#part 1 of three

[greyeyedmonster-18]

(awhile ago, i played an ask game in which i was asked to make a story involve MCD and one of the answers i gave was: postcard from paris.

so...i present, a postcard from paris au. you don't need to read the first fic, just the second chapter and you're good to go.

xoxo)

greener grass (the greenest growing)

part 1: a beautiful day

Remus stood awkwardly in the corner of the drawing room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, looking out the open window at the blue skies that were a perfect contrast to the heavy velvet curtains and the mood from inside the house. Glass of wine in his hand, knuckles turning white from gripping the stem so hard, only half hearing Sirius's voice telling him he was an uncultured swine--a barbarian-- for letting his fingers touch the glass.

Remus didn't pretend to have a culture in the first place, glancing down at his feet where his black dress shoes were untied and scuffed on the toe. Suit and tie, dressed in a sort of costume he hadn't wanted to put on that morning before attending the service, caught somewhere at the intersection of denial, disbelief, and dread. He typically loved going to Number 12.

They had spent birthdays and New Year's there, celebrating milestones with joy the way Sirius and Kingsley knew how to do.

Going away parties and promotion parties.

Baby showers and welcome back parties.

And now they were here.

The house was filled with small talk and music from a record player that felt more eerie than ambient. It made Remus's hair stand on edge the way everyone passed along platitudes and placations; it made him roll his eyes when he walked in and saw security scanning people's wands. Death apparently wasn't a big enough occasion to warrant privacy, treating the service and the reception as another charity gala or event of the season. And not something terrible that had happened.

He took a sip of his wine, teeth on edge as a woman's overly shrill laughter rang through the halls.

It should have been Sirius's obnoxious laughter. Not hers.

Remus stepped towards the window, slumping over to rest his forehead on the glass, eyeing the white roses that framed the backyard of Number 12.

"I think he reinforced the glass, so if you're thinking of taking a nose dive..."

Remus pulled his forehead off the window and turned around over his shoulder to the sound of the familiar voice. Familiarity was supposed to bring comfort, or so the saying goes, but it sent knots straight to Remus's stomach.

Though, at this point, his stomach had been in knots for two weeks, what was a few more?

"Looks like I've been thwarted then," Remus murmured, not quite making eye contact with the man in front of him. James gave a half-grin that quickly fell from his face, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his hair.

Nearly 40 and he still had a full head, not a strand of grey in sight. Meanwhile, Remus had bags under his eyes the size of carry-on luggage and more grey hair than he could count.

"How are you doing, Moons?"

"That's a stupid question to ask. How are you?"

James opened his mouth and closed it again, walking into the drawing room after shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, robes hanging over his shoulders. It was strange. James in all black, when normally James took every opportunity to wear bright magenta's and purples.

Yellow's and bright oranges, mirroring a sunset in the sky or extravagant city lights in the night. Remus had once thought James was the Eiffel Tower-- the real fucking thing that was it for him-- only to have the fantasy crumble when James hadn't followed through.

Again.

Leaving Remus waiting and disappointed.

Again.

Not that Remus had put the effort in either...again.

They went around and around, and now James was in black robes, and Remus was holding a wine glass, and they were in the same room for the first time in seven years.

"You're right...stupid question."

"Cheers," Remus raised his glass, finishing the contents in a long gulp.

"Is the wine good at least?"

"Would it be a Black party if it wasn't?"

"Not much of a party."

"That bint from the Ministry with the hat might disagree..."

"Oh, her..." James muttered, shaking his head, looking as if he was about to say something, but he stopped himself again. Remus knew that look--that feeling. He had been wearing it and feeling it for the past two weeks since he got the news.

"Yeah."

"I...I know it's been a while..." Remus snorted, "And I know...we kind of fell apart--"

"You make it sound like an accident."

"Wasn't it?" asked James, "We...were young. Some things work out when you're young, and some things...just don't."

"I don't think that changes because we're older..." Remus finally met James's eyes, hazel sending him straight back to their best friend's wedding.

“I told you we’re not doing this.”

"Doing what?" James asked hands paused on the belt buckle of Remus's trousers, identical robes already shed behind them in the bedroom of Sirius's villa in France, bottle of champagne on the dresser.

"This! What we always do!It's so fucking stupid. We pretend its forever and then it ends the same. You leaving for work, and then we write letters for another two weeks and promise to floo and visit and you send me postcards and pictures but we never end up meeting until there’s some…function. And that's what happens, every single fucking time. When Sirius moved out, when Sirius got engaged, now he's married and unless he gets married again, I don't know when the hell I'm going to see you!"

It wasn't a wedding.

"This isn't a wedding," Remus told him.

"I know," James swallowed, "I don't know how I'll get through it wit--"

"Dad-- there you are!" a third voice came and this time both Remus and James turned around to greet it, "Why are you two being all dodgy by the window?" Harry asked, adjusting the glasses on his face.

It was cruel torture, the way Harry had grown up to look so much like his father and haunted the halls of Hogwarts for Remus. The privilege of watching Harry grow tainted by memories of his father and what if's from when Harry was younger.

"Were you looking for me, Haz?" James asked a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Yeah, we're kicking people out now, Mum says we can do it but someone needs to go sit with--"

"Sure," James nodded and inclined his head toward Remus. They easily fell into step again, as they left the safety of the drawing room. Side by side, one foot after another, a single unit, but it never stayed like that for long. They walked through the hall, Remus listening to Harry and Lily move people out the front door.

Thank you for coming.

It means so much.

"He didn't even like half these fucking twats..." James muttered under his breath.

"Don't need to tell me that..."

"Good."

The casserole was delicious.

"It tasted like feet," remarked Remus and James coughed out a laugh, just before they came to the sitting room.

A casket in the middle of the room, white roses around the base.

Vacated chairs.

Velvet curtains wide open

And Sirius sitting on the edge of the couch, head in his hands now that the room had cleared out, fingers frantically combing through his hair over and over again.

Ordinarily, Remus would've made a joke about how he was going to go bald.

But it didn't seem like the time.

"Habibi," James said gently, sitting next to Sirius on the couch and pulling hands out of his hair to hold them instead, "Did you have the feet casserole?"

Apparently it was the time.

"Feet casserole?" Sirius responded quietly, still staring down at the ground. "I think its technical name is Widower casserole."

"Mmmm no, I'm pretty sure its feet," James corrected, turning his head to look at Remus, "Remus had some."

We make a good team, Moons.

"A whole big toe," Remus nodded, before taking a breath and crossing to the other side of Sirius, "Budge over, where are your manners?"

"In my husband's casket, I think..."

"I'll put mine in there too," Remus agreed.

"You didn't have any to begin with," Sirius retorted and nudged Remus lightly with his shoulder.

They were three again.

James.

Sirius.

Remus.

On a couch.

Blue skies behind their heads.

James hands holding onto to Sirius so he wouldn't slip away.

Life lines.

"We have a week. To sit here...and...be with him one last time..." Sirius said softly, lifting his head up from the ground, and staring at the casket instead. His jaw was tight, muscles in his hands flexing over and over again against James's. "You think that'll do it?"

"Do...what?" asked Remus

"Help this feel less shitty?"

"No," Remus said bluntly, leaning back against the couch to stare up at the ceiling. He felt two more thumps against the cushions in succession, seeing Sirius and James from his peripherals looking up all the same.

"But its...a beautiful day," James continued, "And...we're here."

Remus didn't have to look down to know it was James's hand on top of his knee.

Remus didn't even have to wait for the wine to kick in to know he would be absolutely fucked, once again, in ruins and shambles by the end of the week. It didn't matter that it was a funeral. It didn't matter that Remus had told himself he was too old to me making the mistakes of a twenty year old; thirty year old.

James's hand gave his knee a squeeze. An electric shock through his body, and Remus closed his eyes.

Here we go again.

[mumblesplash]

part 2!!!! [read part one here]

transcript below the cut arranged into stanzas to help show where the rhymes are:

“that’s why they brought gem in? as a failsafe?” as a pawn. we were told to point her at whoever we need gone

“gem won’t hurt her allies. …yet.” the curse she carries will it’s had its eye on her since she lost the other eye she was specially selected for her hunting skill it’s quite the high honor. “wow. how generous.” we try

think about it: why does almost no one fight the curse? “given how fast scott killed skizz last season, i can guess.” [“any pain you spare your friends, you’ll have to suffer worse”?] it’s designed to shut down higher reasoning with stress

[figtreegif]

Wardrobe // Rose Tyler (Billie Piper) // Doctor Who Seasons 1-2 & 4 (2005-2006, 2008) + specials

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three 

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition. 

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place. 

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip. 

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck. 

 The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital. 

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten. 

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled. 

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but. 

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.) 

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen. 

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair. 

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants." 

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him. 

Would Harrington pitch a fit? 

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did? 

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper. 

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life? 

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it. 

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--" 

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out." 

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.  

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying. 

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness. 

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone." 

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box. 

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home. 

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope. 

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet. 

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand. 

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list. 

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that." 

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face. 

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him. 

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

 "You'll check up on Robin too, right?"  He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?" 

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years. 

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here. 

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder. 

Several somethings, in fact. 

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck. 

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick. 

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie. 

An unfair advantage, really. 

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly. 

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie. 

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting. 

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie." 

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

 "What do you mean Si--Wayne." 

"Nice catch.”  Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.” 

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much. 

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither. 

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat." 

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked. 

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?" 

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret. 

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt." 

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle. 

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end." 

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink. 

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?" 

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when  he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be. 

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless. 

"Anybody else?" He asked. 

"Nobody human." Steve replied. 

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that. 

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?" 

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency,  I'd be happy to." 

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through. 

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation. 

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus.  "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER." 

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword  home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it. 

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair." 

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound. 

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble. 

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…" 

"You take any today son?" 

Steve his head. 

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack. 

Course he hadn't. 

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in. 

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once. 

[beaudesoleil]

stares at you with my huge bug eyes innocently

[egophiliac]

swipes everything else off of the table to yell about diasomnia flower bookmarks

(I gave Silver one too :D)

[cubbihue]

Indeed, Why did Peri get assigned Dev as his first godchild?

Peri’s assignment was as correct as any other fairy’s assignment!

Which is to say that somewhere, out there, there is a fairy with great experience, a fairy so good at their task that they can handle even the most extreme cases.

And that fairy has been given an “Extreme Case” child whose biggest concern is “Quick Sand”.

As far as the system is concerned, Dev is classified as “Simple”. A perfect beginner’s child for a beginning godparent like Peri!!!

Bitties Series: [Start] > [Previous] > [Next]

Peri's Assignment: [Start] > [Previous] > [END]

[abitcaughtinthemiddle]

I mean, he’s not wrong

[heich0e]

natsuo sits with you in the bathroom while you bathe pretty much from the very beginning of your relationship. he's a bit clingy, even so early on, but he makes no attempt to convince you otherwise. though a bit awkward at first, the routine soon becomes normal and easy: he perches on the closed lid of the toilet and chatters away about his day, or asks you about yours, as you wash away any lingering traces of the day from your skin. but something you always find a bit strange is that he never takes you up on the offer to join you, and finally (years into establishing this easy habit) you reach out with a wet hand and clutch at the sleeve of his shirt, firmly insisting this time that he get in.

he looks away, grimacing a little, a flush crawling up his throat. "oh, no," he says, shaking his head. "i'll get in once you're done, that's alright!"

you frown.

"nat," you say to him, your fingers still twisted into his shirtsleeve, clutching him tightly as though the strength of your grip might sway him. "please get in."

your insistence, though quiet, seems to make him falter. his cheeks flush even more and he hangs his head.

"...cold."

you cock your head to the side, having lost half of his sentence to the way he mumbled it. "hm?"

he peeks up at you, his lashes fluttering when he meets your gaze. his lips are pursed in the sweetest little pout, slight but still there. "i'll make the bathwater cold."

you blink for a moment as you process his words.

"you're worried... about the bathwater?"

he looks away again in embarrassment. "yeah."

he reaches up and takes the hand you have gripping his sleeve in his own, his touch cool against your bath-warmed skin. he twines your fingers together, watching raptly at the way his own hand seems to just fit with yours.

"i don't have a very strong quirk, you know that," he mumbles, his voice almost a bit shy. "but when i'm with you, it just... i can't help it. it slips out."

you already know this about natsuo. already had a conversation about it early in your relationship. he tried to explain the physiological side of things to you in terms you didn't really understand, but sensing your confusion, he then put it simply: you make my heart beat really fast, and it makes my temperature drop.

now you're used to his cold fingertips tracing along your body. used to how his tongue is always cold and slick. used to how you can sometimes see the faintest cloud of his breath on his exhales when he's panting over you in bed, or find delicate swirls of frost marks on the headboard where he was gripping it.

no. more than used to it. you like it.

"natsuo,"—you hold his hand a bit tighter, squeezing his fingers with your own—"i don't care about the bathwater."

his eyes snap up from watching where your fingers are tangled together, meeting your gaze. his cheeks are still pink, but his eyes are hopeful.

you guide his hand up to your cheek. his palm is cool against the heat you feel burning underneath your skin.

"please. get in with me?" you ask him again.

and this time he doesn't deny you—not least of all because he knows that when you've got your heart set on something you won't give up.

but he's used to that part of you, too.

(and he likes it.)

[somedayillbepeterpan]

God bless you, Luke, for kneeling for however long it took to film the carriage scene.

[kroosluvr]

spare bento [ part 1 / you are here! / part 3 ]

"kasumi was always so insistent about that. ...and, thinking about it now, i guess she was right all along."

[butchdykenormallen]

sorry. we put our boyfriend through a portal. i dont know where hy went. yeah hys terrified. sorry

[sophfandoms53]

An insane sequence of events im still losing my mind that this happened

[turtleblogatlast]

I really like how Donnie and Mikey having the shortest mask tails makes so much sense in regard to them being an inventor and an artist/cook respectively. If their mask tails were longer, it could be dangerous and/or get in the way of what they were trying to do.

Meanwhile Raph is large enough that his longer mask tails wouldn’t be easily used against him in fighting or sparring, plus the longer tails definitely make for a more standard hero/ninja look which would make him lean into it more.

Leo likes long mask tails because he can flip them.

[tothechaos]

my five year plan involves turning into a little mouse and using a sewing needle for a sword and going on an epic adventure to defeat a great evil through the power of friendship and stabbing

[corpusdiem-seizethedead]

Angel: *pointing* May I sit there?

Husk: That's my lap

Angel: That doesn't answer my question.