than pleased with him.

Niall practically jumps backwards in an attempt to make space for her. “Right, of course! Sorry about that.”

There’s enough clearance to close the door now, but Bea freezes for a moment, hand on the doorknob, eyes locked on Niall’s.

“Bea?”

“What?” Bea shakes her head, blinking, as if coming out of a daze. “Right. Sorry. Goodnight, Niall.”

Then she shuts the door, leaving Niall standing there, wondering if he’ll ever have words enough to describe her beauty. And how utterly confused she leaves him.

   Nine - Bea

In the morning, Bea wakes up itchy. At first she thinks it’s bedbugs, because that’s what every traveler thinks when they wake up itchy, but this hotel that Gran is paying for is much too nice for bedbugs. They left chocolate on her pillow last night and there are enough towels in the bathroom tokeep her in baths for years to come. Too bad they’re only staying two nights.

Maybe it’s a sunburn, she thinks, trudging to the bathroom and craning her neck to examine her back in the mirror. It’s a bit pink, but certainly not burnt enough to cause the kind of itching she’s feeling. The straps of the tank top she wore yesterday aren’t even outlined.

Something else, then. Maybe she ate something that triggered an allergy. Bea muses on that thought as she brushes her teeth with one hand and scratches her thigh with the other. What’d she eat yesterday? Spaghetti, gelato, a panini, and lots and lots of bread. Nothing too out of the ordinary, no shellfish or undercooked meat or questionable cheese.

Maybe it’s a rogue clothing tag. She slides her pajama shorts off and turns them inside out, hunting for a tiny piece of plastic that might’ve been left behind when she snipped off the price tag. Nothing. There isn’t even a tag with laundry instructions. There’s absolutely nothing there that could be causing that infernal crawling sensation Bea’s feeling all over both legs.

And her back, not to mention her back, where a million tiny spiders are tap-dancing in flip flops, tickling all of her nerve endings and driving her batty.

Bea tosses her toothbrush on the counter and moves to turn on the shower, imagining all of the spiders washing away down the drain. What a way to wake up: in a beautiful hotel room in the beautiful countryside of Italy, itching all over. She hasn’t been itchy like this in years, not since she told her best mate, Theresa, that the boy she liked didn’t like her back, even though he did. Bea liked him too and didn’t want to watch him date her best friend. Rosie saw straight through her lie, as best mates often do, and turned all of their friends against Bea. That was the last time Bea ever got involved in someone else’s romantic life.

Oh, crud. The only thing that makes Bea itchy like this is romance. And, well, lying.

But, lying. She hasn’t told any lies lately, has she? She hasn’t tricked Gran or tried to lure her away from the Alessandro hunt. And she hasn’t lied to Niall about how much she dislikes him or—

Oh, crud. She doesn’t dislike him, does she?

Last night, when Niall walked her to her door and stood there for what felt like hours, staring at her with his piercing blue eyes, there had been a moment, the briefest of seconds, when Bea wondered if he was going to kiss her, and thought that she might like him to. She’d stood there in the open doorway of her hotel room and considered that it might be nice to kiss the cute Irishman who’d given up his vacation to help her gran search for her lost love. In that moment, that brief, endless moment, he’d seemed sweet, genuine, likable, handsome, and exactly the kind of person whom one enjoys kissing.

But then the moment had passed, Bea had shaken herself out of it, and she closed the door on him and his tempting lips and intriguing eyes. Niall is engaged, and, regardless, he’s not the kind of person one has those thoughts about.

Bea’s brain still seems confused about that, though, as it wonders, will his lips look as tempting and his eyes as intriguing at breakfast this morning?

Oh, crud. Bea scratches at her elbow.

The itchiness abates during her shower but then comes back full-force when she meets Gran and Niall at breakfast. She sees them before they see her so she takes a moment to observe before she approaches. They’re seated at a table on the terrace outside the hotel’s restaurant, and Gran’s laughing at something Niall said, her head thrown back and joy clear on her face. Bea longs to hear the joke herself, longs to know this side of Niall, when his humor’s not at her expense, when he’s not teasing her or sending her funny looks via the rearview mirror.

Jesus H. Christ, Bea thinks, shaking herself out of it and approaching the table. Grams barely has time to look up before a waiter appears and pours her a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Beatrix,” Gran says. Bea doesn’t miss Gran’s raised eyebrow over the rim of her own mug. Earl Grey for Gran in the mornings, always.

“Morning, Gran,” Bea says once she’s gulped down a mouthful of coffee. It’s scalding hot and not particularly good, which is a disappointment, but not one worth dwelling on when one is as itchy as Bea is. “Morning, Niall.”

“Bea,” he says, nodding at her. There’s a slight twinkle in his eye and Bea imagines it saying, I know you wanted me to kiss you last night. It makes her right knee itch. The fact that that’s the closest knee to Niall is of no consequence.

She looks away from him and grabs a menu, flipping it open. The entire thing is in Italian, which is fine for a dinner menu but a lot more complicated for breakfast. “I think I’d like an omelette today. Do they have omelettes in Italy? What’s the Italian word for egg?”

Neither Niall nor Gran answer right away, so Bea keeps on. “Pane, that’s bread, right? I know that word. What’s the Italian for bacon?”

“It’s bacon,” Niall says. When Bea meets his gaze, he’s smiling at her, a hint of a laugh lingering on the corner of his mouth. Gran is smiling, too.

“What?” Bea asks, looking from one to the other. “Do I have toothpaste on my face?”

Niall drops his eyes to his plate, but Gran doesn’t look away, so Bea narrows in on her. Gran has never been able to keep anything from her—except Alessandro, of course, but Bea doesn’t want to think about that right now—so Bea knows that if she stares long enough, Gran will buckle.

It doesn’t seem to work this time though, as Gran drops the smile into a concerned frown. “No, dear,” she says. “But I’m glad to hear you brushed your teeth.”

Niall snickers, and suddenly Bea hates him again, but her right wrist won’t stop itching.

Why was it that she liked him? All the reasons have disappeared as she finishes her breakfast and listens as Gran and Niall go over their agenda for the day. There are four Alessandros on today’s list and a short lunch break scheduled for the afternoon.

In the car, Bea takes the wheel again, Gran in the passenger’s seat and Niall in the back. Once they’re out on the main road, Alessandro’s address plugged into Apple Maps, Niall pulls out his notebook and begins scribbling away.

The back of Bea’s neck itches as she wonders what he’s writing. Is it a personal journal entry in which he’s describing how he almost kissed her last night? Or is it a draft of a novel, the story of lovers separated by centuries only to find themselves together again? If it’s the latter, she’s not sure how Gran would feel about becoming the heroine of a novel. Niall definitely should’ve asked first.

She’s still annoyed at him over that possibility when she finally asks, several ,minutes later, “What are you writing?”

It takes a minute for Niall to look up and meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. “It’s not done yet,” he says with a shrug.

“Okay, but what’s it about?” Bea presses. “Is it nonfiction? Fiction? Are you writing poetry?”

There’s a gleam in Niall’s eyes as he mimes zipping his lips and throwing an invisible key over his shoulder.

Bea huffs and turns her focus back to the road. On either side of the road are endless vineyards stretching as far as the eye can see. Every once in a while, there’s a barn or a house or a man on horseback, a copse of trees, a hill, but it’s mostly vine after vine after vine. Finally, finally, they turn onto a side road and head toward the residence of the first Alessandro.

Let this one be him, Bea prays. Let this one be him, and let him be married, so I can go back to my life as it was and forget any of this ever happened.

But then, what about Gran? Bea considers the ideal outcome for Gran. Maybe Alessandro is a widower, living alone on his vineyards, waiting for his lost love to return to him. He and Gran will marry and she’ll stay in Italy forever, leaving Bea to take care of her big house in London. Or maybe Alessandro will be dead. That’s preferable, Bea thinks, to him being married to another woman.

At least that’s what Bea thinks, until the man who answers the door proclaims himself to be Alessandro’s son.

“My father died last year,” he says, and Bea hears Gran gasp behind her. She tightens her grip on Gran’s hand. “I’m sorry, you say you knew him?”

Bea can’t see Gran’s face, but she can imagine the look on it. When her parents died, she felt as though the floor had dropped out from underneath her and she was clinging to the edge by her nails, waiting for someone to pull her back up. It had been Gran who had come to her aid.

That’s not something Bea likes to think about very often, but now, just for a moment, she’s glad she experienced it. Maybe now she can be here for Gran, as Gran was for her. She’s never had the opportunity to step up in that way before now.

Niall looks at Bea for a second before answering the man’s question. “No, I didn’t. This is Caro. Carolyn. She knew him, years ago. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Bea thinks she should echo the expression, but she can’t find her voice. This is too much of a shock: they came all this way for Alessandro, and though Bea had considered the possibility that he might be dead, she really didn’t expect it to be the case. What kind of ending is this?

The man, Alessandro’s son, looks at each of their faces, at their expressions. “And I, for yours. Would you like to come in?”

“Let’s go,” Gran whispers, tugging on Bea’s hand, pulling her back toward the car, but Bea steps forward. Maybe she can help Gran get the closure she needs. She clears her throat.

“Yes, please. We’d love to.”

The man nods, opening the door wider and allowing the three of them to follow him inside and into a small sitting room. Niall introduces Bea and himself, but she’s too distracted to be polite. The man’s house is small but well-kept. The tile floors are swept, books fill the shelves in the sitting room, and there is a piano with a row of picture frames on the top. Bea wanders over, looking at the photos and imagining this other life Gran might have lived.

In the first, their host, aged 9 or 10, stands with his parents in front of, what else, a vineyard. He wears overalls and his mother squints at the camera. The photo is in black and white even though it was taken, Bea guesses, sometime in the late 70s. There are balloons in the background, evidence of a party.

“Are these your parents?” Bea asks, carrying the frame over to the man. The man nods, taking it from her hands. “When was this photo taken?”

“I was 10 years old, if I remember correctly,” the man says. He lifts a pair of eyeglasses from his neck and slides them on. “My father had just returned from the army, his last tour. We were celebrating his retirement.”

“Alessandro was in the army?” Bea turns to Gran, who has settled on the couch, Niall standing awkwardly by her side, looking down on her as if worried she’s going to faint.

The man nods. “Yes, for many years. He enlisted as soon as he was old enough, in 1963, and was only home for a short time in 1968, when he met and married my mother. They had a whirlwind courtship, as you say.”

“1963,” Bea repeats. Something doesn’t fit, but she’s not sure what.

Niall is, though. “Caro met Alessandro in 1965,” he says. “Where was your father in 1965?”

The man scratches his head and takes so long to answer that Bea wants to grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake.

“Somewhere abroad,” he says finally. “North Africa, possibly.”

Bea’s face mirrors the look of shock on Niall’s. She takes the frame from the man and walks it to the couch. “Is this him, Gran? Is this your Alessandro?”

Gran leans forward, looking at the picture for an endless minute. “No,” she says quietly, fingers playing with the gold chain around her neck. “No, that’s not him.”

Bea feels a wave of emotion crash over her, pushing her down onto the couch next to Gran. “That’s not him,” she repeats.

“That’s not him,” Niall echoes.

Bea sits quietly as Niall makes their excuses, apologizing for the intrusion and giving their condolences. He ushers them out the door and back towards the car, where he grabs Bea’s arm before she can open the driver’s side door.

“Do you want me to drive?” he says quietly. “You seem shaky.”

Bea rolls her shoulders back. She’s not shaky, she’s fine. So what if Alessandro was dead and then alive again in the span of five minutes? She’s fine.

“I’m fine,” she snaps. “Don’t you want to journal about this?”

Niall steps away from her, hands up, and gets in the car before she can apologize for being rude.

It’s just as well, she supposes. It’s not as if she likes him anyway.

   Ten - Niall

The next day is much like the prior one, with visits to multiple Alessandro’s who may or may not be Gran’s lost love. At least none of them are dead. Yesterday’s first stop was so rough that Niall considered proposing to the ladies that they cut their losses and head back to the hotel, but Bea looked determined to press on.

This morning, though, her energy level seems lower, so on the way to the car, he offers to drive.

“Are you sure?” Bea asks, raising an eyebrow. “Have you ever driven in a foreign country?”

Niall raises an eyebrow in return, which makes Bea blush. He ignores the way his stomach flips at the redness in her cheeks. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve even driven in foreign cities. Like Verona.”

She blushes even darker as she no doubt recalls her terrible driving as they left the city a few days ago. “All right, then,” she says, passing over the keys. “But don’t kill us. My Gran is precious cargo.”

Niall nods. He doesn’t need to be told. Caro is one of the most wonderful people he’s ever met, aside from his own grandmother, who is back home in Ireland and whom he never gets to see. Growing up, his parents were always traveling for business, working late, making him feel forgotten, and it was his grandmother who remembered him. She took him on day trips to carnivals and national parks, attended all of his school plays, and helped him with his homework when he struggled. Leaving her behind to move to London was one of the hardest things he’s ever done, so it’s nice to spend time with Caro. She’s an excellent listener, and she gives even better advice.

Yesterday morning over breakfast, before Bea had shown up, Caro had asked him about his life, about what brought him to Italy, and he talked about Rhiannon in a way that he never had before.

“I thought I loved her once,” he’d said, stirring cream into coffee that he knew he wouldn’t drink.“But I know now that I didn’t. I just wanted to be in love so badly that I settled for her.”

Caro had nodded like she understood. “Or maybe you wanted to be loved. It’s okay to want that.” Then she’d paused, taken a sip of her tea, swallowed. “You like my granddaughter.”

She said it bluntly, like it was a fact, and Niall had been surprised, in that moment, to hear something he’d only felt sound so permanent, so real. But it was true, so he nodded.

“I do,” he said, and he had imagined, for the briefest of seconds, being loved by someone who stood her ground and said what she want, someone who cared about her family enough to drive through endless wine country with them, someone like Bea—and then he forced the thought out and away. It wasn’t an appropriate thing to be thinking while conversing with Bea’s grandmother.

But now that it’s a day later and he’s driving the car and Bea’s asleep in the backseat, mouth slack as she rests her head on her hand, elbow propped against the window, he has free reign to think whatever he wants. Which, try as he might to want something else, is Bea. Bea and her reluctant laugh. Bea and the fire in her eyes.

“Stubborn, isn’t she?” Caro says after a while, her voice so quiet that Niall wonders if he imagined it. Wonders if she was reading his mind. “My granddaughter. Stubborn as her gran.”

“Hmm.” Niall smiles softly at her, unsure what to say in response.

“I raised her, you know,” Caro says, glancing sideways at him before looking back at the road. “Her parents died when she was young, and ever since, she’s been this wild thing, but stubborn, practical. Always looking for evidence, for proof. But for some things, there is no proof.”

“What things?” Niall asks.

“Love, the most obvious. Faith. Hope. Dreams, especially dreams. Bea has rarely allowed herself dreams. Only when she’s asleep does she dream.”

Niall pictures her asleep, pictures her in bed beside him, rising from a nightmare and seeking his comfort. The image warms him. Now he has something else to think about: Bea and her forgotten dreams—for she must’ve had them, once.

“I dream enough for the both of us, don’t I?” Caro continues. Her voice turns serious. “We haven’t discussed this, but I know we can’t search for Alessandro forever.”

“I’ve got nothing but time,” Niall says, but it isn’t exactly true. He has to go back to London at some point. He wishes he didn’t, though. He wishes he could stay here forever, traveling the countryside with Caro and Bea.

“Your time is better spent on other endeavors,” Caro says, looking over her shoulder at Bea, who’s still asleep. Then she looks pointedly back to Niall. “You should tell her how you feel.”

Niall doesn’t answer. Bea is hot and cold—two nights ago, they’d almost kissed outside her door, but since then she’s barely spoken to him, barely looked at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally says. Even if she likes him, even if she’d kiss him back—it doesn’t matter. “Like you said, we can’t search for Alessandro forever.”

“We can’t, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.” She pauses. Then: “Another day or two, I think. These old bones grow wary of sitting in cars.”

“Maybe we’ll find him today,” Niall says, offering her a smile.

They don’t, though. They visit two Alessandro’s before lunch, one too old and one two young, and in the afternoon, travel to an address that doesn’t exist. Before dinner, they check into another hotel just outside Sienna, all three of them exhausted. Niall can feel his bones creaking at all the joints, a physical manifestation of his mental exhaustion.

As he waits in the lobby for the ladies to come down for dinner, he scratches off several Alessandro’s from his list. There are a lot left, but, as Caro said this morning, she isn’t willing to search forever. Another day or two, she’d said. So he looks at the list now and tries to derive, as if by magic, which ones are most likely to be the one they’re searching for. It’s no use, but he stares at the page anyway, stares so long that “Alessandro” no longer looks like a word, just a random arrangement of letters.

Energy levels remains low at dinner, and not even gelato can seem to cheer anyone up. Niall bids Caro and Bea goodnight and goes to his room, where he pulls out his notebook and stares at a blank page before finally giving up and going to sleep.

Tomorrow will be a better day, he thinks as he drifts off.

   Eleven - Bea

The next morning, Niall knocks on Bea’s door before she’s had a chance to leave for breakfast. She’s braiding her hair over her shoulder when she pulls open the door and greets him.

“Hi?” she says.

“Good morning,” he says. He looks good this morning, dressed in shorts and a short sleeve button up. His sneakers are bright white. She wonders if he bleaches them.

“Good morning,” she says. “What’s going on? Is Gran alright?”

“She’s fine,” he says. “Bit tired. She said she wants to take the day off from driving today and hang about the pool. You could join her if you want, or…”

“Or?” She notices the backpack swung over his shoulder. “Are you going somewhere?”

He nods. “Sienna. I figured, since we’re here, I’d like to see it. And maybe you’d like to come.”

Her first instinct is to say no, because this is Niall and she absolutely does not like him, but then she changes her mind. What if she’s never in Italy again? What if they find Alessandro tomorrow and she’s on an immediate flight back home? What if this is her only chance to see Sienna?

“Okay,” she says. “I’d like to come.”

Ten minutes later, they’re in the car and she’s looking at his hands on the steering wheel. When he’d offered to drive, she’d accepted without hesitation, eager to spend the drive looking out the windows. As endless as the vines seem, they’re beautiful, and a bit otherworldly, as if England is more than a few hours’ flight away.

“Have you ever been to Italy before?” she asks Niall.

“No,” he says, glancing sideways at her. He’s an excellent driver, so careful, and she’s never felt safer in a car—a feat for her, because her parents died in one. “I’ve never made much time for travel. I regret that, I think. There are so many places to see that I haven’t seen.”

“There’s so much future for that,” Bea says. “So much forever. You can fill all of it with travel.”

“Maybe. Where would you like to go?”

Bea smiles, softly. She never lets her think about these things, about all the things she can’t have or will never do, but she indulges herself for a second. “Prague. Tokyo. Rio de Janeiro. New York City.”

“I’ve been to New York City,” Niall interjects. “It’s loud.”

“London is loud.”

“New York is louder.”

“Fine,” Bea rolls her eyes. “Where would you go?”

Niall shrugs, the fabric of his shirt rustling against the leather of the car seat. “Prague, Tokyo, Rio. I want to go everywhere.”

Bea doesn’t respond, and they fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence, during which they drive into Sienna and she thinks about how big Niall’s hands look on the steering wheel and how small hers feel resting on her thighs. She feels safe with Niall, not just when he’s driving, but maybe that’s not real. Maybe she’s transferring her feelings about his driving skills to the rest of him.

Or maybe, she considers, that she really does like Niall, just as she was thinking a few mornings ago, before the disaster with the undead Alessandro and the following day filled with disappointments. She scratches her knee.

“Bug bite?”

“Huh?” She looks over at Niall, who’s grinning at her. “Oh, yeah, I guess.”

“That’s rough,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says, but looking at Niall, nothing feels rough. Everything feels easy, smooth sailing, like she could sit beside him in a car forever.

Oh, crud.

In Sienna, Niall parallel parks easily near the city center and they wander through the streets, in and out of a museum, around and around the cathedral. Inside, Bea stands transfixed by the height of the ceilings and the intricacy of the design, horizontal lines spiraling around her, making her dizzy.

“This is the ugliest church I’ve ever seen,” Niall says quietly into her ear, making her laugh. She covers it up with a cough—it’s rude to laugh in a church, she’s pretty sure—before she responds.

“You can’t say that,” she whispers. “God can hear you.”

“God didn’t build it,” Niall whispers back. “And I’m sure he’s well aware.”

At lunch, they talk easily about their lives back in London, their favorite places to visit and their favorite places to avoid. They both hate Covent Garden and both love the South Bank despite the crowds of tourists outside the Globe.

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you there,” Niall says.

“London’s a huge city,” Bea says. “Over 8 million people live there.”

“Maybe. But only one Beatrix Mason.”

That makes her blush, and the awareness that she’s blushing makes her blush more. He grins at her, and she smiles back, and if she could make a snow globe out of any moment, it would be this one. This perfect day in Sienna with a perfect man whose beautiful eyes look into her own like they can see all her secrets and aren’t judging her for them.

She thinks of Juliet then, of her decision to marry Romeo after only knowing him for a few days, and in that moment, it doesn’t seem crazy. It seems like the most sensible thing in the world.

In the late afternoon, they drive back to the hotel to meet Gran for dinner, but she’s already eaten, so they get a table in the hotel restaurant without her. Niall smiles and Bea smiles and something’s changed, she thinks. Today he cracked open a little bit and made a little bit more sense, and she wants to keep digging, she thinks.

He’s engaged, she knows that—he’s engaged, but tomorrow will be their last day together, and she can have one more day, can’t she? One more day with Niall, and then she’ll let him go.

“Come for a walk with me,” she says when they’re done eating.

They wander into the hills around the hotel, climbing to the top of one to look at the stars.

“Do you know the names?” Niall asks.

“No,” Bea says, which is a lie, but she’s hoping he’ll impress her. She’s hoping he wants to impress her.

“Me either,” he says. She laughs.

They lie on the ground like that for a while, watching stars shoot across the sky. Niall’s hand finds hers in the grass and holds on tight. The air tingles between them. A summer night, alive.

When he leans over and kisses her, it’s surprising at first and then the most natural thing in the world. She kisses him back, enjoying the weight of him over her, the brush of his hair in his eyes, the softness of his lips. And then she remembers.

She pushes him back, and it takes a second before he goes. He smiles at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

“Bea,” he says, reaching a hand down to brush some hair out of her face. It’s too much, and almost enough to get her to kiss him again. But he’s engaged.

She rolls away from him and springs to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she stammers. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

Niall follows, going after her as she crosses the lawn. “Why not?”

Bea looks over her shoulder. “You’re engaged. Aren’t you engaged?”

Niall shakes his head, but doesn’t respond. He looks like he’s fed up with her, which is just as well, because she’s fed up with him too. Why is he like this, hot one second, confusing the next? Why is she like this, attracted to such a man?

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Bea, I like you, and—”

“How can you say it doesn’t matter? Your fiancée doesn’t matter?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I—”

“Look, we’re almost through the list,” Bea says, taking another step away from him. He needs to stop looking at her like that, with those glowing blue eyes, or she can’t be held responsible for her actions. The more space she can put between them now, the better. “If we don’t find Alessandro tomorrow, that’s it. Gran and I are going home, and you’re going back to your fiancée, and we can pretend that none of this ever happened.”

Niall steps closer to her, into the space she put between them. “I don’t want to pretend that none of this ever happened.”

“But you’re engaged,” she reminds him again. Why can’t he seem to remember that? “To someone else. To someone who I’m sure is very kind and very much in love with you and would not be pleased to find out that you’ve been kissing another girl on a hillside in the country.”

The corner of Niall’s mouth lifts, almost like—is he laughing? He’s definitely laughing. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“What?” Bea’s jaw drops open. “That’s an awful thing to say. You’re disgusting. I can’t believe I just kissed you.” And I can’t believe I want to do it again.

Now he’s frowning. “Bea—”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to bed, and we’re going to forget this ever happened, and we’re never going to talk about it again.”

Niall looks like he wants to say something, but he holds it back. Good.

“Goodnight,” she says, turning on her heel and marching away from him.

She can’t resist turning back, though, where he’s still standing on the hill, hand raised to his mouth, gazing after her. She spins away before he can catch her looking.

   Twelve - Niall

In the car the next morning, they don’t speak of the kiss. Bea won’t even look at him, and Niall supposes he deserves it. She thought he was engaged, after all. But he isn’t. He isn’t engaged, and the only thing he wants is to kiss Bea again, and again, and again.

That doesn’t seem likely to happen, though, at least not if this morning is an indication.They sit silently in the car, all three of them off in their own worlds. Bea had said last night that today would be their last day—if they don’t find Alessandro today, this is it. They’ll return to their lives, story unfinished.

Niall wouldn’t put money on that, though. He’s a writer, and he knows that a story’s not a story if it doesn’t have an ending. And this one, the story of Alessandro Bianchi and Carolyn Mason—it’s going to have a marvelous ending.

Hopefully the story of Niall Horan and Beatrix Mason will have a marvelous ending, too. He won’t leave Italy without one.

The morning’s Alessandro is a bust, and after a roadside picnic, they hit the road again, driving east to the next one on the list. Niall picked today’s names, perhaps the final ones, at random, and he both hopes and doesn’t hope that one of them is the one.

They’re a few minutes out from the turn indicated on the map when Caro gasps in the passenger’s seat. Niall leans forward to see if she’s okay, meeting Bea’s eyes for a precious second before she looks away, refocusing her attention on her grandmother.

“Pull over,” Caro says, her hand already reaching for the door.

“What?” Bea says. “Are you okay?”

“Pull over,” Caro repeats, so Bea does, flipping on the turn signal and guiding the car off the road. Caro gets out and steps toward the road, staring across at a man standing in the vineyard. Bea follows, and so does Niall.

“Gran? What is it?” Bea asks.

Caro raises her arm and points. “That’s him. That’s Alessandro.”

Niall squints at the man across the road. He’s young, much too young to be Alessandro—he’s not much older than Bea. But Caro seems so sure, her gaze fixed, so Niall crosses the road to ask.

“Niall, wait,” Bea calls after him, and though it’s the first time she’s acknowledged him all day, he doesn’t turn around.

“Scusi,” he says to the man. “We’re looking for Alessandro Bianchi.”

“That’s me,” the man says. “I am Alessandro Bianchi. And my father, he is Alessandro Bianchi as well.”

“Your father,” Niall repeats. “Your father, where is he?”

“Out for a ride,” the man says, his gaze drifting across the road, where Bea and Caro still stand. “He will be back soon. I can take you up to the house, if you’d like.”

Niall nods. “Let me get my friends.”

He crosses the road back to Caro and Bea, who are staring at him with wide eyes. “It’s him,” Niall says. “Well, not him, but Alessandro is his father and he’s just out for a ride and he’ll be back soon.”

“He’ll be back soon,” Bea repeats, processing. Then, more eagerly: “Gran, he’ll be back soon!” 

“Oh,” Caro says, looking off into the distance. “Maybe it’s not really him. We ought to go before he comes.”

“Nonsense, Gran,” Bea says. She tucks a lock of Caro’s hair behind her ear. “You look beautiful, just as you did 55 years ago. He’s going to be so excited to see you.”

Caro sighs. “I don’t know, Bea bug. It’s been so long, so many years. Maybe this box is best left shut.”

“Gran—” Bea starts, but the sound of a galloping horse interrupts her. The three of them turn as a horse emerges from the vineyards across the road, coming to a stop beside Alessandro Jr. They watch with bated breath as he converses with his son, both of them looking across the road, and then, still on his horse, he crosses.

“Carolina,” he says, drawing his horse to a stop a few feet from them. He climbs down and drops the reins, the horse forgotten as he approaches. “My Carolina, is that you?”

Caro steps forward. “Alessandro. It’s me.”

“After so many years,” he says. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible,” she says. 

Niall can’t believe it. He truly can’t believe it, but it’s true. It’s him, after all this time, after all the places they’ve stopped, after all the ways he’s twisted himself into knots over Bea—there he is. Alessandro. Caro’s Alessandro.

Niall drifts backwards as they embrace, coming to stand behind Bea. She looks uncomfortable as well, her gaze drifting off into the endless rows of grapevines beside the road.

Niall puts a hand lightly on her back. “Should we—”

“I think—”

Niall laughs, which makes Bea blush his favorite blush. “You go ahead,” he says.

She bites her lip, and he can tell she’s trying not to smile. After everything, she doesn’t want to smile at him, but this moment, it’s special. “I was going to say, I think we should give them a few minutes.”

“I was going to say the same thing.” Niall grins. He can’t help it. They found Alessandro—they found Alessandro!—and he’s here, with Bea. There’s nothing better than this, nowhere he’d rather be.

“Let’s go,” Bea says, leading him through the vineyard.

They walk in step silently for a while, Bea ignoring him and Niall wondering what he should say.The vineyards wrap around them, pushing them closer together, but Bea avoids bumping shoulders with him. He can tell that she wanted to give her gran privacy, but, unlike him, she’d rather be anywhere than here with him.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Good,” she says. “You should be.”

Niall doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how to explain to her what she means to him—how, in such a short time, she’s come to mean everything. He thinks, hopes, prays, that maybe she feels the same way.

“I think you should leave.”

“What?” he says. She doesn’t feel the same way, and it hits him like a brick to his gut. After everything.

“We found Alessandro, so there’s no reason for you to stay. You should leave now, go back to Verona, back to your fiancée and your life. I’ll find someone to drive you to the train station. I’m sure Alessandro’s son Alessandro would be willing.”

“You won’t drive me yourself?” he asks, annoyed now, frustrated, exhausted. What an emotional roller coaster this week has been.

“No, Niall,” she says, looking at him now, meeting his gaze, and in it he can see every emotion he’s feeling too—exhaustion and confusion and excitement and sadness and loneliness. But that clarifies nothing. “I won’t drive you, and I don’t want to see you again. This week was nice, but it was just that—a week. It’s over now, and we are too.”

She turns her back on him, walking away, so she doesn’t hear what he says to her retreating form:

“We barely began.”

   Thirteen - Bea

Gran has never looked so happy as she does at dinner with Alessandro and all of his family—children and grandchildren and even a great-grandchild or two. This is the massive family gathering that Gran never got, everyone who loves each other gathered in one place, smiling, laughing. It’s bliss.

Except it’s not, because seated to Bea’s right is Niall. Niall, who’s engaged and kissed her anyway. Niall, who she can’t stop thinking about, who she won’t stop thinking about even when he’s gone. Niall, who she can barely look at. Niall, who she’s sending away.

It’s the right thing to do, she knows, but it feels so wrong, and she hasn’t even done it yet.

She barely pays attention to Alessandro’s relatives as they riddle her with questions, some of which Niall answers for her—making her feel safe even when she doesn’t want him to. Making her feel cared for, even though she asked him not to.

After dinner, Bea approaches Gran and Alessandro beside the table, where they are surrounded by a cluster of Alessandro’s grandkids and great-grands. Niall follows behind—Bea can feel him there, but she doesn’t turn around to look. Looking at him hurts.

She can’t believe that 24 hours ago she thought she’d be able to spend just these days with him and then let him go, and be okay with it. This isn’t okay. This isn’t okay at all.

Best to rip off the band-aid. Bea puts a hand on Gran’s arm.

“Niall is leaving,” she says when Gran turns to face her.

Gran looks at Niall. “Oh, no, please, Niall, you don’t have to.”

Alessandro echoes the sentiment. “Please, stay. You are welcome here.”

Niall looks at her then, looks for some kind of confirmation that he can stay, that she wants him here, but Bea doesn’t give it to him. She looks at the ground and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes burning a hole in Bea’s cheek. “I have to be getting back to Verona.”

Bea feels more eyes on her—Gran, this time. She meets her eyes and gives a quick nod, as if to say, I want him gone. Gran frowns, but doesn’t object.

“My son will drive you to the station,” Alessandro says, waving his son over.

Five minutes later, Bea stands back as Gran says goodbye to Niall at the car, hugs him and kisses his cheek and makes him promise to call. He won’t, though, Bea knows that. When Niall leaves, she will never see him again. She hurt him when she told him to go as they stood in the vineyards, surrounded by unborn wine. She hurt him, and there’s no taking that back.

He looks at her through the window as the car drives away, his face expressionless, his eyes bright blue even through the glass. He looks at her until he’s too far away to keep looking.

The moment the car turns at the end of the drive, disappearing from view, Bea can feel in her stomach that she made a mistake. It feels like a storm is broiling, rolling and twisting and throwing her dinner around like it’s lawn furniture. But it’s too late.

“Oh, Beatrix,” Gran says from behind her. “Why did you do that? Don’t you have feelings for him?”

“He’s engaged,” Bea says without turning around. Maybe if she keeps her eyes locked on the setting sun, she’ll be able to disappear alongside it. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”

“Pish posh,” Gran says. She slips her hand into Bea’s and squeezes. “That boy is not engaged. He and his fiancée broke up months ago.”

What? He’s not engaged?

“That can’t be right,” Bea says. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I don’t know,” Gran says. “And you’ll never find out, if you let him go like that.”

Bea shakes her head. “It’s too late,” she says. “He’s gone, and I made him leave. It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Gran says. “I found Alessandro after all these years, did I not? How many Nialls do you think are on this planet? Don’t wait 55 years like I did.”

Bea looks at her grandmother now, looks at the wrinkles by her bright eyes, brighter than they’ve been in a long time. Alessandro has brought the light back to her gran’s eyes.

“Thank you for helping me find Alessandro,” Gran says. “Now, go find Niall.”

She presses the car keys into Bea’s palm.

“I—” Bea begins.

“Go,” Gran instructs.

So she does.

   Fourteen - Niall

“Niall!”

Niall turns at the sound of his name, but he can’t see who’s yelling at him, so he keeps going, cutting through the crowd with his bag pulled tight against his side.

“Niall, you jerk! Stop right there!”

Is that—it can’t be. He comes to a stop and turns, and there she is.

“Bea? What are you doing here?”

She’s wearing cutoff shorts and running shoes and her purse bounces on her hip. She stops in front of him, a few feet away, and glares.

God, he missed that glare. It’s only been a few hours since he saw it last, but damn, he missed it. He missed the fire in her eyes and the sharpness of her nose and the way she looks at him like he’s the only thing worth looking at.

“I’m here because you’re awful,” she says, breathing hard. “I had to tell you.”

“You ran after me in the train station to tell me I’m awful?” he repeats, confused. “I’m leaving, just like you asked, Bea. You didn’t need to come here and make things worse.”

“No, you idiot,” she says, taking a step closer to him. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?” he asks.

He knows what he wants. He wants to pull her tight against his chest and kiss her for at least the next five minutes and then for the rest of time. He wants to run through vineyards with her and stomp buckets of grapes and get wine drunk under hot the Italian sun. He wants to rub aloe on her sunburn and kiss it as it heals. And he wants to know what she wants.

But she ignores the question.

“My Gran, she said that you’re not really engaged,” Bea says, lunging forward to punch him in the shoulder. It barely hurts, but he rubs at the spot anyway. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I thought I did,” Niall says, running through their previous conversations in his mind. Hadn’t he, the other night just after their kiss? “I swear I did.”

Bea’s fist comes at him again, softer this time. “You didn’t, you idiot. That’s why I made you leave.”

Niall tilts his head. He understands now, why she’s here, what she wants. His heartbeat speeds up. “Because I didn’t tell you I wasn’t engaged?”

“Yes!”

“Why do you care if I’m engaged or not?” Niall asks, even though the answer is obvious. He wants to hear her say it.

Bea huffs. As she grows more frustrated, her cheeks get redder and redder. “Because you can’t go around kissing people when you’re engaged!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s rude!”

Her fist flies again, but Niall grabs it and opens it in his hand. He weaves his fingers with hers and pulls her forward. “Why?” he asks.

“Because,” she says, cheeks blazing. She’s so close to him now, close enough to kiss, but Niall holds off. He wants to see if she’ll say it. “Because it’s rude!”

“You already said that.” Niall can’t resist the loose strand of hair blowing in front of her eyes; he tucks it safely behind her ear.

Bea’s eyes follow the moment of his hand. “Right. What was the question again?”

“Why is it rude to kiss someone when you’re engaged?”

“Oh, right,” Bea says, her voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “It’s rude because… because you might kiss somebody so well that they want to kiss you again, but they can’t, because you’re engaged!”

“I’m not engaged.”

“You’re not…” Bea repeats, her eyes drifting down and landing on his lips. “You’re not engaged.”

“Right.”

“You’re not engaged,” she says again, the edges of her mouth lifting in a smile She lifts her arms from where he’d trapped them on his chest and wraps them around his neck. “So why aren’t you kissing me right now?”

“That’s a good que—” Niall starts, but Bea cuts him off before he can finish, pressing her lips to his. He runs his fingers along her cheekbone and pulls her close her, feeling her chest press against his, her warmth mingling with his. He can smell her sweat, can feel her bare legs against his.

There’s a fire in this kiss that wasn’t there the other night, an urgency. After a minute, he pulls back, resting his hand on her cheek. “What’s with the hurry?”

Bea blinks up at him, eyelashes batting at her cheeks. “I don’t want you to leave,” she says. “I had to stop you from leaving.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers against her mouth. “Staying right here.”

When he kisses her again, he hopes she can feel what he does: that he found what he was searching for—not Alessandro, but Bea. The girl with fire in her eyes and a stubborn spirit and the potential, he thinks, to love him forever.

There’s so much forever, Bea had said to him the other day. In the moment, it had sounded terrifying, but now he knows there’s nothing as good as forever when it has Beatrix Madison in it.

   Afterward

Verona, 2020

Dear Juliet,

We both used to think you were a load of nonsense, but that was before we met each other, right here, just below your balcony. We’re not saying we believe in fate now, but it’s not totally off the table.

Love’s not totally off the table anymore, either. Neither of us believed in it before, but now we know a bit better. We know that you can love somebody for the way they blush and how much they love their grandmother and how terrible their driving is. And we know that you can love somebody for their bright blue eyes and the way they tease you and how safely they drive. We know that love, the way it’s supposed to be, makes you happy in all the best ways.

So, thanks, Juliet. We’re sorry you couldn’t get the ending we’re getting.

Love (the real kind),

Niall and Bea

[clatterbane]

I wasn't too happy to get woken up by a call just a little while ago. Especially since it looked like probably a wrong number?

I couldn't imagine why else somebody would apparently be calling from a local Subway? 🤔

But, no! I ended up being extra super glad I answered anyway.

Maybe they're Subway like we keep getting calls for the custom blinds business which had our newish landline number before us? Who knows.

But yeah, it was someone from our usual, closest hospital calling to finally give me another gastroscopy appointment!

Apparently, I have indeed been stuck in the NHS's infamous Waiting List Limbo. Mr. C also just said that, from what he could see of the report from the last Stent Installation Fail appointment, on the nurse's screen when we were last at the GP's? There may have also been some further communication fail helping gum up the works. 😒 I couldn't see it from where I was sitting, and she only printed out the last page for me to see. (Where a couple of other options were mentioned, which were indeed never brought up to me.)

The last we were told, my next appointment was supposed to be scheduled sometime in November. When services were still running as normal. But, for whatever reason? Not so much. This is the first I have heard from anyone about it.

So yeah, in the meantime, with the latest Plague Resurgence, which has been especially bad locally?

Once again: Non-urgent appointments postponed at BHRUT due to Covid increase. Where Barking, Havering and Redbridge University Hospitals NHS Trust does indeed cover some of the hardest hit London boroughs. 🙃 And AFAICT all specialist appointments/services are run out of hospitals under this system, for extra fun.

According to the person who called, they're just not doing outpatient diagnostics at all at our local hospital for now. Which covers all endoscopy. Thus, the appointment at the other hospital in the trust.

As for endoscopy services?

As of 21 December, we are only carrying out cancer and urgent diagnostic endoscopies –  these will all take place at King George Hospital, within the private sector or diagnostic hubs.

So, at least they are indeed classifying this as "urgent", which is honestly a huge relief. I mean, you would hope so if someone is having severe difficulty swallowing anything--which is kinda important to continued life--but yeah.

I have no clue what they are even planning to do. I was very surprised to hear that other options--including surgery! 😵--were even being discussed. I'm just the patient, why would anyone tell me anything, right? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

And of course the people calling to inform you of appointments have no idea other than it's for endoscopy (or whatever), unlike at the kinds of specialist offices I was used to back home. I learned pretty quickly not to even ask.

So yeah, hopefully they won't spring a "surgery, or no swallowing for you!" on me. 🙄 We'll have to see. No use worrying about it now. (They say, worriedly...)

At least they will hopefully do another extremely unpleasant balloon dilation again, like last time after that defective stent wouldn't open up properly. That may not keep my esophagus more usable for longer than a few weeks afterward, but that's still a few weeks of hopefully being able to eat something other than thin liquids! Which is way better than I've been doing for almost 2 months now.

Oh yes, besides the short notice gastroscopy appointment, for next Wednesday? Of course I need to go for another (likely drive through only! 😬) COVID swab test 3 days before the appointment. Which means...the Sunday right before a bank holiday? 🤔

Maybe during the current crisis, they are indeed keeping that testing center open 7 days a week? Again, who knows. Somebody else is supposed to call me to tell me when to go. At some point before Sunday?

They just won't do the procedure without clean test results in hand, for pretty obvious reasons.

There's no way in hell we're going to get any medical passport appointment letter to show them at the testing center in the meantime. At least I still have the detailed instruction papers from the last time, unless they have switched procedures up a lot. I have serious doubts we'll get the letter for the endoscopy appointment beforehand, with Royal Mail currently working at a crawl.

Honestly, I have so many questions at this point. But, hopefully things will somehow work out. And I will hopefully be able to eat something again? *fingers crossed*

[luciimarii]

i find you in sad songs and sad children (ch. 1)

Shouto goes missing when he is four years old. Touya becomes a pro hero.

Ten years later, there's an attack on the USJ, and Touya is hired to bodyguard class 1-A. He doesn't expect to find his brother while he's at it.

(or: todobros roleswap.)

words: 2,784

ao3 link here

At first, Touya doesn't notice Shouto is missing.

It's not like Shouto is a very loud presence in the house, not like Natsuo or Dad or Touya himself. Shouto sticks to the shadows. He is every bit quiet and reserved a four year old should not be, but Touya tries not to think too hard about that, lest he start smoking in his rage.

So when he comes homes for the first time in a few days from one of his usual sneak outs, he doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary. It's just as silent as it always is, just as tense and suffocating. Sometimes in this house Touya has to struggle to breathe just because the air is so thick with his father's dumbassery.

He pads as silently as he can down the hall. His throat is dry from nights on the streets, and he needs water. But he stops short outside the kitchen when his ears catch on a too familiar sound - Fuyumi's muffled sobs.

"Yumi?" Touya asks quietly as he steps into the room, flinching at the state his twin is in. She's hunched over the kitchen table, head in her hands. The landline behind her is dangling from it's cable, nearly touching the floor, and she's still in her pajamas at three in the afternoon. She jolts when he enters, looking up at him with big, terrified eyes.

"Where the hell have you been? " She asks, just as quietly as him, because in this home children speak quietly.

Touya doesn't quite understand the question. It's been a long time since she asked him that, long since used to his periodic disappearances. "Around," he says, sitting down next to her but not touching her. "What's going on?"

"Mom," she starts, then breaks off into a choked sob, "Mom took Sho. They're gone. "

----------

Ten years later, Touya stands frozen in the middle of his living room.

The screen shows yesterday's attack on UA. His phone dangles in his limp hand. Nezu's words ring in his ears.

We need another low profile hero to stay with Class 1-A at all times. Will you do it?  

Touya's mouth had opened, the word no had been poised on his tongue. But he'd caught Keigo's raised eyebrows, and his little brother's face had flashed in his mind, and somehow, inexplicably, he found himself saying yes.

Excellent! You start Monday.  

"Holy shit," Touya says quietly. He closes his eyes, bringing one scarred hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I don't know how to deal with children."

He hears Keigo snort from the couch, and the channel change from the USJ Attack to some reality show. Touya fucking hates the shitty reality shows Keigo watches, but at least he doesn't have to hear about the USJ again. It's all he's heard about for the last twenty four hours.

"They're teenagers," Keigo says, "They can't be that hard."

----------

They were, in fact, that hard.

Within minutes, Touya finds himself bombarded by what he can only assume are toddlers disguised as teenagers - he reminds himself that he is not that much older than them, nor is he truthfully that much more mature. He also reminds himself of his own boyfriend, who is most likely also a toddler disguised as a pro hero.

His own former teacher, Aizawa, raises a hand as he activates his quirk. Even through the bandages, the man is terrifying. It's been a few years since Touya was on the recieving end of that red eyed glare, but he still has to fight the urge to shout Sorry, Sensei! and scramble back to his seat. The students react in much the same way, the ones that had been shouting excited questions at him now plopped back down in their seats. The pink skinned girl gives him an apologetic smile, and he nods back at her solemnly.

"Now," Aizawa says, "As I was saying. This is Hephaestus, an underground hero, and for extra security he will be joining us on our day to day. You can call him Todoroki-san-"

"Todoroki-san?!" The aforementioned very loud, very excited pink skinned girl shouts, half-standing from her seat, "Like, Endeavor Todoroki?!"

"No," Touya cuts in, lip curling, "Like Hephaestus Todoroki. No one else."

And he must say it a little too harshly, because silence ripples across the room for the first time since he stepped in. Except for the scratching of a pen on paper and quiet muttering - a green haired boy is frantically scribbling something in a notebook. Touya spares him a sideways glance. The blonde boy behind him smacks him upside the head and hisses Shut up!, and Touya figures the problem is dealt with for now.

"As Aizawa-Se - Aizawa said, I'll be accompanying you all from now on. Our goal is to keep a disaster like the USJ from happening again. Any questions?" He crosses his arms, sweeping his gaze across the room. Besides the purple haired boy in the back who seems half asleep, the green haired boy still scribbling in his notebook, and the blonde boy who is glaring at him so furiously Touya thinks he must have done something horrible to him in his past life, the class seems more than a little scared shitless. They stay eerily silent.

"I guess not. Well, then, I look forward to working with you all."

----------

Eighty percent of the time, chaperoning a gaggle of hero wannabes is not nearly as exciting or interesting as Touya expected it to be.

Instead, it's more comparable to having an office job. Touya used to imagine having an office job, just because he knew it would piss off his father, and he supposes now he basically has that. It's a lot of sitting in the back of the classroom while teachers drone on and on and on about things he either already knows or that he forgot as soon as he left school and has no interest in relearning. He spends a lot of time having hushed conversations with Shinsou and Tokoyami, who are both subdued and not-annoying enough that Touya can actually stand to be around them.

Shinsou's an interesting kid. He's the opposite of Touya, in that he was always told he could never be a hero. All Touya was ever told was that he was made to be one. But Shinsou is maybe one of the most heroic kids in the class, if you can get past his offstandish demeanor. Touya can see the heart of gold beneath the glares and eye bags.

He also ends up spending a lot of time analyzing the rest of the class. Like Iida Tenya - Touya swears he met him and his big brothers at all those Pro Hero balls his father dragged him to as a kid. Or Aoyama Yuuga and Midoriya Izuku, with their self destructive quirks that Touya can one hundred percent relate to. He takes special note of them even before Aizawa pulls him aside to specifically tell him about them. Maybe he can teach them a thing or too. He takes note of Bakugou Katsuki, too - with his destructive quirk and quick temper, he reminds Touya too much of what he himself was like at that age. Touya had gotten far too close to going down a very dangerous path because of his temper, and he doesn't want to watch Bakugou go down that same route.

The job isn't always boring, though. The other twenty percent of the time, Touya gets to deal with shenanigans.

Like one morning about a week into his job. For once, he gets to UA early, and he's not sure whether or not that's a good thing. Because Aizawa isn't here yet - nor is half the class - and there is a boy tied up in the middle of the room. Or rather, taped.

Touya stops in the doorway. He doesn't say much at first, instead just watching. A few slightly-singed desks have been shoved aside to leave a rough circle in the middle of the room, where a blonde boy (Touya thinks he recognizes him from the other hero class) is struggling on the floor and restrained with tape. A glance around the room reveals Bakugou has also been taped securely to the wall. Sero stands in between the two, panting and red faced. Midoriya is stood frozen and wide eyed next to Bakugou - a lock of his bangs is black and the rancid smell of burnt hair fills the room. The rest of the present students, who Touya knows as the remainder of the self proclaimed Bakusquad along with Shinsou, are spectating from the other side of the classroom. They all hold varying degrees of "What The Fuck" expressions.

Finally, Touya gives a long sigh. "What the hell? " And about ten different voices start shouting at him all at once.

He holds up a blue hand. "One at a time!" He snaps, and they go quiet. Pointing to the blonde boy, he asks. "Who is that?" Midoriya seems like the most unbiased source in all this, so Touya casts his gaze to him.

Midoriya squeaks at the attention. "Monoma Neito, sir," he says, "From 1-B. Sir."

Ah, one of those kids from the gaggle that had come to interrogate 1-A the other day. They'd all crowded around the door and, truly, been annoying - not that 1-A had reacted much better. Touya hums. "Why the tape? And drop the sir, kid."

"He and Kacchan got in a fight," Midoriya says, which prompts Bakugou to start screaming something so full of profanity that Touya can't keep up.

"Woah, okay, calm the fuck down," Touya says, "Why?"

From the other side of the room, Shinsou gives a tired sigh. "It's Monoma," he says, "And Bakugou. That's the explanation." Touya doesn't know Monoma very well, but he figures that tracks.

"Monoma started it, honestly," Midoriya elaborates. "He called Kacchan a villain, and made fun of some of our quirks..." He doesn't say who, which Touya figures is probably to save the kids' dignity. Touya can respect that, but he still notices the glances Midoriya sends Kaminari and Kirishima.

Touya shrugs. "Well, if that's the case, y'all better clean this place up before Aizawa gets here."

The room erupts into anarchy as the kids scramble to shove the desks back into place. Touya watches, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. A few more students enter and get roped into helping despite not even knowing what happened. Ashido leaves and comes back with a 1-B girl who drags Monoma off to his own class.

"The desks! " Kaminari wails, "They're burnt! "

There is a collective glare at Bakugou.

"So's my hair," Midoriya says very quietly, and Kirishima smacks Bakugou upside the head.

As Uraraka, who'd arrived in the midst of the chaos, works with Midoriya to coax his hair into some short of weird braid/ponytail to hide the burnt locks, Yaoyorozu makes the mistake of arriving to class. All eyes turn to her.

"Uhm," Yaoyorozu says, "Why are the desks burnt?"

"That's not important!" Kaminari says very quickly, "But can you make new ones? "

Yaoyorozu looks to Touya, who sighs. She sighs, too, which is very common in this classroom, then opens her lunchbox and downs three Capri-Suns. "I can try."

So, Touya won't lie. His job isn't the most exciting ever - but it's not boring. These kids are...

Alright, he'll admit it, these kids are growing on him. Like a fungus.

----------

"Admit it," Keigo says one night when he's laying on top of and suffocating Touya on the couch, "You love them." In the background, a woman in one of his reality shows throws a bottle at her sister in law.

"I don't, "  Touya snaps. Despite his harsh tone he runs his hands gently over Keigo's feathers. Keigo hums and tucks his face against his neck.

"You so do. You're a total softie and you love them. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," Touya yawns, "They're just... some stupid kids." The conversation lulls there as the two of them doze off, curled together on the couch.

The next day, Touya does not realize there is a feather in his hair when he comes into work. This is the first in a series of unfortunate events that lead to Touya's doom.

----------

In fact, Touya comes to work with feathers on his person on more than one occasion. Then there's a picture taken of underground hero Hephaestus walking with number three hero Hawks. Then Midnight sneaks a glance over Touya's shoulder in the teacher's lounge and spots "Bird Brain" with a black heart emoji next to it, and her and Mic's two brain cells clink together just enough to figure it out.

Which is how Touya ends up with the entire UA staff knowing he's dating Keigo. And is also how he ends up immediately vacating the teacher's lounge to eat with the students.

He seats himself at the self-titled Dekusquad's table with no preamble, because they seem the least likely to A) interrogate him or B) yell at him. Plus, Shinsou's there, and Shinsou's a pretty chill kid.

Still, when he sits down the kids go eerily silent for a moment before Iida gathers himself and says, "Hephaestus-san! Why are you eating with the students and not the teachers, sir? Has there been an emergency?" He swings his arms about in that sharp way he always does as he talks, and his classmates, long used to it, dodge effortlessly.

"The emergency is that your teachers are idiots," Touya says after a long sip of Coca-Cola, "And that I am not allowed to have alcohol on campus."

Iida splutters over that statement for a long time before he cuts off at a startled squeak from Midoriya. The boy looks wide eyed down at his phone, and Touya watches with dread as tears form. He doesn't even chide the boy for having his phone out at school.

"Is everything okay, Deku?" Uraraka asks softly, placing a gentle hand on his upper arm. He flinches away, hiding his phone screen against his chest.

"It's fine," Midoriya says, and Touya takes note of the sudden speed to his breath. "I just - I need to use the bathroom. I'll be right back." Shinsou glares after him as he rushes away. Then, he turns to Touya.

"You gonna talk to him?" Shinsou asks, as though that's the obvious solution.

Eloquently, Touya says, "What?"

"You are the responsible adult."

"Shit," Touya realizes, "You're right." And he rushes to follow after Midoriya.

He finds the kid sitting in the corner of an accessible stall, his grip on his phone white-knuckled and head tucked against his knees. Touya doesn't enter the stall, instead seating himself in the entrance. Midoriya turns his head a little and winces when he spots him, pushing himself closer to the wall. There are so many sirens going off in Touya's head.

"Talk to me, kid," Touya says, "I know I ain't the nicest, but I can try to help."

Midoriya turns his head back to his knees. Touya doesn't judge him - the kid cries a lot, but that doesn't mean he wants anyone to see, and Touya gets that. He doesn't answer for a long time. But Touya doesn't press. He's comforted his siblings enough to sort of understand how to properly talk to a distressed child.

Finally, Midoriya whispers, "Mom said Dad's coming home."

Touya goes very, very still. Then, he asks, "What's your dad like, kid?"

"He's a Pro Hero."

Touya closes his eyes. "Kid..." he starts, then pauses to consider. Fuck it, he thinks, Someone shoulda done this for us. Then he says, "Do you want my number?"

"Huh?" Midoriya asks incredulously, and Touya realizes that's not something you ask your student. He sighs.

" Don't text me for stupid shit," he says, holding out his hand for the phone. "Just - if you need help. I'll come."

Maybe Keigo was right about him going soft. Midoriya holds the phone out and Touya leans forward to take it, not commenting on the way the boy's hands tremble, and he plugs in his number. He's going to keep an eye on Midoriya from now on, that's for sure. And maybe have a word with Aizawa.

Touya watches his phone like a hawk for days after. The Sports Festival comes and goes, and he receives no messages. But on days he knows Midoriya's father is home (he works mostly in America, he discovers), he barely breathes when Midoriya isn't in his sight. He waits for a message, and isn't sure whether or not he ever wants it to come.

Then, when Hosu is on fire, the message comes.

[harianadimples]

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

Warning: none 3.7k+: fluff, light angst, university!au, spooky szn

| – | – | – |

The house begins to look like a haunted house well before October 31st.

They finished refurnishing the walls and the floors of the living room three weeks into September and are now in the process of putting in furniture and decorating. Harry didn’t really bat an eye when Ariana was bringing home small Halloween related pieces like ceramic jack-o-lantern models and a practical witch’s spell book, but he felt he needed to step in once he saw her carrying a familiar bust into their living room.

“You are not putting that in here,” Harry immediately takes the bust from her, maneuvering it away from her grabby hands as they reached for it.

The bust was from a shoot he did for his first year, special effects makeup class in university. He had to create a prosthetic of his face; a mask, essentially. It turned out a little wonky since Harry didn’t have the experience he has now, and he might have been high while working on it. He kept it as a portfolio piece before it inevitably ended up in a storage unit. He would have thrown it away if Ariana hadn’t wanted to have it, and now he’s strongly reconsidering his decision to keep it.

“Come on, you know how much I adore that thing. It’s art!” Ariana huffs as she tries for the bust with Harry’s face again, but he only holds it above his head where he knows she won’t be able to reach it. “Hey, careful with him!” She gasps, making the jump to grab the bust from Harry which she quickly runs and places on the coffee table.

“It clashes with my Michaelmas Daisies,” Harry huffs motioning to how the fleshy bust dampened the soft nature of his purple flowers.

“What if I put him with the landline?” Ariana asks.

“No, it’s old and the direct sunlight isn’t good for it,” Harry shakes his head, trailing off as he looks around the living room, “I suppose he can go on the shelf there, with the paper weight Matt gave us.”

“Hmmm, if Matt ever heard you calling his wedding gift for us a ‘paper weight,’ he’d ghost you again,” Ariana laughs as she brings the bust over to the shelf.

“What would I do with a small crystal dog other than use it as a paper weight?” Harry asks. “It can’t give me kisses or cuddle me.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Ariana grins as she steps into Harry’s arms which invitingly wrap around her in an embrace that warms them both. She leans upward and kisses the bottom of his chin before slipping out of his arms so she could continue her decorating.

“Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder”

or

The one where Halloween complicates a marriage when you couldn’t care less about Halloween while your wife’s the kind of person to paint ‘YOU’RE NEXT’ on your new walls with fake blood

-:-:-:-

After five of years of marriage and being together for nine years in total, Harry thinks he knows his wife pretty well at this point. So, when she came into their living room one summer morning, her eyes suspiciously aglow for someone who had to go to the pharmacy to pick up his ointments, Harry knew that she was up to something. He could see the cog wheels in her mind turning as he met her eyes from across the room.

“Look what I picked up. I saw it in the shop next door, and thought it was the cutest thing. I think it’ll look great on our mantle,” Ariana says, the pitter patter of her socked feet thud over their half-done wood floors to where Harry is sitting by a pile of floor boards. She pulls out a small skeleton doll, made mostly of tiny (he hopes are fake) bones and a barbie-sized head. Only the head is missing a face, and had a head full of matted black hair.

“It’s creepy,” Harry makes a pinched expression as he looks at it up close, “isn’t it a bit too early for shops to sell Halloween decorations?”

“It’s never too early for Halloween,” Ariana disagrees as she takes the doll from Harry, taking it to the fireplace to place it on the mantle.

They’re currently re-doing the living room so, the mantle isn’t flocked with family photos and the small gifts they’d collected at past weddings and birthdays. She sets the doll down in the middle of the mantle, stepping back to admire it in its lonesome.

“Have we decided on ‘silver chalice’ or ‘silk pillow’ for the walls?” Harry asks as he sets his phone down.

“Silk pillow,” Ariana sighs, “but I still think black would be divine.”

…

The house begins to look like a haunted house well before October 31st.

They finished refurnishing the walls and the floors of the living room three weeks into September and are now in the process of putting in furniture and decorating. Harry didn’t really bat an eye when Ariana was bringing home small Halloween related pieces like ceramic jack-o-lantern models and a practical witch’s spell book, but he felt he needed to step in once he saw her carrying a familiar bust into their living room.

“You are not putting that in here,” Harry immediately takes the bust from her, maneuvering it away from her grabby hands as they reached for it.

The bust was from a shoot he did for his first year, special effects makeup class in university. He had to create a prosthetic of his face; a mask, essentially. It turned out a little wonky since Harry didn’t have the experience he has now, and he might have been high while working on it. He kept it as a portfolio piece before it inevitably ended up in a storage unit. He would have thrown it away if Ariana hadn’t wanted to have it, and now he’s strongly reconsidering his decision to keep it.

“Come on, you know how much I adore that thing. It’s art!” Ariana huffs as she tries for the bust with Harry’s face again, but he only holds it above his head where he knows she won’t be able to reach it. “Hey, careful with him!” She gasps, making the jump to grab the bust from Harry which she quickly runs and places on the coffee table.

“It clashes with my Michaelmas Daisies,” Harry huffs motioning to how the fleshy bust dampened the soft nature of his purple flowers.

“What if I put him with the landline?” Ariana asks.

“No, it’s old and the direct sunlight isn’t good for it,” Harry shakes his head, trailing off as he looks around the living room, “I suppose he can go on the shelf there, with the paper weight Matt gave us.”

“Hmmm, if Matt ever heard you calling his wedding gift for us a ‘paper weight,’ he’d ghost you again,” Ariana laughs as she brings the bust over to the shelf.

“What would I do with a small crystal dog other than use it as a paper weight?” Harry asks. “It can’t give me kisses or cuddle me.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Ariana grins as she steps into Harry’s arms which invitingly wrap around her in an embrace that warms them both. She leans upward and kisses the bottom of his chin before slipping out of his arms so she could continue her decorating.

Harry spends some time rearranging their photos on the mantle which is worryingly overcrowded now, but he felt adamant about every photo being included. Each photo held a great importance to him, so much so that he went out of his way to have them printed and framed. There’s one from their first date, one from when they got engaged, and of course, when they got married. The other photos were every-other-day photos of them that he really loved, not to mention that they’d be great to show their kids and their kids someday; Harry can’t wait to be that one grandparent with the stories, you know the one.

Harry glances at the photo he’s holding and can’t help but grin. It’s a photo from when they met; a group photo taken at a Halloween party she’d hosted in her third year of university (Harry was a year below her).

…

“Why the hell are we here, Matt? Holly’s moved on and so should you,” Harry looked at his desperate friend in disbelief, trying his best to keep up with Matt as he kept walking further into the house. Harry didn’t even know whose party they’d crash, but he knew he needed to stop Matt before he caused a scene.

“I just want to see the prick she left me for,” Matty huffed, “now put on your mask, I don’t want to actually confront her. If she sees you she’ll know I’m here too, because we all know you hate Halloween. She’ll think you’re only at this party because I dragged you here.”

“Heeey!” Harry frowned, “I don’t hate Halloween, don’t make me out to be some bad person. I just don’t find it fun; the dressing up, the decorations, the stress of it all–.”

“Yeah, whatever man. Come on,” Matt slipped on his zombie mask along with Harry and the pair began walking through the house.

Harry wasn’t impressed much when he saw the different costumes. It’s clear that not everyone got the memo about the Night of the Living Dead theme, though to be honest there weren’t many people to begin with. While Harry still didn’t care much for the festivities of Halloween, he figured that if a Halloween party has a theme you should at least try to follow it, otherwise why attend? He felt most unimpressed by those who disregarded the theme entirely. It wasn’t that bad of a theme. A little dated maybe, but Night of the Living dead is a cult classic horror film that he can appreciate for the special effects makeup.

“Hey Matt, you know whose party this is?” Harry asks.

“Ariana Grande, from one of Holly’s classes. I think they’re friends, but you never know with her what your relationship is,” Matt shrugged, “Anyway, yeah, she’s kind of weird.”

Harry took in the decorations littered around the house. Through the dim mood lighting, he could make out the cobwebs stuck in every corner, the gentle fog which sweeps around his feet, and finally the fake bloodied limbs. There’s fake tombstones set up in places, and models of zombies made for lawns propped up in random areas. Whoever this Ariana girl was she really put in the effort in decorating the place.

The two made their way into the kitchen where the drinks were. Harry poured himself some red punch, which he wasn’t surprised was spiked with some alcohol when he gulped it down. He heard Matt gruffly speaking next to him, but it wasn’t towards him. He looked and saw Matt speaking to someone dressed as Mark Hamill’s Joker. They’re talking about Holly again and Harry’s about had it with Matt being hung up on Holly; if he didn’t love his best friend so much he’d be anywhere else, but he didn’t want Matt to do something stupid that would end up in a fight again.

Deciding to distance himself from the two, Harry made his way back to the table with the punch. He poured himself another glass and looked around. There’s some finger food (literally… fingers; they’re sugar cookies, he discovers) which admittedly tasted sinful with his spiked punch. There was a large bowl of chocolates as well which he was inclined to reach into when he spotted his favourite chocolate brand. When reaching into the bowl Harry was startled when a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist from within the bowl, buried beneath the chocolates.

The noise that came from Harry wasn’t pretty.

He’s sure that the whole house heard him scream. Matt and his friend were looking at him in confusion and worry, while other’s just stared in awkward silence.

Then muffled laughter; he heard laughter, coming from the bowl?

Harry looked for the owner of that laugh, readying himself to tell them off for being so childish, but instead he watches with forced composure as a young woman slides out from under the table. Her laughter is less muffled now, and when she’s standing in front of him with a pleased expression he notices how she looks like a proper zombie, her face in a genuine state of decay with her large school sweater ripped and dirtied.

“God, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting under there,” She said, reaching for a cup to pour herself some punch.

“I suppose I’m your first victim, then,” Harry murmured as he fiddled with his cup.

“You’re actually the only one to fall for it so far. It’s an old trick that only the dumbest people fall for,” She smirked, “I miss when Halloween had more tricks, as well as treats. Isn’t it fun getting scared?”

“Not a fan of the surprise but the aesthetic is sublime,” Harry shrugged. “I’m not much of a Halloween enthusiast but, whoever put this party together knows how to throw a good Halloween party.”

“Why thank you,” She smiled as Harry realized who she is.

“Ariana, right?” Harry decided to make sure it was her.

“Yup. So, you’re Harry. Holly mentioned you hated Halloween,” Ariana said as Harry sighs, “It’s not that I hate Halloween, I just know it takes a lot of dedication so I’d rather not bother myself with the stress of it all. I’m a last-minute-costume sort of guy. I have nothing against anyone who celebrates Halloween,” he defends.

“Well, at least you came to my party on-theme so I’ll forgive you for being a Halloween hater,” Ariana said, referring to his mask.

“I’m not a Halloween Hater–!”

“Not after I’m through with you,” She warned, grinning mischievously as she approached Harry, “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. I’ll give you a Halloween you won’t forget.”

Harry watched as she leaves, immediately losing her in a sea of fake fog and other party goers. Matt wasn’t wrong about her being kind of weird, but Harry thought of it in the best way, like she clearly has a personality behind her prosthetics and costume rather than sharing a hive mind with the rest of the undead in the room. Harry made a mental note to ask her about her prosthetics when he had the chance. In the meantime he rejoined Matt.

Though he’d rather not admit it, he was on edge for the rest of the night. He genuinely feared getting tricked by Ariana again, mostly because he was the jumpy type and would leap out of his skin even at the slightest noise and he’d rather not have to deal with her laughing at him for being such an easy scare.

Harry is unsure if Ariana let it slip to Holly that he was here, because at some point in the night Holly had come up to him and Matt (she was dressed as a zombified pageant winner) and somewhere between his fourth and sixth cup of spiked punch, Harry had lost the two and was left alone to mope on the sofa next to some couple making out. Right when he was thinking about getting up to look for Ariana, she’d reappeared from the hallway and had caught his gaze from across the room. She smiled and approached him, careful not to bump into the dancing bodies loitering the living room.

“Hey,” Ariana greeted him as she sat next to him.

“What happened to those tricks you said you have up your sleeve?” He teased her, smiling when she rolled her eyes.

“I think the real trick was not having to do anything and just watching you constantly turning around to make sure I wasn’t there. Anyway, I waited a bit but Matt was by your side most of the time and he’s hard to scare, so I gave it a rest. I thought you’d have forgotten about me by then,” She said.

“It’s kind of hard to forget you after my life was threatened,” Harry retorted.

“I just wanted to give you a little fright,” She laughed.

“Your face is frightening, alone,” Harry huffed as his bleary eyes began to struggle to find where her eyes exactly are.

“Thank you,” She smiled, “it's all prosthetic though, but don’t worry there’s a whole lotta ugly underneath this mask too.”

Her comments made Harry laugh as he shook his head, “Yeah, I took a special effects makeup class in my first year. I’m in the film studies program. So, I know a thing or two about prosthetics.”

“Oh sick, I’m in the theatre program. Same as Holly,” She replied. “You probably think my prosthetics look like trash.”

“No, no, actually, I think it’s pretty good. You know, for an amateur. You did that yourself?” Harry asked.

“Yup, just myself with an hour long tutorial on YouTube,” She nodded, “I had Holly help with some of the placement though. Is it really fine?”

“Honestly, it’s fine. I doubt I could do any better. I had to reconstruct my face for an assignment once. Got it on a bust in a storage unit at my dorm. It looked horrifying to say the least,” Harry chuckled.

“Can I have it?”

“No offence but, I just met you so it’s a little weird that you’d want to keep a bust of my face. You’d probably make it a part of your whole Halloween theme and I’d rather not showcase my worst work yet,” Harry shook his head as Ariana pouted. “Well, then how about we get to know each other better?” She suggested. “I know your name is Harry and friends with Holly and Matt, and I know you’re a film studies major and you know how to do special effects makeup. You know that my name is Ariana, and I’m also friends with Holly and Matt. I’m a theatre major and I love Halloween. Oh, I almost forgot, you hate Halloween.”

“I don’t!”

“Right, you just don’t think Halloween is fun,” Ariana rolled her eyes, “shall we unmask the monster under there?” When Harry didn’t try to stop her, Ariana continued to lift the mask over his head. When she saw Harry beneath the zombie mask she swore her heart skipped a beat.

“Well?” He asked her, his green eyes bleary from the alcohol, late hour and fake fog.

“Nothing,” Ariana huffed as she slid the mask back over his face.

Harry pulled his mask off again and set it down in his lap. He glanced over at Ariana who’s got her arms crossed, the rim of her cup tucked between her lips as she looked anywhere but at him.

“Now this isn’t fair. You know what I look like without my mask, but I don’t know what you look like under yours,” Harry pointed out.

“You’re not missing anything,” She assured him with a grunt, “trust me.”

“I suppose I’ll be the judge of that when I see you next, say, tomorrow afternoon? Coffee to nurse our hangovers?” Harry asked.

“Sure,” She shook her head, though she sounded a little hesitant in agreeing. “I’m sorry, are you asking me out?”

“I’m just completing your suggestion. I guess I want to get to know you better too,” Harry shrugged.

“Okay, but fair warning. There’s a lot of weird going on up here,” Ariana motioned to her head as she looked at Harry. “And I love Halloween, so I don’t know how that’ll fit in your anti-Halloween agenda.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake–,” Harry started but was cut off by her laughter. This time he realized he found her laugh quite pretty and nice in his ears despite him being a little annoyed by her teasing.

“Hey you two, we’re doing a group photo. Care to join?” Holly appeared with Matt behind her. Neither Harry or Ariana rejected the offer so they both stood; Harry first, and then Ariana who he helped pull off from the sofa.

Harry and Ariana end up stood beside each other. It’s then that harry realized that Ariana was quite small compared to his height and the other’s. She seemed to be getting pushed back by whoever else was trying to get in the photo, so he did was seemed logical in the moment and ushered her to stand in front of him.

Ariana seemed thankful and Harry gave her a small reassuring smile before putting his mask back on. He rests his chin on top of her head and wraps his arms around her.

“Say… Halloween!”

“Halloweeeen!”

…

Halloween morning, Harry wakes up alone with his face pressed into Ariana’s pillow having rolled onto his right side at some point overnight. He can tell because he can smell her on the pillow covers.

He wanders through the hallway, his socked feet sliding over the new floor boards just for the sake of it as he mindlessly admires his handiwork. He’s wrapped up in his lavender dressing gown as he makes his way downstairs where the temperature drops, and he wonders if the thermostat is being faulty again.

What he finds in the hallway leading towards the rest of the house is worse than a faulty air con. Among the corny Halloween decor, is the words ‘YOUR NEXT’ painted on the walls in thick fake blood (he hopes).  

“Babe?” Harry calls for his wife as he blinks at the mess on the wall.

“Yeah! I’m in the living room!”

“Come here a minute!” Harry says as he stares at the wall.

The pitter patter of her feet follow his request and soon Ariana meets Harry in the hallway, her hands still covered in the fake blood she’d smeared on their newly painted walls. She’s still carrying a plastic Tupperware container of the fake blood with her.

“Morning baby,” She greets him nonchalantly as she looks at him for a reaction to her work on the walls. “What do you think?”

“You used the wrong ‘you’re’,” Harry sighs as he takes the Tupperware container from her and dips three of his finger’s in. He begins to fix her mistake, adding the apostrophe between the ‘U’ and ‘R’ and an ‘E’ at the end.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize. I was honestly half asleep when I started in the hall,” She admits with a giggle as she takes the Tupperware container back from Harry. “Come see the living room.”

Their living room doesn’t appear much different to Harry except for the fake blood smeared across the walls and on the floors. Though his bust is sitting on a silver platter, acting as a centre piece on their coffee table, and somehow it seems to be flattering his Michaelmas Daisies today.

“We’ll have to paint the walls over and then wax the floors again,” Harry reminds her, “this time it’s your turn to do the work.”

“Of course, but I want to keep this all up for as long as I can,” Ariana pouts. “Do you think our guests will finally dress on-theme this year?”

“Well, if we’re talking about our party being the Met-Gala of Halloween parties…. I doubt it,” He chuckles.

Later that day, Harry helped Ariana with the prosthetics for her costume. She’d asked for a deformed reimagining of her face earlier that week, so Harry had drawn up a few sketches for her to select. She’d chosen the worse looking one of course, and excitedly pestered him about it throughout his process of making the pieces.

As Harry finished up on her face, he took a step back to take in the finished product.

“How do I look?” Ariana asks, looking at him through the vanity.

“You look horrifyingly, beautiful,” Harry grins as he dabs his brush over the corners of her mouth before hooking his finger under her chin so he could turn her head and press a gentle kiss over her prosthetic lips. “Couldn’t be more in love with you, y’weirdo.”

“Thank you,” She laughs.

Harry’s costume is meant to match Ariana’s, so he’d made himself prosthetics as well. When the pair finished getting ready, they went into their living room and set up Ariana’s phone on a timer so they could take photos.

“I really like that one,” Harry says as she stops scrolling on the photo where they’re sat on the sofa next to each other just talking. It’s candid, and lovely, knowing she was probably going on about how excited she was about their party and Harry looks properly enamoured by her love for Halloween and her passion that shows when she talks about it.

You wouldn’t have guessed that he didn’t find Halloween very fun, though he’ll admit that over the years he grew to appreciate the spooky season more and more for the way it never failed to make Ariana’s eyes light up with pure happiness. The essence of the spooky season never really leaves, so long as Ariana has anything to do with it. Harry doesn’t mind, after all, Halloween is just another Thursday night for the pair nowadays.

| – | – | – |

Hey there, thanks for reading! I really wanted to write something inspired by the events that unfolded today: Harry saying with his whole chest that ‘Halloween is not fun’ and Ariana’s extra™ ass posting endless Halloween content of her in her twilight zone costume which this one shot title takes its inspiration from. I just love the parallel and wanted to write it in the context of a marriage because no one stopped me lol.

Hope you liked it ♡  

+ masterlists

[igottoomuchwriting]

Party Favor (Hetalia)

“I’m so glad you could make it!” Amelia cheered. Matthew let out a laugh as Amelia tackled him in a hug, stepping back so that he wouldn’t fall. 

“When have I broken my promise?”

“Never once!” Matthew let Amelia go, giving her a smile.

“Happy 243rd birthday, Amelia.” Amelia rolled her eyes and smacked Matthew’s arm.

“Shut the fuck up! You’re making me feel old.”

The siblings started making their way further into the White House, talking about everything they missed. 

“Sorry that you have to follow me while I finalize some paperwork.”

“Don’t be sorry!” Matthew assured. “I understand. I even brought some paperwork to do when we have downtime.” Amelia looked down at the briefcase in his hand and scoffed.

“Downtime? On the Fourth of July? Never fucking heard of it.” Matthew rolled his eyes at Amelia, but she didn’t feel hurt by it. They both know the differences between each other and how they celebrate their birthdays. Matthew has always been calmer than Amelia when it came to celebrating their independence days, but Amelia was nothing but proud about how happy her people are to celebrate her birthday. 

“Is anyone else coming to celebrate?” Mathew asked as they reached Amelia’s office. Amelia let Matthew enter her office first, giving her a chance to say hello to some employees that were passing by, thanking them for their good wishes.

“I, uh, asked Mexico if he wanted to come up, but I think he is busy right now.”

“Busy?’ Amelia shot Matthew a pointed look as she closed the door. Matthew raised his hands in defense, awkward as ever, but Amelia could read her brother. He knew that she was upset, especially with tensions between their people and countries.

“I know he isn’t busy, but I’m not going to be forceful when I know he is angry with me,” Amelia mumbled. 

The conversation was dropped from then on. Amelia was one of the main countries that had a hand in the debate of immigration from everywhere in the world, at every meeting it always gets back to her. Even though she never really liked talking about it, she knew she had to, but her birthday was the one day that she didn’t want to talk about the state of her country and the world. Even if she should. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” Matthew suggested. Amelia nodded in agreement.

“Oh!” Amelia exclaimed, scaring Matthew. “How is it going with Prussia?” 

A flush appeared across Matthew’s face at the mention of—who Amelia assumes is—his boyfriend. 

“It’s going good so far,” Matthew assured. Amelia sat down on her desk and faced where Matthew was sitting on a chair, leaning her head in her hands. 

“Tell me about it! Dates, gifts, sex!”

“Amelia!” Matthew yelped.

“Come on!” Amelia groaned. She grabbed Matthew's hands and started swinging them back and forth dramatically. “I never get to hear about him! You won’t even send me pictures!”

“That’s weird!” 

“It’s not!” Matthew tried hiding his face but Amelia wouldn’t let him and kept shaking his arms. “Tell me about your boyfriend!”

Before Matthew could complain even more, they heard Amelia’s phone start ringing. Both of their heads turned towards the landline laying on her desk, ringing and ringing.

“Shouldn’t you answer that?” Matthew asked. Amelia shrugged.

“That’s my country phone, not my work phone. It’s probably just someone calling to wish me a happy birthday.”

“Would it be England?” Amelia barked out a laugh.

“Hell no! He won’t talk to me the whole first week of July.” She finally let go of Matthew’s arms and grabbed her phone from her jean pocket. “I sent him a snapchat video on your birthday and he still hasn’t responded.”

“France then?” Matthew suggested. Again, Amelia shook her head.

“He already sent me a text and a snapchat, as well as some flowers. He gets very sentimental on my birthday.” Amelia leaned forward with a smirk on her face. “Though I like to remind him that my revolution was one of the many factors for the French revolution,” she stage whispered. Matthew let out a laugh as his sister scrolled through her phone.

The phone on her desk started ringing again. 

“Who the fuck calls this phone twice?” Amelia groaned.

“Maybe you should answer.”

“Nope,” Amelia mumbled, popping the ‘p’. “I don’t have to do anything country related until at least 10 o’clock tonight.”

“Well, when people call my phone multiple times—”

“Dude! If it’s urgent, then they will call my work phone. We have unspoken rules of respect on our birthdays, and I would appreciate it if they respect mine.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Amelia, if it’s urgent, they are going to break out social rules. Sometimes other countries need to speak to America for problems—”

The phone beeped, signaling the end of the third call. Matthew really didn’t know who would be trying to reach his sister this insistently, but he knew that if they called the phone that many times, it had to be important. Not every country in the world has her personal cell number.

“Hey, you’ve reached the hero hotline! Sorry I missed your call! If it’s business related, please leave your name and phone number. If you’re calling for fun, text me or don’t bother me at all. See you later!”

“Such a professional voicemail,” Matthew teased. Amelia glared at him.

“I get to have fun with my country's voicemail. Making professional voicemails is never fun.”

“Well—”

Amelia started shushing him very loudly, waving at the air in front of his face. “Hush with your lessons!” Amelia snapped. “Whoever is calling is gonna leave a voicemail and I wanna hear it!”

“You could just pic—”

“I said hush for fucks’ sake!” Matthew had half the mind to snap at his sister for being obnoxious, but she had a point. Maybe if she heard the voice mail, she would actually get to learn why they were contacting her. And then maybe she’ll do her job as a country.

“Hey America,” a soft voice came through the speakers. Both of their heads snapped towards the phone in surprise.

“Is that—”

“Yeah,” Amelia mumbled. “That’s Any—Russia.” She corrected herself. Matthew gave his sister a sad smile but said nothing. He knew that troubles that Amelia had with Russia since she became a country and the power and relationship struggles that they’ve had.

“I need you to call me back when you get this, or whenever you have a minute. It’s very important,” the Russian voice continued, seemingly nervous to start the call. Amelia’s eyes have yet to break away from the phone, though she seemed to be making no move to pick up the receiver. 

“Or—nevermind. I won’t be calling you after this, so just… listen, for once in your short life.”

“What the he—”

“Hush!” Amelia snapped, but she looked scared, worried, and hurt. It pissed Matthew off, it truly did.

“I am calling to tell you that we...cannot speak anymore. The tension...tension between our leaders are too high, as well as between our citizens, so I see nothing productive in carrying on our friendship.”

Matthew watched Amelia’s face drop at ‘friendship’. It was obvious to everyone around them that there was something more between the two countries, but they have never had a chance to build a relationship. There have been times Matthew has tried convincing Amelia to give up her crush on the girl, to move on, but Amelia has been constant in denying it, fully believing that there is going to be a chance. Matthew had hope just like her, especially after the fall of the Soviet Union, but it doesn’t seem to have gotten any better. Just surface level things from what he sees on the news.

“You are always insistent that we can continue on without approval from anyone in our countries, but that is wrong. We are not as free as you believe, and you are not able to see that. You are just like every big county, wanting things that you can’t have, shouldn’t have, and yet you keep pushing. So, I’m stopping you.” 

“I...I don’t control everything my country does,” Amelia mumbled, a hint of anger in her tone. “She knows this.”

“I am sick of you trying to contact me on a daily basis.” Her voice changed. She seemed angrier, like she was never afraid to make the call in the first place. Matthew didn’t like assuming things in other countries, but he would assume that someone she didn’t want to hear the call walked in. “So if you contact me again, I will be messaging your president. Or I can tell England, since he always had a way of making sure you were quiet.” 

“Really?!” Matthew snapped. Amelia said nothing, just stared at the phone, waiting for Russia to finish. 

“I could lie and say it’s not you, it’s me, but we know that is false. This ending is 100% you, and the way that you continued everything. I do not wish to have any part in your life, other than diplomatically. If you attempt any conversation that has nothing to do with our countries or our country’s affairs, then I will not be talking to you.”

“I apologize for having inconvenient timing for this discussion, as I am sure you are busy, but there was no way that I could wait for the timing to be convenient for you. I hope you will understand my message. Happy birthday.”

The phone went silent after that. Neither Matthew nor Amelia made a noise. Matthew just watched his sister stare at the phone, watched she tried to school her expression into something unreadable. 

“Amelia,” Matthew mumbled. He reached forward to grab her hand but she pulled it away, holding it to her chest.

“That bitch,” she snapped. “She decided to call that phone to do this? Today?! She knows how important this day is to me, to my people! And the audacity to say that this was my fault?!”

“She seemed like she was hesitant in the beginning,” Matthew tried assuring, but it seemed to go one ear and out the other.

Amelia hopped off her desk and started pacing the room, angrily swinging her arms around and ranting.

“She wants me to just pretend that we never had anything? That we were never friends?! Because of the tension between our countries? What a load of horseshit!”

“Russia might be under a lot of stress—” Matthew tried cutting in, but Amelia stopped him.

“No! Because she has never cared before now!” Amelia scoffed shaking her head. “Like, I get it, the whole world basically hates my leader. Hell, half of my fucking country hates my fucking leader, but it takes you 3 fucking years to call me and say that the tensions between our countries is ‘too high’ and that is why we can’t talk?!”

“I was able to stay friends with many countries in the Middle East, even when my people hated them! Hell, Mexico is even trying to stay civil with me, even though it’s fucking difficult. What am I doing that is so bad that she can’t even try to talk it out with me, understanding that I am fucking trying to keep my country afloat, keep the world from hating me even more!”

“Amelia,” Matthew sighed. She turned towards him, ready to snap, but as soon as they made eye contact she started tearing up.

“I—I just—” she tried continuing her angry rant, keeping the pace going, but Matthew knew she couldn’t. He opened up his arms for a hug and waited.

Amelia relented and shoved herself in between his arms, hiding her head in his chest and she sobbed. Matthew held her tight, rubbing her back and placing small kisses on her head, trying to give her the best comfort that he could.

“I know it’s hard,” Matthew muttered. “Being with a country whose views don't aline with yours.”

“I just thought that once the USSR was gone and—and I legalized gay marriage we could have a chance. I had hope!” she sobbed, hugging Matthew tighter. Matthew’s heart shattered at the thought, knowing that his older sister was trying her best just to be with the person she loved, even if they were slower to come to the realization.

“Russia will come to terms eventually,” Matthew muttered. Amelia just let out another sob in response.

“I just want her to come to terms now,” she hiccuped. “I’ve waited for so long.”

Matthew said nothing. He had a lot he wanted to say, but he knew at that moment, hearing ‘you may have to wait just a little bit longer’ is not going to help the situation.

So instead, he just held her as he watched the phone blink with a new message alert.

---

Select The Hero!!?

>Yes 

No

Anya stared down at her phone, tears streaming down her face. She was finally able to get some privacy after her phone call with Amelia.

This was what was best. Her leader said so, her people said so, her church said so. She is not supposed to feel this way, and her leader would not be happy if he knew that she was becoming to friendly with America.

This is what she wanted to do. Anya always wants what's best for herself, for her people, and her country. 

What would you like to do?

>Edit contact

Delete  

Block

Anya wiped away her tears as she selected her choice.

What would you like to do?

Edit contact

Delete

>Block

Are you sure?

>Yes

No

The Hero!! can no longer contact you or receive messages from you. To reverse this decision, please contact your cellphone provider

---

The Hero!!: anya what was that phone call?

The Hero!!: anya answer me goddamnit

The Hero!!: please text me back

You can no longer send messages to this phone number. If there is an issue, please contact support for help.

[etraytin]

Quarantine, Day 55

The punchline of today's journal entry is that we got about five pounds of pad thai from the local noodle place for dinner, plus three additional entrees, so my writing may be interrupted by me falling asleep at any moment. It was really good pad thai, though. I will eat these jellybeans and attempt to power through.

Today was my first day of living with my new hair, which I dyed yesterday and forgot to talk about. It's Warm Amber Brown and turned out very well for hair dye that I bought at CVS and applied myself. It's a color I've used before, so I was pretty confident, but every once in awhile a box will say "amber" and mean something more like "purple" so you have to be cautious. This one is a warm and just slightly reddish brown, perfect! I don't typically clutter up my feed with photos of myself, but if I can't use selfies in my own quarantine journal, where can I? (And another new mask as well for an overall "felt cute, might venture into the wasteland later" vibe since I was about to go get the aforementioned takeout food.) 

A lot of the morning today was spent preparing for and having a telemedicine meeting with my FIL's doctor. We spent quite a bit of time making sure that the computer was all set up and ready, then wound up using the speakerphone of an honest-to-god landline telephone after the technology pooped out on their end five minutes into the call. Truly this is post-apocalypse times. News is not great long term but we never expected it to be, and slightly more encouraging than expected in the short term. We need to figure out what we will do after two weeks in the rehab facility, which makes it very likely we will be here for two more weeks at least. After that it's a question of whether he comes back to the house with full-time care, or stays in a skilled care facility where he can be fully taken care of. Every option has its full share of suck, even more so when there can be no visitors in pretty much any care facility. 

We can stay longer if needs be, in terms of actual work and school commitments. Everything for husband and kiddo is fully online till further notice, and I am still SUPER UNEMPLOYED at least until I can take the MPRE in August. Can't substitute teach, obviously, and mystery shopping right now would make me feel like a shitheel, to say nothing of the potential exposure danger. I mean, who is going to go out to a fast food restaurant where the workers have to be there because they don't get sick days and are somehow essential, and legitimately gauge whether they seem happy enough to be there? I freely acknowledge that a lot of what I do as a shopper is bullshit at the best of times, but before March there was at least a sense that we were all at least somewhat invested in the bullshit because they wanted those good scores and I wanted to give them wherever possible. Now, though, it's enough just to get through the day, and I believe anybody who is working grocery or foodservice right now should get 100% full credit for anything short of literally spitting in my food, which means I'm not in a mystery shopping mood at all. No matter how much bonus money they're waving because I am apparently not the only one feeling that way. So anyway, super-unemployed, but I still have obligations, and somebody would have to go back eventually to actually clean the house if we're going to be gone much longer than two weeks. 

This morning, for instance, I woke up to a text from a friend offering me another teeny tiny kitten. You guys know how I feel about teeny tiny kittens. (I am in favor.) I had to tell her that I could not take her tiny kitten though, because I am four hundred miles away and kittens do not run very fast. I've also had to blow off a few Red Cross opportunities and food bank opportunities, which makes me feel a little guilty even though I know my priorities are where they need to be. Obviously what I need is some kind of Multiplicity-style cloning device where I could make a couple copies of myself (minus all the poorly-aged homophobia of the movie) and leverage our unique strengths in order to do all the things I want to get done while still leaving ample time for listening to The Good Place Podcast for the seventeenth time in a row. One clone would have to embark on an immediate full rewatch of The West Wing, because today I was on Facebook trying to come up with a WW-related name for every letter of the alphabet and I had to look on the wiki to remember Fitzwallace's first name. (It is Percy.) I was ashamed, deep in my soul. 

I was thinking about kittens today, and wondering what it would take to just do kittens full time. Because honestly, kittens is a full-time job, plus extra. You've seen my delirious journal entries from the two-hours-of-sleep days. People who need to work can't do that. I can't do it much longer because I need to make some money. But it wouldn't have to be very much money. I mean, assuming my husband keeps his job, knock on wood, we could meet our financial obligation if I could bring in like 350 dollars a week. 1500 a month is just a little more than a 40-hour minimum wage job. I know at this point I've passed the bar exam and basically have to be a lawyer, but it's kind of amazing to think of what would happen if I could find somebody to just hire me to raise kittens. Maybe when I am making fat lawyer bucks, I will be someone's patron and allow them to become a full time kitten nanny, thereby assuaging my own guilt for getting out of the game. 

Well, this journal has wandered very far afield, hasn't it. High point of the day was definitely getting to take a bath in the big master bathtub that nobody ever uses but me. I have to dust it every time I visit, but it's totally worth it. Low point was again trying to beg, reason and shame MIL into sitting down basically at all at any point during the day. I keep cleaning the fucking kitchen so she will not be tempted to get up and go into it, but it does not matter. Even if it is clean she will just go in there and rearrange things. I just want her leg to get better as soon as possible! I am sure that walking around on it without even a brace is not helping! Lunch we celebrated Cinco de Mayo with turkey enchiladas made by my husband from yesterday's leftovers. They were excellent! Supper we got takeout from the local noodle place. I got sushi, the kiddo got chicken nuggets (he steals my sushi), husband got General Tso's Chicken because he watched a documentary on it with his class, and MIL got pad thai. The local noodle place has always had generous portions, but today was bonkers. This is the pad thai after we'd already taken two cereal bowls worth out. We will be eating pad thai for days. There are worse fates, I suppose! 

[myhauntedsalem]

911 Operators Describe the Most Disturbing Calls they’ve Ever Taken

1. “Daddy’s Eye Fell Out”

“Had a call for a brother who killed his other brother with a hammer (the pick part) while the victim’s little daughter was watching. The daughter called us from another room and told us her daddy’s eye fell out.

Perp was apprehended, daughter taken by relative. Had to smoke after that one, and I don’t even smoke.”

– rainbowbrite0091

2. “I Need your Help”

“There was an old couple who lived on a run-down ranch house about 20 miles east of town. When the husband passed away, the woman would call 911 at least three times a week, asking for assistance with very mundane tasks not normally dealt to first responders. “I need help turning the thermostat up”, “I need help boiling water for my tea”, etc.

The woman developed dementia, and eventually, it progressed to the point where she believed she was calling 911 to ask her deceased husband for help. All of the dispatchers would recognize the address immediately, even though all she could say was “(husband’s name), I need help. Please come home and help me”

One day she called, and again was only able to repeat her husband’s (I’ll call him “John”) name. “John, I need help. Please come home and help me John.” By the time the first responders arrived on scene, they found the woman lying dead in her bed. The first unit on scene called dispatch to confirm that it was the woman herself who had called 911, as rigor Morris had already set in. We wrote it off as the fact that the heater in her house wasn’t working, and the ambient temperature in the room was about 50 degrees.

We continued to receive 911 calls from that woman, at that address for just over a year after she passed away. Even after her home was vandalized, and burned to the ground, the phone calls did not stop. “John, I need your help. John, please come home and help me.” We were obligated to send a response each and every time, but not once did we find anyone on or near the property.

Multiple calls to the phone company confirmed that the phone line had been disconnected, and the call was not coming from another address.”

– Nevadadrifter

3. Glass Breaking

“1979 NYC. Got a call from a crying child – a little boy – saying his mom and dad were fighting and his dad said he was going to throw the mom out of the window. I could hear a terrible fight going on in the background – woman screaming, things breaking, man yelling, etc. The poor kid didn’t know his address. We didn’t have the technology for call ID and would have to use reverse telephone books. A trace would take forever. Anyway while I’m trying to get the address I hear a horrific scream and glass breaking. A few seconds later the other operators in the room are getting calls about a woman lying in the courtyard who came out of a window. Very sad.

Worst of all is that I am sure someone else in this apartment building must have heard this fight but no one called for help until it was too late. Poor kid. Working 911 in NYC during the 70s/80s was a nightmare.”

– Mizcreant908

4. Alone in the House

“The single worst call I’ve ever taken though was a woman who was calling in that she was hearing weird noises in her house. While walking through her house she started screaming and told me there was someone in her house. There we a couple soft pops followed by a gargling sound. After the officers had cleared the house and found her, it finally came out during the investigation that her adult son had killed her while high and freaking out.

Gunshots don’t sound like you’d think on the phone, they’re rather soft. It’s an eerie sound, something so violent being so soft that if you aren’t paying attention you can miss it.”

– 4x49ers

5. Static on the Line

“My uncle works for dispatch in my town and he recently told my family of the weirdest call he’s ever gotten. He says that he had received a call from a landline one night and when he answered it there was only static on the other end. This happened two more times. Finally, he calls a squad to go check out the address from the caller ID. When the cops got there and walked into the house they immediately saw that there was a dead body. The person had been dead for 5 months.

The craziest part about it was that there was no electricity or any other utility working. So there is no way they should have been able to get those calls into dispatch. But if they hadn’t, who knows how long that person’s body would have stayed there.”

– Zombie_Dance_

6. A Long Raspy Exhale

“Christmas Eve night I answered 911 for a hysterical lady who was crying so hard she couldn’t breathe. I asked her what was going on and she told me these exact words “my boyfriend and I… we were watching a movie… I fell asleep. I woke up and he wasn’t here.”

I thought this was a little odd so I said, “okay ma’am, do you know where he may have went?” she wasn’t done. She said, “I found him.. in our closet, he hung himself.. with our bed sheets.” I walked her through cutting him down and starting CPR. when in the middle of it, he starts making this long raspy exhale that sounds exactly like something from a horror movie, it’s the rest of his air leaving his lungs. She starts getting hysterical again begging him, “oh my god, he’s breathing, please breathe baby, please breathe..” But I knew that’s not what he was doing.

Police/fire/ambulance got there and of course, the guy was way dead. I felt so bad for that woman. That’s really the only call that has ever stuck with me.”

– JeCsGirl

7. Halloween Night

“My mom was a 911 dispatcher in the early 90’s (I was 5 years old-ish) in Washington State. When I got older, I remember asking her about some of the calls that she could still recall. One in particular was pretty bad. She was working one year on Halloween night and around 10 or 11pm she had a call come in that a couple guys were driving around town with a dummy or something dragging behind their truck. The dummy was falling apart and pieces of clothing/plastic were being torn off and scattered around the city.

Being Halloween, it seemed like a prank but she had a patrol car try to find and stop the truck. As time goes by more and more people started to call in about it. Eventually the patrol car caught up with the truck and it turns out that it was a person.

The guys had gone to a store earlier and when they left, they had backed their truck into an elderly man whose clothes got caught in the rear bumper or whatnot. The two guys never even knew that they were dragging around another human being all across town, for miles.

The elderly man had passed away and those pieces of clothing scattered around town, was his clothing, flesh, and body parts. Still gives me chills.”

– Turkeyshoes

8. The Man in the Attic

“I worked dispatch for a total of three months, and in that three months I only received one call I would call creepy. It was the voice of a little boy, and I was trying to be calm because it felt like he was having a hard time breathing. I asked him if he was in danger and he said no, not anymore. I asked him why he had called and he said “well, the man in the attic finally killed my mom. I asked him if he could still see his mom and he said “no, the man took her to the moon” I asked him if he was alone in the house, to which he replied “no, I still have the mans dog here” I asked him what the doggies name was in the hopes I could keep the boy calm, the boy replied “his name is shaitan” I asked him to say it again thinking he said “satan” but he clearly replied “its shaitan”. By the end of the call, the police showed up and I still don’t know what ever happened with the boy and his mother.

But years later I was researching the Djinn/jinn and according to ancient texts, evil spirits like djinn are able to manifest themselves as a dog or other animals and guess what the djin were known as? Shaitan.

I still have a hard time sleeping at night when I think about this call.”

– Mr–Night

9. Possessed

“I was a 911 call taker 10 years ago when I received one of the creepiest calls ever. It was freezing that night, which usually equaled a calm, quiet shift due to even the criminals not wanting to go outside. Around 3am my call box popped up green and as usual I asked what was the emergency. A man starting frantically screaming that his still was possessed by a demon and tried to cut his heart while he slept. He had ran when the attack started and locked himself in his bathroom. I ask him a series of questions trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

I ask him a series of questions trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Everytime he tried to answer I heard what sounded like scratching and banging on the bathroom door. He whispered “There is a demon in my sister’s body, it has been battling me for days. It got free from the chains…” I swear what I heard next chilled me to the core. This unearthly voice began taunting my caller through the door. It didn’t sound like a 20-something woman. It was low and guttural, like she had gargled razor blades before speaking. She continued to growl and speak in a strange sounding language until police arrived. She let out a terrifying scream when the officers broke in, then dead end.

The call was over, I was shaking and had to know what happened? Even my supervisor (who had been listening to the call in real time) was pale and speechless when the line abruptly ended. Before my shift ended the commanding officer on my creepy call called in to tell me what they found. He told me he would have nightmares for the rest of his life.

Apparently, when my caller said his sister got out of her chains, he wasn’t joking around. She still had a chain tied to a bloody handcuff when the officers came in. Her whole body was covered in self-inflicted scratches, her one eye had popped a blood vessel and was bright red. Most of what she was wearing was also shredded and her skin looked like she had been drained of her blood. She was taken in for a psych consult and as you probably guessed, stayed there for a long time. The brother was okay except for deep gouges in his chest. His sister literally tried to dig out his heart.

There was some talk about arresting the brother but nothing ever came of it. I still can vividly remember that voice, it still makes my blood run cold.”

– QueenoftheNorth82

[rs-thomas]

Me versus Charter/Spectrum

AITA?

Okay, my situation. I am legally disabled and only have SSDI for income. I am diagnosed with severe depressive disorder, PTSD, and bipolar disorder. I, unfortunately, have extreme suicidal ideations. I am under outpatient care and have also had recent in-patient care for these issues.

I’m a techno-troglodyte, and believe it or not, until January 2020 I was using a landline and had never owned a mobile phone. This year I decided it was time to join the century I’m living in and switched to mobile service through Charter/Spectrum who was my cable, phone, and internet provider for almost 13 years. Their mobile service is much newer, and Charter Mobile is considered separate from the other services they provide.

I spoke to them first in January of this year. My intent was to cancel our cable service because I never turned on the TV, cancel our landline service, keep the internet service, and start new mobile service with two lines, one for myself and one for my now-ex roommate.

Anyway, the Agent I spoke to assured me that I had already paid for our landline through February 18th. Therefore, her suggestion was that I switch to mobile, and then my then-roommate and I would have time to adjust to our new mobile phones and keep our landline service up through that date. Since I'd already paid for it, you see. Not really understanding how ANY of this worked, I happily agreed to this and purchased two brand new Samsung Galaxy A10e mobile phones for $155.99 each, having them mail them to me as there was no physical Charter outlet in where we lived at the time. The plan was for me to make payments on them over time, with the cost of the mobile phones added onto my regular bill. I also paid the initial costs of having two mobile lines set up for me and my roommate. At that time I also canceled the cable service.

So here’s where things start getting confusing. I apologize and will relate the information as accurately as I am able to.

So, the same night that I called them and set up all these changes, ALL services were cut off, the landline, the cable TV, AND the internet. When I called in from a friend’s phone to see if there was an outage, they told me the accounts were closed and all equipment had been ‘deleted’ so it could not be turned back on. I was left without any contact with the outside world.

I would like to state that as I said above, I have crippling mental diagnoses that have left me disabled. It is frankly very dangerous for me to be cut off from my care team or the National Suicide Hotline. There was no way for me to even dial 911. That is NOT a physically safe situation for me to be left in.

Perhaps a week later, I got the issue with the internet resolved and I was at least able to access the internet and send emails.

I am not sure exactly when the mobile phones I had purchased arrived. It was at least ten days. In order to activate the phones, I needed to make a phone call. But our landline was disconnected, so I couldn’t make the required phone call. So I went to their website and chatted with the Agent online. Unfortunately, there was no way to activate the phones online. In the end, I walked three miles down to the grocery store in the middle of January and asked at the customer service desk if I could use their phone. They kindly allowed it and I was able to get the phones activated.

Now, I had been advised by the Agent I spoke to that a limited plan would be good enough as I rarely leave the house and could have effectively unlimited data by using my WiFi connection. Wasn't that nice of them to save me some money? BUT the Agent I finally spoke to when I activated the phones gave me misinformation on how to set them up, so I was using the phone’s data and NOT using my WiFi connection as I was told I would be doing. As I said, I’m NOT techno-savvy and didn’t realize this until after I had already overshot my data limit and had to pay them still MORE money. I finally got the phone set up correctly so it would use WiFi and I wouldn’t accumulate extra charges, but that was once again bad information given to me by Charter/Spectrum that got them some extra dollars at my expense.

For reasons that are unrelated, my roommate didn’t want the phone I bought for her. So I left it in the box and asked at the end of February for the second line to be disconnected. I was assured it would be and I would no longer be charged for the second line. As it turned out, they left it active and continued to charge me until I realized the problem and spoke to them again in April. Charter/Spectrum’s mistake, my problem and money.

Also, I was charged for the landline AND cable TV through the end of February when it had been disconnected (against my wishes) in January. I complained and they assured me they would credit me the $200+ bill. They never did. By this point I was so angry I decided to cancel my service with them completely and move to a different mobile company and internet provider. I also moved to a new city at the end of March. I stuck it out with Charter/Spectrum until I made the move and changed providers for both in April.

I would like to note that I paid both phones off 100% during this time. $155.99 each.

I chose Cricket for my mobile company and CenturyLink for my internet. Once again Charter/Spectrum shut me off immediately and then charged me for services I did not receive and I was once again cut off from the world for a period of ten+ days, unable to even reach 911 should I need it to keep myself alive. That is twice my life was endangered in a very real way by this company.

As I said, I am not very techno-savvy. I understood the phones had to be unlocked, but it was over a week before Charter/Spectrum provided the unlock codes. Well, the codes didn’t work and I could not get the phones unlocked. So I took the phones down to the Cricket store and spent about three hours in there on the phone with Spectrum along with the manager of the Cricket outlet (who is very nice and tried her best to help me). We tried the unlock codes that didn’t work (and I verified them with the Spectrum Agent digit for digit). Then the Spectrum Agent gave us something he called ‘unfreeze codes’, which ALSO did not work. Then in the third hour, AFTER this agent had INSTRUCTED us to try at least a dozen times, he informed us that if we tried unsuccessfully to unlock the phones more than five times, they were permanently locked and forever useless. So Spectrum gave me four wrong codes, two bad unlock codes and two bad unfreeze codes, instructed us to try them too many times, and THEN told me I was out of luck and there was nothing anyone could do. Have a nice day.

I HAVE to be able to make phone calls and stay in touch with my care team if I am to be physically safe. SO I was forced to buy a third brand new phone, this time from Cricket, just so I could have a phone that works. More money that I couldn’t afford on my fixed income.

I also had to change my telephone number as Charter/Spectrum would not allow me to keep my old one. Their attitude was, "huh, that should have worked. Oh well, too bad for you". You can imagine how inconvenient it has been to change my phone number with every single company and agency I work with. But I understand that I can’t sue someone for massive inconvenience.

As you can guess, I wasn’t happy that I had two $155.99 paperweights on my hands. In my mind, Charter/Spectrum mislead me, either through gross incompetence or simple spite that I was changing providers. The only information I had to go on was what they gave me, so if the unlock codes were wrong, it was not my fault. But these two phones could now be thrown away, they were forever useless. I was unwilling to settle for this, so I started a three and a half month argument with Charter/Spectrum trying to get them to take these phones back (both in mint condition) for at least a partial refund. I was rebuffed every time, often very rudely.

I gave up on getting any kind of refund and started asking them to help me get them unlocked. I figured I could give them as Christmas gifts or sell them on eBay or something. Perhaps recoup some of my losses.

Charter/Spectrum told me to go to Samsung and have THEM unlock the phones. The Samsung Agent told me that unlocking the phones was the provider’s responsibility and not theirs, so they couldn’t help me. Then Charter/Spectrum gave me a phone number for Best Buy. I did not buy the phones from Best Buy, and in fact have never been in that store. But I called them and they needed an account number which of course I don’t have. So they couldn’t help me either. Then Charter/Spectrum told me to go on the internet and find some kind of shady third-party website that would ‘jailbreak’ them for some unknown fee. I refused to do this.

FINALLY, in the first weeks of July, I made enough of a pest of myself that the Charter/Spectrum supervisor I was speaking to offered me a deal. I could return the locked phones to them and they would replace them under the equipment replacement warranty for two NEW phones that COULD be unlocked. Then I could do whatever I wanted with them. I agreed to this and they emailed me a FedEx return ticket. The FedEx office is across the street from me, so I sent them back within 20 minutes of receiving the ticket.

THEN I got an email saying that I didn’t return the phones in time, and they are returning the locked and useless phones to me, complete with FedEx tracking numbers.

I called in and surprise, surprise, the Agent could see nothing about me returning them under the replacement warranty for faulty equipment. The Agent refused to transfer me to a supervisor, they were just too busy to deal with me.

SO about a half hour ago, I called in YET again. This time I actually got a supervisor. He tried to tell me there was nothing he could do, the Charter/Spectrum supervisor who made the deal with me once again gave me bad information, and I am the one paying the price.

After getting mad AGAIN and giving him the FedEx tracking number, he said he would call FedEx, intercept the locked and useless phones, and have them turn the shipment around. He promised that Charter/Spectrum would make good on their promise to exchange them for two new phones that can be unlocked and I can sell or give away.

Whew.

So that’s where I stand right now. I have been charged a great deal of money for services that I did not receive and phones that I can never use, and had my life endangered twice by Charter/Spectrum. I can only assume at this point they are lying again and today there will be the two same locked and useless phones showing up in my mailbox. I'm not waiting around, I have filed an official complaint with the state Department of Justice, Office of Consumer Protection, and I am attempting to contact the State Bar Association as they have a Modest Means Program where low-income people like me might be able to find legal representation for a small claims case.

I feel I have no choice but resort to legal means if only to recoup the cost of the phones that were rendered useless due to Charter/Spectrum’s error/spite. However if possible, I honestly think I have a case of endangerment through negligence.

Now, I'm not going to lie. I must have been on the phone with Charter/Spectrum a hundred times since January, and I wasn't always in the mood to be the nicest guy. Yes, there have been times I've been angry, emotional, and rude. And I really want to sue them for at least the price of the phones, hopefully also for endangering the life of a disabled person.

Am I the asshole?

[justlightlysedated]

a little something to make me sweeter

for @roswellnewmexicoweek , written for the fic prompt, not just sugar and spice

a D.E.B.S. au

The alarm sounds loud and insistent, flashing bright red in all of the rooms as Valenti's voice sounds over the intercom yelling at them all to wake up.

Rosa looks up at the ceiling and wonders why she puts herself through this.

Liz snuggles up closer to Max, wrinkling her nose at the alarm, but not waking up.

Maria is already awake fielding calls from Chad while getting dressed.

"It's not you," she lies. "It's me. I don't love you, okay?"

"Who says that we have to be in love," Chad says, sounding incredulous. "We're the Golden Couple. You can't break up with me two weeks before Endgame. How am I supposed to find another date in time?"

Maria rolls her eyes and hangs up the phone.

She slips her handgun into her thigh holster and tugs against the hem of her plaid skirt a little making a face in the mirror before she walks out of the door and opens Rosa's bedroom door.

"Good," she says when she sees Rosa sitting on the edge of her bed, a sketchbook in her lap as. "You're up. Valenti wants us to meet her at the Crashdown in twenty."

Rosa throws herself back on the bed and covers her face with her pillow before she screams.

Maria rolls her eyes and goes to wake up Liz.

She opens Liz’s door and rolls her eyes at the Max shaped lump beneath the covers. 

“Liz!” she yells and Liz jumps, and falls out of the bed taking the sheets with her. “Crashdown! Twenty minutes!”

She closes the door, counts to five and then opens it again, “And no Maxes allowed after curfew, you know this.”

Liz throws a pillow at the door.

Maria walks downstairs and picks up the landline with the light flashing red that is connected to the alarm and puts the phone up to her ear as the alarm cuts out immediately.

"We're on our way, ma'am," she says and is answered by a dial tone.

Maria rolls her eyes and sets the phone down, only for her watch to start beeping.

She rolls her eyes even harder and presses the button.

“Babe,” Chad says. “Listen, let’s just stay together until after Endgame, and then we can go our separate ways.”

Maria hums, “Let me think about that. No, thanks.”

She lets the button go and looks up as Liz walks into the room placing her gun into her holster.

She looks up at Maria mouth open to speak when there is a knock on the door.

Liz answers the door since she's closest and rolls her eyes as Agent Guerin walks in through the door.

"Good morning," he says, and reaches for one of the fake apples in the centerpiece of the living room before frowning when he sees that it's fake. "I've been sent to retrieve you."

"We're working with the CIA on this?" Maria asks taking the apple from Guerin and setting it back down.

"It's a surprise," he says winking, before he yells. "Rosa, lets go!"

"You're not my dad, Guerin!" 

"Who here made a promise to Mr. Ortecho-?" he starts and Rosa just rolls her eyes and walks out the door.

Michael follows after her, hooking his arm through Liz and looking back at Maria.

"Come on, DeLuca, you don't want to be late for this meeting."

Maria scoffs but follows after them.

Michael gets them to the Crashdown with five minutes to spare, a slightly manic smile on his face as all the lights on their way turned green even at impossible times.

Maria leads the group into the diner, and to the booth where Valenti is already seated at with a cup of coffee in front of her.

Maria slides into the seat beside her and Guerin and Rosa and Liz pile up on the other side.

Valenti wastes no time in getting the meeting started, pressing a button against the wall right next to the salt and pepper shakers that creates a privacy bubble around their table before pulling her phone from her breast pocket and pulling up the monitor for them all to see.

“Let’s get his started shall we.”

The monitor stays black for a second before a picture flashes to life and Maria gasps.

“Jenna Cameron has been spotted in the country for the first time in over three years,” she says switching the picture on screen to a recent one showing Jenna in winter gear, getting off a plane, with her trusty sidekick who never leaves her side, Alex Manes.

“We don’t know why she’s back, but we do know that she’s been looking into several different candidates to replace the assassin turned traitor that almost decimated her entire crime syndicate before she went underground. This tells us that she’s planning something big. And we need to figure out a way to stop it.”

Maria licks her lips and turns to Valenti, opening her mouth to speak, but she’s cut off by Rosa.

“What’s so important about her anyway?” she asks looking unimpressed. “She doesn’t look like a big bad scary super villain to be honest, why is it so difficult to capture her?”

Michael accidentally knocks over the salt shaker, coughing a little, and Maria raises an eyebrow at Rosa.

“This was covered in class three weeks ago,” Liz says turning to her sister. “She’s ruthless and isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. Not only is her right hand man, Alex Manes former airman turned traitor-”

Michael accidentally knocks over a glass of water, cutting off the rest of Liz’s sentence as she gasps in shock at the cold and throws him a glare over Rosa’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Michael says, not sounding sorry at all.

“No one who has ever fought her has lived to tell about it,” Maria finishes for Liz and turns back to Valenti. “Do you think I’ll be able to interview her after we capture her? There are still some spots in my thesis where I could use some direct information.”

Valenti ignores her.

"What we need is a way to figure out where her headquarters are located," Valenti says looking at the monitor with narrowed eyes.

Michael's phone chimes and he tugs it out of his pocket and smiles before answering back.

When he looks up, Valenti is raising her eyebrow at him. "Is that important intel?"

Michael smiles winningly back at her. "Nope, it's just my boyfriend letting me know where he's staying. He just got back from a vacation in Antarctica."

His phone beeps again and he looks back down, "I mean Reykjavík."

“This is serious,” Valenti says, slamming her hand down on the table and making them all look at her. “This isn’t the time to be playing games, or worrying about who you’re dating or who you’re not dating. This woman is a menace to society and she won’t stop until she gets what she wants. And god only knows what that is.”

No one says anything.

“Good,” she says and straightens up. “Now. Our intel suggests that she’s going to make an appearance at Le Venue, a new restaurant in town that caters exclusively to people who want privacy. She’s meeting a former assassin by the name of Isobel Evans, and I want you there running point and figuring out exactly what she wants with her.”

Meanwhile in Jenna Cameron's Evil Lair Headquarters

"What's her name?" Jenna asks, sitting on the arm of Alex's computer chair.

"Isobel Evans and she's a former assassin, who is relocating to the States," Alex replies immediately, typing fast on his keyboard and minimizing a window of what looks like the traffic light database, pulling up her profile. "She even has her own custom made rifle."

Jenna makes a face. "Where did you find her?"

Alex doesn't look at her as he responds, "I asked around and-"

"Michael told you about her didn't he," she says scoffing.

Alex sputters. "It's not like it's a D.E.B. okay? She’s a bonafide assassin. You should see her record."

Jenna gives him a look. "Cancel it."

She pushes off the chair and walks out of the room.

Alex comes running after her. “Give me one good reason.”

“I don’t like blondes,” Jenna says, not turning to him.

She can feel his judgemental stare at her own blonde hair.

“I said, good reason,” he says following Jenna into the planning room.

Jenna doesn’t answer.

“Look,” Alex starts and Jenna groans throwing herself back into one of the chairs, as he looks at her seriously. “You were dumped.”

Jenna scoffs. “I was not-”

“You were dumped,” Alex repeats. “It was brutal. But you took some time off and go do whatever you were doing in Antar-”

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply before giving her a look, ��Iceland or whatever, but now it’s time to get back on the saddle.”

Jenna sighs closing her eyes briefly before giving Alex a serious look. “And you think this Isobel is the answer?”

“No,” he answers, leaning against the table. “But it’s not like you have a lot of options when you refuse to date anyone who doesn’t have a record.”

“You try dating someone who doesn’t,” she says, and raises her hand when he opens his mouth. “Michael has a record.”

Alex rolls his eyes. 

“And anyway,” she continues. “I’ve been on dates since, you know. With that drummer from-”

Alex cuts her off. “First of all, we went on a group outing, you both just happened to sit next to each other, and you pretended to have food poisoning and left before the appetizers got there.”

Jenna makes a face at him, and Alex just rolls his eyes even harder.

“You’re going. I already made reservations. You’ll have fun. And if you don’t. Then at least you’ll have actually done something about it instead of letting a Chad win.”

Jenna gives Alex a look and shakes her head before she sighs. “Fine, but then you’ll stop bugging me about this. Just because you’re in love doesn’t mean-”

Alex pushes away from the table and heads out of the room.

Jenna just drops her head on the table once, before lifting her head and doing it again for good measure.

Time Skip to That Night

They’re all set up in the restaurant. Maria is the bartender in the middle of the room, and she has Isobel Evan's directly in sight. Liz is at the front of restaurant playing hostess, while Rosa is waiting the tables and has already taken Isobel’s order. Guerin is outside in the van monitoring the feeds.

“Incoming,” he says, at the same time that Maria’s phone rings.

She sighs. “Chad,” she answers. “Now is not the time-”

“I’m coming to you right now, we have to talk.”

“Don’t,” Maria hisses. “I’m in the middle of a mission-”

“Exactly,” he says. “Jenna Cameron is dangerous-”

“I have a team,” Maria snaps. “And most importantly, I can take care of myself.”

Maria hangs up the phone on Chad before he can say anything else and groans, "Please tell me you have a way to make sure he doesn't actually interrupt our mission."

"Relax," Guerin says through the earpiece. "I have eyes on every entrance. No one is getting in or out without me knowing."

There's the faint sound of someone knocking on the van, but Maria gets distracted by Jenna Cameron as she walks into the room and looks around.

"Wow," Maria says well aware she sounds awed. "Jenna Cameron, she's-"

"What?" Rosa demands when Maria trails.

"Real," Maria finishes swallowing hard. "I never thought I'd ever get to see her in person."

"Well, she's a real person," Liz says. "With a real ID, that I'm scanning into the system, right now-and it's fake."

Liz sighs, and Rosa snorts.

"Obviously," Maria says. "She's a professional."

There is complete silence over the line, broken only by a rustle of clothing and the squeak of the chair Guerin is probably sitting on.

"All I'm saying," Maria continues feeling flustered and like her team is judging her. "Is that she's smart. She'll be covering her tracks. So obviously, she won't be leaving anything as obvious as her own ID for anyone to grab."

"Okay," Rosa says long and mocking. "Now that we've heard the opinion from her biggest fan-"

"I'm not her biggest fan," Maria hisses as Jenna takes a seat across from Isobel. “I just think that she’s fascinating. With her skill set she’d make an excellent candidate to-fuck me.”

“I’m getting that,” Rosa responds, while Liz bursts into giggles, and then she’s heard apologizing to one of the customers.

“That’s not what I meant,” Maria says, and moves from behind the bar. “You go get their orders so we can get an idea of what they’re saying, there’s something I have to take care of.”

She stalks towards where Chad just entered through the kitchen with a group of very obvious agents all wearing their uniforms.

“What the hell, Guerin?” she says and hears a loud thump before Guerin is cursing in her ear. “You said no one could get in here without you knowing.”

“Oops?” Michael says sounding strangely breathless.

Maria ignores him and pushes until she has Chad pressed up against the wall. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you-” he starts looking earnest, and it sends a dozen red flags flying in Maria’s head.

“And I told you I don’t need your protection,” she snaps. “Stop bullshitting me. What are your orders?”

“Capture the fugitive,” he says, face going to it’s usual neutral expression. “And ensure that no civilians are harmed.”

“We are playing the long game here,” Maria hisses. “We can’t just capture her without actual proof that she’s up to something.”

“We don’t need proof,” he states. “Just the arrest.”

“Now,” he continues and pushes Maria back, until he’s able to slide out from where he was pinned to the wall. “If you’re not going to follow that up with a kiss, then I have a fugitive to catch.”

He moves towards his team, and Maria makes a low noise of frustration.

“Status,” she snaps.

“Clear outside,” Michael responds immediately.

“They were talking about Isobel’s greatest hits,” Rosa responds walking towards her. “Did you know that she was behind the assasination of the former presi-”

“I don’t want to know actually,” Liz says and Maria can just see the face that she’s making. “I’m pretty sure that Isobel is Max’s sister.”

There is complete silence for a beat, and then Isobel’s voice rings out. 

“Waitress,” she calls out, and both her and Jenna turn towards where Rosa is standing, right next to Maria, right in front of Chad’s group of soldiers.

“Well, shit,” Maria says.

Meanwhile at Table Number Twenty Two, Two Minutes Ago

“...it was the easiest shot of my life, if I’m being honest,” Isobel continues talking about herself, unprompted.

Jenna looks down at her watch to see that she’s only been here for less than ten minutes, and wonders if Alex will keep his end of the deal if she leaves right now.

“But that doesn’t mean that I want to keep killing people for the rest of my life,” Isobel says, taking a sip of her wine. “I’ve always wanted to be an actress-”

Jenna groans, and presses a hand to her stomach.

“What is it?” Isobel says, reaching towards her with one hand looking concerned.

Jenna moans a little pitifully, and says, “I don’t know. I think I might have food poisoning.”

“They say seltzer water is good for that,” Isobel says and then starts looking around for their waitress.

“Waitress,” she calls out and turns and then freezes, making Jenna turn towards where she’s looking.

Jenna counts the agents and the D.E.B.S. and curses underneath her breath.

“Target has spotted us,” she can hear some bonehead saying loudly. “Permission to open fire.”

Jenna is ducking down under the table and rolling towards the most secure spot she can find before the guns start going off, tugging her phone out of her pocket at the same time.

“Alex,” Jenna hisses into her phone as she ducks down behind the bar to avoid getting shot at. “How could you miss a whole group of CIA agents and a gaggle of D.E.B.S. staking out the place? What good is your little CIA boyfriend if you can’t get intel?”

“First of all,” Alex says sounding smug. “There’s nothing little about my boyfriend.”

Jenna gags and hears Michael asking Alex for a high five in the background.

“Second of all, the only reason our relationship works is that we don’t involve our jobs in it, meaning that I don’t ask him for intel and he doesn’t give the CIA information about us.”

Jenna makes a wordless sound of rage and hangs up the phone.

“Yeah,” Isobel says making Jenna jump as she turns to stare at her. “That’s the only acceptable reaction to whatever it is that Michael thinks he’s doing with your lackey.”

Jenna makes a face at that, and then pulls her guns from the small of her back and looks at Isobel who gives her a nod as she pulls her own gun out of her purse.

They both duck out from behind their cover and shoot over to where the spray of bullets aimed at them had been coming from while everyone seems to be reloading their weapons at the same time.

Isobel runs out of bullets first, and then Jenna and then they duck back behind the bar as the guns start going off again.

“Was it the accent?” Isobel asks sounding less Russian and more American. “Because that was totally fake.”

“What?” Jenna asks feeling confused. 

“You were making up excuses to go, I just want to know what I did wrong.”

Jenna shakes her head. “It’s not you. I’m just not looking for a relationship right now, and you seem like a-”

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” Isobel says scoffing. “It’s just hard meeting people when you do what we do, especially when you don’t have an interest in men.”

Jenna nods her head, but before she can answer, there is a shadow over them.

“Any last words?” the bonehead with the ridiculous haircut says pointing his rifle at Jenna.

Isobel says, “Bye,” and runs away, dodging the couple of bullets shot at her and slipping out through the door.

“Rosa, wait!” someone calls out, but Jenna can see a D.E.B. following the same path Isobel took.

Jenna looks up again to see that the bonehead is distracted and so she grabs the rifle and tugs it right out of his lax grip, before using it to hit him in the face.

He falls back groaning hard and Jenna ducks out from behind the bar and takes the same path that Isobel took, dodging the bullets and running through the door. 

She takes a moment to use her lipstick laser gun to seal the door shut and then runs hoping there is a way out of what looks like the place where the restaurant keeps all their produce.

She runs down one of the aisles looking for a door, and bumps right into someone, who immediately rolls her to the floor, using the momentum to pin her down.

Jenna looks up into wide brown eyes, framed in bouncy curls, set on a face that looks like it’s been carved by an angel, and she feels her heart stutter in her chest.

Wow, she thinks as her breathing goes all funny, and then she notices the uniform, and curses, reversing the pin, and wrapping her hands around the D.E.B.’s wrists and pinning her to the ground.

She looks surprised, and Jenna just smirks down at her, “Didn’t they teach you not to let your guard down at your fancy academy?”

The D.E.B. gives her an unimpressed look, before she’s pushing Jenna off her and getting to her feet in one smooth movement.

Jenna is impressed in spite of herself, but she tugs the two smaller hand guns she has tucked into her boots and points them at her, because a D.E.B. is a D.E.B. and the only good D.E.B. is a dead D.E.B.

The D.E.B. is also pointing her gun at her, and it’s a beauty that Jenna wants to test out immediately.

“You’re under arrest-” she starts, and Jenna snorts.

“Are you being serious right now?”

The D.E.B. gives her a serious look. “You are wanted for-”

Jenna rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to list all of my crimes. I know what I’ve done. And while usually I would just shoot you for shooting at me for no reason, I really wanted to get out of that blind date.”

The D.E.B. gives Jenna a confused, slightly incredulous look. “Blind date? With Isobel? You were on a date?”

Jenna feels defensive immediately. “What about it? Do you have a problem with-?”

“No,” she says immediately and vehemently. “Not at all. I just, I didn’t know that you were-”

Jenna scoffs, “Why would you know?”

The D.E.B. inclines her head as though Jenna made a point, and then she’s quiet for a second, looking at Jenna with more curiosity than anything, before she licks her lips and relaxes a little.

“Here’s the thing,” she says, sounding less authoritative, and making Jenna narrow her eyes at her. “I’m kind of writing my thesis on you and-”

“What?” Jenna says furrowing her brow.

The D.E.B. gives her a look. “You are one of the most prominent female figures of organized crime, but there is hardly any information about you, and-”

“What?” Jenna asks again, letting her hands drop to her sides as she stares incredulously. “You want to interview me?”

The D.E.B. licks her lips. “Something like that.”

Jenna shakes her head. “I tend not to answer personal questions for people whose names I don’t even know.”

“Maria,” she says immediately, and then bites down on her cheek, and sighs. “Maria DeLuca.”

She holds out her hand, and Jenna tucks her guns into her pockets and takes her hand.

A shiver goes through her as they shake, and she finds herself opening her mouth. “Jenna Cameron.”

“I know,” Maria says slowly, looking down at their hands and then back up to Jenna with a furrowed brow before she seems to remember that Jenna is the bad guy.

“You’re still under arrest,” she says, and points her gun back at Jenna.

Jenna feels a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and thinks that this girl is absolutely adorable, for a D.E.B.

“Am I?” Jenna asks conspiratorially, raising an eyebrow.

Maria furrows her brow at her, but before either of them can say anything else. There is a shout as a door opens with a slam and several footsteps run into the warehouse.

“Maria!” someone yells.

Maria takes her eyes off Jenna to yell, “I’m over here.”

Jenna takes the moment to move and hide.

“Dammit,” she hears Maria say as she turns back to find that Jenna is gone. “Maybe next time,” she says in an even lower voice.

Jenna bites down on her lip, and feels her heart jump in her chest at the thought of a next time, and then she sneaks out of the warehouse as quiet as possible. The fact that everyone else seems more worried about Maria than finding her, helps her slip out unnoticed.

She runs out into the street and finds Alex immediately behind the wheel of the car.

She slides into the car, and he puts it in drive and peels out of there immediately, not even bothering to wait and see if someone is coming after them.

Alex starts ranting and raving, and Jenna looks at him, and eyes the fresh red hickey high up on his neck, and just rolls her eyes not feeling like teasing him about Michael when she can still feel the adrenaline running through her.

Alex stops speaking when Jenna doesn’t say anything in response and watches her out of the corner of his eye, not saying anything, and breaking through Jenna’s willpower easily.

"What?" Jenna asks not being able to help the smile that tugs at her lips. 

"I knew you were going to like her," Alex says smirking smugly.

Jenna rolls her eyes. "Isobel was a self absorbed trainwreck who isn't looking for a relationship."

Alex rolls his eyes back at her. "I said get back on the saddle, not walk down the aisle."

"Wait," he says stopping the next words out of Jenna's mouth. "If it's not Isobel, then who?"

Jenna bites down on her lip and looks out the window to avoid answering.

Alex has perfected the art of looking at you while driving without taking his eyes off the road, and Jenna cracks two seconds later.

"Okay, but don't freak out," she says turning to him.

"Just tell me already," he says.

"Maria," she says on an exhale.

"Maria?" He asks furrowing his brow, and he goes through the data banks in his brain to come to the right conclusion with just a name.

"Wait," he says, and stops the car looking at Jenna in disbelief. "Maria DeLuca? Curly hair, plaid skirt, carries a .357 magnum?"

Jenna gives him a winning smile and then gets out of the car.

Alex follows after her. "She's a D.E.B. and not just any D.E.B, she's The D.E.B. Their golden child, the perfect score."

"Well," Jenna says and holds her hand out. "Their golden child doesn't know it yet, but she's into me. Give me the keys."

“The perfect score means the perfect spy,” Alex continues ignoring her raised hand.

Jenna gives him a look. “Like you’re one to talk about dating a spy.”

Alex makes a face. “In my defense, I didn’t know Michael was a spy when I decided that we were going to spend the rest of our lives together.”

“And yet,” Jenna says giving Alex another look.

Alex just rolls his eyes, but still doesn’t hand her the keys.

“Look,” she says. “I’ll be careful. All I want is to talk to her. She seems, fascinating.”

“Fuck,” Alex says sighing roughly. “How do you even know she’ll be into you?”

Jenna gives him a look raising her eyebrows and then signals her entire self with her hand.

Alex gives her an unimpressed look back. “You do know I’m gay right?”

“You’re not blind, though,” she responds. “Anyway, I got that vibe, you know. She wants to know more about me, and that’s more than enough to start with.”

“Okay,” he says and goes to give her the keys, only to clutch them in his hand. “But I’m going with you. Who knows what trouble you’ll get in otherwise.”

Jenna rolls her eyes as she turns to head back to the car. “You just want to see if your boyfriend is going to be there.”

Alex scoffs. “How are you going to get through their state of the art security system without me to hack into it?”

Jenna doesn’t say anything, because he has a point.

“And yes, Michael should be on duty tonight,” he hums as he gets into the car. 

They both close their doors at the same time.

“Let’s go spy hunting,” he says grinning at her. Jenna smiles back and turns to look out of the window as he starts the car and feels her heartbeat tripping in her chest and for the first time in a long time she feels the rush that comes with infatuation.

She can’t wait to find out more about fascinating, refreshing, lovely, Maria DeLuca.

[doctorcolubra]

How about Eleanora or the Fall of the House of Usher for Jarrich? (Fluffy or no, I'm interested in what you do with these!!)

I say that I want to write drabbles or ficlets and then end up with almost 3K, typical. I really want to get better at short-form stuff (still taking prompts if anyone wants to send more). 

I’m in a haunted house mood for fall so here’s Fall of the House of Usher! 

_____________

Richard doesn’t like driving, or at least he doesn’t like traffic. The hostility, the birds flipped, the goddamn honking. He’s doing okay out here in the country, on empty roads where no one can take offense at his speed, his signalling, his sloppy lane changes or his occasional hasty U-turns. Jared’s in the passenger’s seat, asleep. Collar askew, hair windblown, lips parted—keep your eyes on the road, Hendricks.They’re driving back to Palo Alto from the Central Sierra Audobon Society Birders’ Convention. “I was going to be Muriel’s plus-one,” Jared had said one day last week. “But I suppose I can go alone. I have my safety whistle.”“For what, bears?”

“Of course. With black bears, your best strategy is to stand your ground, if you’ll forgive an expression sadly tainted by the legal system. You make yourself look as big as you can.” Jared held his arms out wide, hands in his raincoat pockets to make his skinny frame broader. “And that’s where the whistle comes in. Noise frightens the bear off. Those same tactics would probably get you killed if you ever met a grizzly, though,” he added. “But you won’t. In spite of what the state flag would have you believe, the last grizzly bear in California was shot in the ‘20s.”

“Where is this place?” Richard said, and then: “Don’t go alone, for fuck’s sake. Can I go? With you, I mean?”

“Richard…” Jared lit up. “Oh, I would love to take you. But I couldn’t possibly take you away from—you have so many things to think of…”Even Jared couldn’t quite pretend that Richard is still a busy CEO.So they did BirdCon. Richard was wondering if he needed glasses or whether he was just bad at this hobby, because Jared and the other birders kept losing their minds over woodpeckers, warblers, flycatchers, sparrows, raptors and vireos. Richard, once, correctly identified a squirrel. Jared drove here, anyway, so Richard’s returning the favour on the way home.And he’s not lost. He’s not. He’s supposed to be in some town called Confidence on the edge of Yosemite Park, and follow the highway from there to Modesto, and from there he can figure his business out.The Google Maps lady has been giving suspicious instructions for awhile now, though, and Richard doesn’t think he’s anywhere close to Confidence. Which, ha ha, super funny. He’s on a stretch of road that’s…well, not desolate. It’s pretty. Hills, grass, trees. Whatever. But he’s trying to figure out if Google Maps Lady is on the level, and the land around them doesn’t hold any clues.When a cop car rolls up behind him, he’s almost relieved. (Almost. He’s sweating a lot.) Jared jerks awake while Richard fumbles with the window switch.The stocky, brown-skinned cop bends to the window. “You boys looking for the casino?”“Wh—no,” Richard says. They couldn’t have blundered into Nevada somehow. Right? No, absolutely not. “We’re…are we near Confidence? The town, I mean?”“You’re on Miwok tribal land,” says the cop. “Tuolumne Rancheria.”“Oh.” Richard has no clue where that is in relation to Confidence, Yosemite, Modesto, or Palo Alto. Fucking Google. “Um, sorry. Are we allowed to—we shouldn’t be here, right?”The cop avoids a complicated question of colonialism. “You’re not in trouble, just thought you might be lost. Casino’s down that way. Where you coming from, Jamestown?”“We were up in Yosemite, for—for BirdCon—and we were supposed to pass through Sugarpine and then Confidence,” Richard says, disconnecting his phone from the cord and showing the officer the screen. “The GPS voice kept saying to stay on 108, and I was doing that, and then the road turned into the E17…”The cop looks at Richard’s phone and chuckles. “You’re real lost, wow. I don’t even know how you did that.”Between the two of them, they determine that Richard had made some catastrophic error while typing the address into GPS, and Maps is now trying to send them to Confidence, New Mexico. Richard is indignant—the one thing he wouldn’t fuck up is data entry—and blames Google’s shoddy user interface and aggressive auto-correct.“Yeah, maybe,” says the cop with a shrug. “But you’re still going the wrong way.”“Oh,” Jared says suddenly, softly, looking ahead. He’s been quiet and bleary from taking an extra allergy pill, but now the haze has lifted. “Oh, no, I know just where we are.”Richard turns back to look at him. “You do?”“I used to live near here. For awhile. Not on the reservation, naturally. But I know this road. Thank you, officer, we’ll be fine from here,” says Jared to the tribal cop, who wishes them goodnight and heads back to his truck.“You don’t have to drive,” Richard says, plugging his phone back in. “My fuck-up, I got it taken care of.”“No, not at all—I’m so sorry I fell asleep on you, Richard.” Jared is straightening his collar, brushing his dark hair back into place with his fingers. “I should have stayed awake to navigate—”“Come on. It’s the end of the day, it’s my turn.”“Okay. But could we…no, that’s self-indulgent of me…”“What?”“I think—I think I might like to drive past the house. If it wouldn’t take us too far out of our way. We don’t have to stop, even, but…” Jared trails off, looking out the window at the hills. “Only if there’s time. I’m sure there’s not.”“There’s lots of time, now that we’re not…going to fuckin’ New Mexico. Just—point me where we’re going, it’s okay,” Richard says. Muriel would have stopped for Jared. “We’ll take a look.”The house is low and white and dead, like a broken eggshell lying amid the trees. Peeling paint, windows boarded, a child’s plastic car lying sun-bleached on its side, no cars in the gravel driveway. Jared doesn’t seem disappointed—in fact, he’s quietly elated. “It’s empty,” he says in wonder, staring out the window. “It’s all empty.”“That’s…too bad,” Richard says, but he’s guessing. “Is it? Did you like this place?”“No,” Jared says, the way he always says these things. Light, soft, without rancour. He hasn’t looked away from the shabby house in the trees. “I didn’t at all. Could we—no, I’ve already taken us out of our way…”“You want to get a closer look?”“Maybe. Yes. For a minute or two, Richard, not long.”The grass is knee-high around the front yard, where the trees clear, and Richard can see glimpses of weeds out back that would come up to his shoulders. He’s picking his way carefully toward the door, convinced that he’ll step on a snake at any minute. Poisonous snakes. He’ll get bitten. Richard is not mentally or spiritually equipped to be bitten by a snake, it’s haunted his nightmares ever since he was a reluctant Boy Scout in Tulsa. He’ll end up in the hospital being laughed at by that goddamn doctor. Then a painful death, then—“The door’s off its hinges,” Jared says. “We could go inside.”“Is that safe?” Part of Richard wants to shake Jared out of this reverie: don’t look at this, don’t remember, don’t get lost. But he knows that if he did, Jared would apologise profusely and never mention the house again. And that’s bad, Richard knows. Because something bad must have happened here. “Are you okay with this, man? We don’t have to go in. I mean, I will. I know you came to check out Peter Gregory’s stuff with me, so. Fair’s fair. But…I’m not trying to—to talk you out of it, unless…like, unless you want me to talk you out of it?”Jared has opened his backpack (practical, pristine, everything tucked in orderly pockets) to get out his flashlight. But he looks back at Richard and smiles. “It’s funny,” he says. “I barely remember the year I lived here. The brain is an amazing organ—there we are…” The flashlight’s blue-white glow shivers over the front hall of the house. “Hello? Anyone here?”Silence. The flashlight’s a necessity, but there’s still some sunlight streaming in from outside, and that’s all that’s holding Richard together. It’s not dark yet, but as Bob Dylan said, it’s getting there. Everything’s dusty. Good thing Jared’s already popped an allergy pill.Richard follows Jared, using his phone for more light, looking at the time capsule of a house. Harvest gold and avocado kitchen, landline phone on the wall with its cord a cramped spiral tangle. Warped bookshelves disgorging hoarded piles of magazines. Someone must have tried to clean the place before giving up: there are garbage bags and boxes everywhere, Pine-Sol and Febreze bottles, mops and brooms at rest in the corners. The ceilings are water-stained and in places the paint has buckled away from the wall, bubbling outward in layers that Richard instinctively wants to peel away.“What are we looking for?” he asks Jared.“Nothing,” Jared says, tentatively pushing open a half-closed bedroom door. A teenage girl’s room, walls papered with Tiger Beat and Big Bopper pages. Jonathan Brandis, the Hanson boys, Leo in his salad days, young and green. (Richard knows too much about magazines from this era. But that’s another story.) “Nothing special—oh, Richard, don’t look so frightened, please. We can go back to the car.”“No,” Richard says, stubborn now. “Not until you’re done with…this. Closure. Right? That’s what this is. Isn’t it?”“Maybe part of the process of closure, yes.” Jared moves to the next bedroom door. “This wasn’t the worst place I ever lived. I think I was relieved to get here. It felt safe, safer. Back then. The Alguires were strict, but they didn’t hurt me. Just…I’ve forgotten so much about living here. If you’d asked me yesterday to list all the homes I’ve ever had, I would’ve left this one off the list. But I was here for almost a year. Eleven months, I think.”“How old were you?”“Ten.”“I don’t remember ten either, really,” says Richard, staying in the teen girl’s room and raising his voice a little to be heard. “I mean I know where I was and what I was doing. We never moved, same house in Tulsa all my life. But I don’t remember being ten. It sucked, I know that.”“How come?”“School.” Richard used to rage over this, why did they do it, what was wrong with me, but in Palo Alto everyone else had a similar story, and he got over it. Kinda. “Everyone hated me.”“They just weren’t ready for you,” comes Jared’s voice from the other room, as inexplicably fond as always. “The solitary genius.”Sometimes Richard’s not sure if Jared’s making fun of him or not. Who could actually believe this stuff? What would it even be like to be so earnest? Terrifying, Richard thinks.He’s afraid that somewhere in this house they’ll find something really dark: chains and shackles on a radiator, or a potty chair in a locked closet. The house is depressing, but in an ordinary way. The former inhabitants must have verged on clinical hoarding, but the situation wasn’t bad enough to get on TLC. Just a particularly good archaeological record of the early ‘90s.Richard makes his way further down the hall, still on the lookout for snakes. It’s darker, and then, suddenly, brighter—the back door is gone, open to the audience of Sonora pines. Shafts of slow gold afternoon sunlight break through into the dark little house, nurturing a tidepool of vegetation. Moss is spreading across the rotting wooden floorboards, with leggy weeds crowding in the brightest spots. Tiny green tendrils trace paths from the shadows into the light, breaking into full leaf where the sun hits. The air smells damp, fresh, alive when everything else in this house seems dead. Flourishing.He wanders back to find Jared in the other bedroom. Jared’s poking through a big Rubbermaid tub that seems to be full of toys: headless Barbies and uncanny baby dolls, loose Lego, die-cast cars, green plastic army men, neon water pistols empty of their charges.But then a look of recognition breaks over his face and he reaches in to pull out a recorder, still in its blue plastic sleeve, a sheet of music folded inside.“Mrs. Alguire hated noise,” Jared says. “This was her house, the year I lived here. She used to confiscate inappropriate toys. I don’t mean to say she was unkind—she was a step up from my aunt’s place. But she did like silence. And I…” He slides the recorder out of its plastic sleeve. “I always wanted to play an instrument, or—when I got to Vassar I was allowed to sing. I liked that. But one day I found this in the inappropriate toys box. Even if I couldn’t make music, I thought…I thought I could make noise. Maybe somebody would notice if I was loud. I don’t know what I wanted them to notice. I was already getting as much help as anyone could give me.”“Not enough.” Richard is beside him, digging through the Rubbermaid tub too, examining the Barbies and the Hot Wheels and all the other miscellanea in the pile. “I had one of those plastic recorders for about three days,” he says. “My parents took it away too. Not that—I mean, it’s not the same as your thing.”“Well, some adult reactions become more sympathetic as we get older.” Jared polishes the dust off the recorder with a clean tissue from his pocket. “But the recorder was a very important part of early music, you know. Some beautiful airs were written for it. No instrument sounds very pleasant when it’s made of plastic and costs a dollar.”“Yeah, true.” Richard fishes the sheet music out of the recorder’s sleeve and unfurls it, skimming the notes. He has no talent himself, something he discovered from the childhood piano lessons that he got and Jared didn’t. “‘Early One Morning’—oh, I remember this from an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer…”Jared laughs. “You’re so cultured, Richard.”“Okay, that, right there, that was making fun of me,” Richard says—he’s grinning, not even mad, just relieved that he finally caught Jared just teasing him for being an idiot, the way a normal person would. “You know goddamn well that’s not cultured.”“I would never judge you for—”“You should, though, Jared. You should judge the hell out of me. For everything.” Richard bumps his arm gently against Jared’s, one of the few tactile gestures of friendliness that he’s learned how to use properly. “You’re gonna blast some ‘Early One Morning’ right now, aren’t you?”“I shouldn’t.”“It’s your moment, c’mon.” Richard likes to tempt Jared—sometimes to make him do things he needs to do for his own good, sometimes for more selfish reasons. To enjoy Jared’s purity, and to feel it crumble. “We’re a million miles away from anything. You’re not gonna bother anybody.”“Well…” Jared looks down at the recorder in his hands and smiles. “A little bit. Okay.”They walk out into the sprouting back hall, over the crumbling floors, where the weeds are winning in the sun. Richard gets his phone earbuds out of his pocket and puts them in as makeshift earplugs.Jared takes a deep breath and blows the recorder like a shofar, a raucous high-pitched whistle. Not playing any note in particular, just blasting it as loud as he possibly can, with all the air in his lungs. Not music, only noise. Serious noise. Richard can hear it even through his earbuds. It echoes through the pines, loud enough to frighten off a black bear.It’s a silly, childish sound—it brings back memories for Richard too. He used to annoy his parents with plastic recorders and cheap harmonicas and the repetitive sounds of Bach’s French Suite No. 3 by way of Tetris on his GameBoy. He’d had the freedom to bug people without having to worry about whether he might lose the roof over his head for it.When Jared stops, he looks satisfied for a brief moment, then guilty. “I feel so foolish,” he says. “I don’t know what I was expecting. We came so far out of our way just for that.”“You were trying to remember and you did. And we’d already gone out of our way, right?” Richard smiles at him. “I was trying to take us to Confidence, New Mexico. I’m the foolish one here, I’m Boo Boo the Fool.”“Never.” Jared reaches out for Richard, almost aimless: straightening one of the strings on his hoodie, fingers brushing over Richard’s shoulder.Jared starts to say something, and Richard is afraid that it’s thank you, which is bullshit—I’ve given him nothing, I’ve done nothing but take—so he leans in to wrap an arm awkwardly around Jared’s waist. “Let’s go home.

[auselysium]

The Stars and I - Roswell New Mexico Fic

Hi all - I wrote a little angsty Malex number. Would love for you to check it out!

AO3 Link if you prefer that!

The Stars and I

It was June 2008.

Michael Guerin liked me back.

And my father hated us both.

His attack stopped eventually with a sudden stumble backwards away from Michael’s side, his arm still raised for the next blow, as if pushed by some imaginary force. Michael sobbed between ragged breaths, head bowed on his knees. His untouched hand clenched knuckle-white in desperation.

I’d been frozen through it all. Palms pressed and trembling, tears flowing. So this is what a Jesse Manes beating looks like from the other side, I’d found myself thinking with twisted fascination.

Gasping, my father looked at me and threw the hammer across the floor. A wipe at his jaw with the back of his hand left Michael’s blood smeared across his face.

“Go inside and get cleaned up,” he ordered. As if I, standing there covered in my male lover’s spit and sweat and cum, was far filthier than he was, covered in the same man’s blood.

I took one look at Michael. He cradled his hand to his chest where he’d collapsed to the floor, tucked in on himself as if trying to hide. His eyes were clenched shut and he did not see me go.

I only just managed to get under the shower spray. Hot water pummeled my back, numbing and unrelenting. I stood, motionless yet vibrating. Unsure how I would ever be able to untangle Michael’s heady moans of pleasure from his screams that came too shortly after.

My father had been waiting with a bucket and a sponge. He hadn’t needed to tell me what I was to clean next.

Blood had seeped into the wooden grains of the work bench. A lasting stain. As I squeezed the sponge over the ruins, Michael’s blood ran pale and thin to the floor. It felt like I cleaning up after some gruesome autopsy. Or a crime scene.

Which is exactly what it was.

I can’t remember how long it took to clean up Michael’s blood. But I did. Every drop. Clearing it away with attentiveness bordering tenderness. As if this expended fluid was him, his destroyed body. As if this were my penance.

I did this, all the while frantically worrying where he’d gone after his truck had peeled through our backyard and away.

“Come on in,” my father said as if nothing had happened a while later. “Dinner’s ready in 10.”

*

The next night, alone in my room - grounded, phone taken away, music defaning - I saw the lights in the shed turn on through my window.

It had to be him.

Sneaking out that same window (like I had hundreds of times for my own sanity), I made my way across the dark yard.

“Guerin, it’s just me.” Hadn’t I said those exact words before?’

“Jesus.” He flinched anyway, pulling his hand, now wrapped in an oozing cloth, that looked little more than an old undershirt, towards his chest once more. His eyes were wide, terrified and they didn’t relax much at the sight of me.

“Have you not gone to the ER?” I asked, immediately reaching for him. He pulled away, more timid than I thought him capable.

“I can’t.”

“If it’s that you can’t pay…”

“No.” He cut me off quickly, letting out a shaky breath. “No doctors. It’ll be fine.”

We shared a look. No, it wouldn’t be fine. Not now or ever. But even so, Michael turned away and kept stuffing his duffle bag, single handed. The discussion was ended.

“I just need to get my things and then I’ll be gone.”

“Where will you go?” I asked.

“Still got my truck. It’s not as cold at night as it was at the end of the school year,” he said at my concerned look.

“What if it rains?”

MIchael turned. His face a barren, twisted smirk. “Rain? In the dessert? During the summer?”

The puff of air I let out could almost be misconstrued as a laugh. Michael continued gathering his things with a heavy sigh. I’d not realized just how settled-in he’d become here. Made this small space of bare plywood a home.

With another bleak look, Michael handed me my brother’s guitar.

“Guess I won’t be able to use that anymore.”

I took it, fingers circling around the neck next to his so they touch. I was desperate to feel him whole. Michael pulled away without reaction. But even in that flash of proximity, I could see he was utterly shattered, like he hadn’t seen a moments sleep at all the night before. I hadn’t really slept either, but Michael looked like he was dealing with demons even bigger than Jesse Manes.

“Can I come see you?” I asked.

Michael stood, unflinching eyes rimmed with weary tears. He considered my question for a long time. Shrugged. “Sure. If you don’t think it’ll...”

I stepped towards him.

“But not tonight.” He stepped back, putting his good hand between us. ‘There’s...still some stuff I’m dealing with.”

“Ok,” I said.

I wanted to kiss him. Hold him. Instead, I helped him carry some books to the car and watched his tail lights drive away until I couldn’t see them anymore.

*

He didn’t call for over a week.

“Hello?”

It was the landline for the house that had started ringing, which was strange enough in itself. But we’d never talked on the phone before either, so the whole thing felt new.

“Hey, it’s...Gu...It’s Michael.”

He gave me directions: Go two miles past Mazas Farm on Old Stage Road. Look for the break in the fence. Follow the tracks. You’ll find me.

And I did.

He was waiting. Sitting in the bed of his truck, looking towards the sky.

“I’m glad you called.” I said, settling next to him.

“I’m glad your dad wasn’t home when you did.”

“You could have called my cell, you know. Or texted like a normal teenager.”

“Phone’s dead,” he answered, with a futile lift of his shoulders. “Aren’t a lot of places to plug in your charger in the desert. I even had to look up your house phone number in a phone book. That I had to find at the library. Can you believe they still make those?”

“What? Libraries?” I deadpanned.

Michael actually laughed. Smiled with teeth. His curls fell over his face and I scooted closer so that we were nearly touching, hip to hip.

He’d set up a small little campground for himself. A fire pit with a chair pulled next to it. A few pots and a camping mug, freshly cleaned, were set off to the side. It was as comfortable as a patch of desert could be, I supposed. But it wasn’t a home. It wasn’t even a tool shed, which seemed to be the best anyone was willing to offer Michael.

The thought nearly made me choke.

“I’m so sorry, Michael.”

He hung his head. The almost imperceptible shake brushed away my concern and my atonement. Instead, his jaw became set, teeth aligned behind closed lips.

“Did he hurt you?” His voice was tight, defensive and protective. When I’m silent for a beat he turned to look. His eyes rode a dangerous edge of action.

Of course my father hurt me, I wanted to say. Watching Michael being brutalized had hurt me more than any slap, any bunch, and fowl slur my father had ever thrown my way. That had been the whole point, hadn’t it?

“No,” I answered. “Not this time.”

Not sensing the lie, or perhaps because of it, his eyes softened, falling to my lips then back up again. The skin of my face reddened. I tilted my head like I had that first time, the time he'd turned away from my advances and started strumming his guitar in panic.

But this time, with an exhale as mild as the wild night, our lips met, melted, with relief.

His sleeping bag was hardly enough cushioning against the corrugated metal, and yet we lay back, together, making do as long as our bodies remained close.

I reached for the hem of shirt, the fly of his pants. With Michael’s good hand trapped between his body and the truck, he made a noise of frustration.

Then embarrassed, almost innocent: “I… can't.” The wounds of his hand had scabbed over, but his fingers were still swollen and blue. He’d winced as he tried to flex the mangled digits.

“It's ok,” I breathed, rotating our bodies so his was beneath mine. We hadn’t gotten around to his position the time and I liked it. Settled into the solid shape of him. I trailed my fingers on his jaw. Kissed him long. “Just let me.”

He swallowed, nodded. I took care of him the way I wanted to. Careful and exploring. I felt tears as he came in my hand. My father, for all his trying, still had not robbed us of this.

After, I rested my head on his chest as it rose and fell in a sated, by slowing tempo. His heart doing the same beneath the bunched of fabric of his shirt. He pressed a lingering kiss to my hair and I let my hand still by his hip.

It was unspoken, but understood: I would spend the night with him.

“You’ve been ok staying here? Out in the open like this?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” he said. “I’ve always felt safe under the stars.

I peered up at him to find his eyes open, gazing. “Why?”

“Cause the stars…They owe me.”

I didn’t know how to unpack the bitterness in his his voice. So instead, I snuggled in close and his embrace became tighter, more fierce. The night air was dropping quickly, though, so perhaps he had just appreciated the extra body heat.

“Next time will you at least let me bring a tent?”

Michael’s snort seemed to echo across the valley.

*

It was a July wind storm, not rain, that forced us into the tent early, before the sun had even set, one evening. The dust devils that played across the landscape weren’t enough to worry these New Mexico natives.

Instead, we sat cross legged facing each other on top of our sleeping bags, which we’d zipped together the night before, and played a hardcore game of Egyptian Rat Screw.

“I quite literally have a handicap. I can’t slap the deck with this hand,” Michael said, showing off the fresh pink skin over unevenly healed bones and mottled with scars.

“Then use our other hand. You’re still probably gonna beat me, anyway” I’d said. And he had. “When do you leave for UNM? Do you have orientation soon?”

“N’aw,” Michael deflected as he shuffled the deck. “I decided not to go.”

“Why not? Rumor was you got a full ride.”

“Rumor was right.” He shrugged with a pondering pout. “I just decided college wasn’t for me. What about you? You headed out east for some fancy music school?”

My laugh sounded more like a whimper. I focused on putting my cards in order, black suits first, clubs then spades.

“I, uh, actually just signed up for the Air Force.”

“What?” Michael was disgusted. “Why? Alex, you’re nothing like your old man.”

I gave my cards a helpless look. “He brought the paperwork home yesterday and told me either I signed on the dotted line or he’d make me sign. I leave for Basic in San Antonio in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Michael exhaled. His mouth was open and slack, eyes staring at me with what I dared to interpret as disappointment.

“Yeah,” I said. Michael tossed his cards aside, tackling me to the ground. There was no time to waste on games now that we had an expiration date.

*

“Well, well, well. Private Manes. I never thought I’d be a guy with a soldier kink but...”

Michael stood at my shoulder in the mirror, running his hands over my blue camouflage fatigues.

My dad had orders out of town for the weekend and we’d had the house to ourselves. We’d slept in a bed. Showered together. Made coffee in the mornings.

He’d carefully held the clippers to my head, watching with a nervous giggle as my hair had fallen to the floor in longish-locks, and gave me the military high-and-tight cut. Then he’d yelped and run from the room as I’d turned the clippers back on and suggested I give him the same ‘do.

As if I would ever touch those precious curls.

“Airman not soldier,” I corrected, smoothing the jacket down my chest. “And I’ll enter as an E-3, not a private.”

“Whatever,” he said with a brusk wave of his hand.

“I would say I’ll write you while I’m gone but I don’t think your truck has a mailbox.”

“If I keep my phone charged, will you text me?”

“When I can, sure.”

Michael picked the matching uniform cap from my bed, his mood having changed. He fingered the brim and asked, “They’re gonna send you over there aren’t they? Afghanistan? Iraq? Some shit?”

“Probably,” I stated with a grim nod. Michael had stopped shaving in the past couple weeks, keeping his five o’clock shadow neatly trimmed instead. It suited him and I ran my fingers over the stubble of his chin. “That’s the point of serving right? To fight.”

Michael shook his head with angry and frightened futility. I could see just how much he loathed the thought.

“Whatever happens,” his voice was painfully raw. “However long it takes and whatever state you’re in, just promise me you’ll come home to Roswell.”

“Is that what you want?”

This was the first glimmering mention of anything resembling our future and even though it felt eons away and impossible, like some ill-conceived mirage, I let myself believe in it. Michael nodded along, holding my gaze and not looking away.

“Then you have to promise you’ll be here when I do.”

He kissed me, thumbs on my jaw and fingers on the closely shaved edges of my hair. “Promise.”

*

My father’s cruel exactness was replaced by drill sergeants and hell weeks where I didn’t sleep for over 72 hours. Then marching orders to a base in Alabama where I slept in barracks with a dozen other men. Then overseas to Ramstein, Germany for another tour and then the dreaded order to the middle East, not once but twice.

Years later, my nightmares were not riddled with Jesse Manes’ fist or Michael Guerin’s screams but IEDs and insurgents and failed missions that resulted in loss of life and my own limb.

So it wasn't that I had willingly forgotten everything that had happened upon my return to Roswell, I just didn't dare remember. War had been no place for thoughts of soft things. Of young boys holding each other in their sleep. Or golden curls and the brush of guitar strings.

Those memories were no longer my own, but belonging to the kid I’d never be again.

Still, I came home. Just like I’d promised.

He was still there, just as he had.

But the stretch of time had made things, once sweet, acrid. Ease and magnetism was replaced with the pain of goodbye and years of selective silence. Pending returns of promises made felt like pity now instead of some cosmically decreed outcome.

Guerin pressed to the breaking point. And I walked away. Again and again.

And I found myself thinking that those stars that I’d looked to that summer from the back of Guerin’s truck? Those that I’d tried to find through my night-vision goggles in a different desert an entire world away?

Those stars? They owed us both now.

[songofwizardry]

wolfstar teacher!au, part 2: the other marauders

part 1 of my wolfstar teacher!au that I posted an embarrassingly long time ago (you can find it here) got way, waaay more attention than I was expecting it to, so here y’all go: part 2, the backstory for Sirius, James and Peter, and how they all ended up in and around Hogwarts. Feat. our faves, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter! as always, enjoy and let me know what y’all think! [content warning: parental queerphobia/abuse/implied awfulness in bullet points 3 to 6.] ☆------------------------☆------------------------☆

So let’s talk about where our faves, the rest of the Marauders, are.

Being posh af, both James Potter and Sirius Black attended Hogwarts from the time they started secondary school.

Originally from London, Sirius is the kid of Orion, a Senegalese diplomat who was posted in London right at the start of his career, and Walburga, oldest daughter of a Ghanaian-French high-society couple, who moved from Paris to London when she was a child.

Sirius’ interactions with their family headed straight towards disastrous very quickly—during their initial years at Hogwarts, Sirius’ rebellion got more and more noticeable, all number of increasingly-terse letters and increasingly-angry phone calls were exchanged during term-time, and summers got increasingly-awful every year. This culminated in Sirius being outed, in a horrible, dramatic, and very teen-TV-drama-very-special-queer-episode-esque way at one am one night, the summer between their fifth and sixth years.

The ensuing conversation (‘I will not tolerate anything – anyone – of that sort under my roof!’ / ‘Well that’s fucking fine, isn’t it, because I won’t be under your roof!’ / ‘You’re doing this to yourself, Sirius, remember that—we’re not kicking you out. You’re making this choice.’ / ��Oh yes, just one in a long string of things I’ve chosen to do, things I’ve chosen to be, isn’t it? Fine, then, I’m choosing to leave.’) meant that Sirius walked out of Grimmauld Place at about two-thirty in the morning, with only their coat, their mobile that was on twenty percent charge, and their ‘emergencies’ bag that they’d had for years now (it didn’t contain much more than several old cereal bars, about a hundred quid in change that a much-younger Sirius had squirrelled away, and a scrap of paper, dating back to first year, with James’ home number and his address scrawled on in messy handwriting that was definitely not Sirius’).

More than slightly out of it, Sirius ended up walking to the end of the road, called a cab to drive them across London in the middle of the night, paid the ludicrous eighty-something pound fare in mostly one- and two-pound coins, and finally, at about four in the morning, stood in front of the Potters’ house and called their landline.

(It was James’ dad who picked up, James’ dad who insisted Just call me Monty, now, none of that, whenever Sirius referred to him as Mr. Potter, James’ dad who’d given Sirius a hug the second time they’d met and whose glasses were somehow, impossibly, even more crooked than James’ own. When he picked up the phone, his voice was thicker, accent broader, with sleep; and Sirius, suddenly horribly unsure, crumpled the ancient note from James in one fist and said, “Hey, uh, Mr. Potter? I’ve—well, I’ve left my house, I’m—outside yours? Can I come in?”)

That was how Sirius, short of everything but legal adoption, ended up a Potter child, had their diet switched to one that suddenly contained far too many rotis, and was introduced by James solely as his sibling, with an associated glare that dared anyone to question it.

After Hogwarts, Sirius’ deep-seated desire to not return to London manifested in them running off to St. Andrews to do a fine art degree. Mrs. Potter, who had been looking forward to having the children not be off in Scotland, was slightly disappointed, but she responded by instead posting Sirius numerous packages of fancy teabags, because Mrs. Potter (rightfully) believed that in the absence of being actually there to fuss over someone, the next best alternative was to provide them with tea.

While Sirius was off being artsy as fuck, James Potter was off… also being pretty artsy. In a move that made Monty raise his eyebrows and quietly wonder how he’d ended up with not one, but two children doing creative arts, James stayed closer to home, went to Reading, and read English and Creative Writing. It took staying on for a Master’s for James to decide he’d had enough of academia, and of the overwhelming whiteness of English departments, for a bit, and to decide that he wanted A Break, and also a source of income that wasn’t a student loan. Enter Sirius.

James had been off being pretty unemployable, while Sirius was being… slightly more employable. A couple years volunteering during their degree had led them to the shocking realisation that holy shit, they liked teaching people about artsy shit. Their only problem was that nobody (short of the Potter parents, but Sirius wasn’t keen on taking more money from them) wanted to fund an art teacher. A year out of uni, with a year of mixed work and volunteering under their belt – leading museum tours, art therapy at kids’ hospitals, one particularly fantastic weekend spent spray-painting with a youth group in Manchester, pretty much anything they could get their hands on that had ‘art’ and ‘young people’ in the description – Sirius heard, through the grapevine, that Trelawney had finally retired.

On a whim, they called up Hogwarts. The conversation with Dumbledore went something like this: ‘I haven’t got a teaching qualification, sir, but I do have a full year of experience–‘ / ‘We’re an independent school, Sirius, we don’t exactly need the qualification. Anyway, an art degree and some experience is more than Sibyl had when she started, so why don’t you send an application along to me, hmm?’

Hogwarts got back to Sirius quickly, which is how, a week later, they called up James, saying, “Hey, you know how you wanted a break from uni and all that shit? How do you feel about moving to Hogsmeade with me?”

It was a completely impractical decision. James, unlike Sirius, didn’t have a job offer there, didn’t have plans, he only had the sudden realisation that he’d kinda missed living with Sirius, and his pretty-unshakeable confidence that things would always turn out the way they were meant to.

He said yes.

Which is how, two years down the road, we find the two of them here—living opposite The Three Broomsticks in a small house, one bedroom on the bottom floor and one on the top, that’s owned by Rosmerta.

Sirius is an established figure at Hogwarts, where they’re a bit of a student favourite and have acquired a reputation for being slightly chaotic (possibly because they once let a stressed year eleven class decorate the wall of the art classroom, spray-painting it with the words No such thing as bad art!).

James, being a bit too posh to have ever done the unemployed-grad thing of waiting tables, is a triple-threat freelancer instead—he writes fortnightly book reviews, which often end up with a bit of a commentary on The Human Condition, for eccentric magazine The Quibbler; he contributes regularly to Parivaar, an online artsy zine/website/collective that started up in Birmingham but has now got contributors across the UK and readers across the world, that describes itself as art, fiction, and opinions by and for desi rebels, misfits and weirdos; and, because Hogsmeade is small, he does the marketing and runs the social media for The Three Broomsticks—which isn’t much work, considering how small it is, but at least he can ensure the fifty-odd people, mostly students, who follow @3BroomsticksPub only see grammatically-perfect tweets.

The Potter parents are… slightly concerned about James’ rather non-traditional sources of income, but Euphemia reads The Quibbler and can’t deny he writes very well, and he says he’s fine and no, the two of them don’t need any help with the rent, thank you very much, so they tut a bit from afar and perhaps still send them too many teabags, and load both James and Sirius up with a frankly ridiculous number of tupperware containers full of curry and roti when they come visit.

This is when James and Sirius meet Peter Pettigrew.

It’s a rainy evening in late March. The two of them have, earlier that day, just come back up from London, where they spent the weekend with James’ parents, who wanted to see him for his birthday. They’re now in the Three Broomsticks, because that’s what they do—Sirius is nursing a pint, hair up in a bun, sketching out an idea for a mural—they’ve convinced Dumbledore that the third-floor corridor that students insist is haunted by the spirit of a giant, three-headed dog is in need of a rebrand before another generation of first-years gets pranked by being trapped in there and is scarred for life. James has lemonade and is watching Sirius, recounting the many tales of the three-headed dog he heard during his time at Hogwarts, including the one story that claims the spirit is called Fluffy. This is when they see Peter.

Anyone new at The Three Broomsticks sticks out when it’s not a student visit weekend, and this short white guy, his hair and coat and rucksack wet from the rain, is no exception. He looks damp and cold and rather lost and lonely, sitting at a corner table with a drink, so James, being Euphemia and Monty’s son and thus, genetically speaking, destined to be the ultimate mother hen, decides to go over to him and offer to buy him some of Rosmerta’s excellent, and very warming, tomato soup. That’s just what James does, and Sirius is used to it at this point, so they only watch, amused, as James drags the sodden stranger over to join their table.

Introductions are made, and they learn that Peter, who was born in Shropshire, trained to be a nurse in Shropshire, and until very recently, worked in Shropshire, had finally left Shropshire – for good – for Hogsmeade, because his Mum had died earlier that year and he couldn’t stay in the same house. Through the NHS friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend grapevine, he’d ended up finding a job at St. Mungo’s Hospital, a few towns over, and was moving in with a woman he’d only spoken to on the phone, a Lily Evans—she was also a friend-of-a-friend found through the same grapevine, lived further down in Hogsmeade, towards the Hog’s Head, and had recently also started work at St. Mungo’s, and needed someone to split the rent with. In short, Peter explains, draining the very last of the admittedly-incredible tomato soup, everything feels like a bit of a mess, and he would really like to take a nap for about a week.

Aforementioned mother hen, James, is appropriately horrified and sympathetic at Peter’s plight, and declares himself and Sirius Peter’s “official guides” to life in Hogsmeade and settling in.

It’s only a few short months after this – a few months during which Peter hangs out with James and Sirius regularly at The Three Broomsticks, they meet his housemate Lily, and Sirius lets the leavers’ class, slightly dead after all their exams, help paint a giant mural on the third-floor corridor that features a surprisingly-cute three-headed ghost dog, with the Hogwarts crest and the word FLUFFY on its collar – that Sirius hears about The New Teacher.

At this point, they’re kinda used to the disaster that is the state of physics teaching at Hogwarts. It’s early in the summer, and they’re vaguely aware that Flitwick is running interviews again, only because it’s the talk of the staff room and the entire science department have looked like they’re on the verge of breakdown since Moody, or as they call it in the staff room, The Iraqi Plane Incident.

That weekend, though, they run into Flitwick in Gladrags, where Flitwick is searching, as always, for trousers that will fit his small frame, and Flitwick takes one look at them, grins, and says, “Sirius! We found someone! He’s called Lupin, he’s got an actual physics degree, and, consider this, he seems decent!”

And that is the first thing Sirius Black hears about Remus Lupin.