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whoacanada · 4 years ago

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Zimbits - Bartender!Jack + NHL!Bitty AU

Prompt: Retired NHL player Jack Zimmermann takes ownership of a sports bar in Pittsburgh and accidentally falls for the Penguins’ (closeted) new left winger.

A/N - just the start, I’d like to get around to more of this; the basic idea was an It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia AU, but I couldn’t manage to make everyone that terrible so Jack owns and operates a gay sports bar and starts crushing on one of his patrons.

��Can’t believe you’ve owned this place since ’89.” Jack coughs, waving the dust away from his face. “Did you ever come back after we moved home?”

It’d be disingenuous to say Jack had been expecting anything other than cigars and whiskey when his father had invited him on a trip down to Pittsburgh to see Mario and glad-hand some Penguins sponsors. In fact, he’d kind of been looking forward to sulking and getting shit-faced, not limping around a condemned building dodging roaches and rats.

“It was an investment opportunity. That was the trend back then, famous athletes buying up restaurants and clubs — I had big plans for this building. Then your mother got pregnant and I realized I didn’t really give two shits about running a nightclub.”

“Realized you were pretty lazy, huh?”

As Bob laughs, Jack picks at the peeling, lacquered bartop, trying not to imagine how many decades of grime he’s just collecting under his nail, the situation made even more disgusting in such close proximity to the glittering gold championship ring his father had insisted he wear to their lunch meeting with the Penguins front-office suits. Jack flicks the gunk away as Bob levels him with a weighty look, hands braced in the air as if outlining a play and not offering a tour of a cobweb-filled dive.

“Here’s my thought,” Bob says. “The bar. It’s yours.”

Jack leans against the counter, taking some weight off his braced leg, and asks, “What’s mine?”

“This place,” Bob gestures around the room. “The whole building. It’s just sitting here, empty, the bar, the liquor license, there’s apartments and office space upstairs, we’d just need to do some renovations and —“

Jack can’t help himself. He barks a laugh and says, “I’m not moving to Pittsburgh.”

“How many times have you and I talked about opening a sports bar? I’d wanted to get this place fixed up so it’d be ready when you retired, but since the final — you could make it a gay bar, even, if you wanted!” Bob says quickly, offering another awkward olive branch. “A gay sports bar. I wouldn’t care.”

“A gay sports bar. In Pittsburgh,” Jack echoes, reaching for a chirp to defend himself, but he closes him mouth as he realizes a sports bar run by a Zimmermann might not be a terrible investment idea. “The building needs a ton of work,” Jack settles. “I just saw a rat.”

“That was a mouse,” Bob dismisses, not bothering to look at the rat still clearly in view. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. Got a dollar?”

Jack pats his pockets, finds a spare looney and hands it over. Bob doesn’t hesitate, pulling an envelope out of his back pocket to exchange for the coin.

“Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of,” Bob looks around helplessly. “I actually don’t know what they call this place now. A Bar?”

“I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” Jack swallows against the tightness in his throat, holding the deed carefully in his hands. “Thanks, Dad.”

Bob brings Jack in for a loose hug and they both ignore the soft squeaking coming from the backroom.

Five Years Later

There’s a man examining the announcement board in the vestibule, and Jack knows that posture: the forward hip cant, thick thighs, a small but definite bubble butt — guy’s a hockey player, and he has been for some time.

“Hey. Hi.”

Blondie spins around at Jack’s address. Not quite startled, but something close enough that Jack feels a twinge of guilt. “You interested in playing in our beer league? You look like you might know your way around a rink.”

The man quickly looks at his chest, as if expecting to find something displayed, but relaxes immediately. Jack fights a grin, he was once old hat at wandering into public spaces decked out in identifiable team merch.

“Bitty.” The man squares up to offer his hand; his accent is warm and distinctly southern, not at all what Jack was expecting. “You can call me Bitty.”

“Oh, with a nickname like that, you have to play, now, no excuses,” Jack gives Bitty’s arm a firm shake, surprised at how complementary his grip is; not just an overcompensating bro who’s walked into the wrong club.

“If only I had the time,” Bitty placates wryly. “Is this place new?”

“Been here a few years, but not long. How about you? Are you ‘new’? In town, I mean.”

“Moved for work,” Bitty’s smile is timid, eyes darting around the room looking for other patrons, up at the memorabilia and the various pennants. “First year. Slowly learning the area.”

Jack doesn’t miss the way Bitty’s eyes linger on the Pride flag draped from the second floor railing, but Bitty doesn’t mention it, and Jack isn’t in the business of prying.

“Let me be the first to welcome you to The Bar.”

“I saw that outside, do you not have a name?”

“We weren’t creative. The owner didn’t realize he was filling in the wrong line on the business license so we are literally called ‘The Bar’.”

“That’s actually pretty solid,” Bitty laughs, the sound lifting Jack’s mood easily. “I’ll have to make sure I come back and patron your establishment at a reasonable hour.”

“What you aren’t interested at getting sloshed before noon?”

Bitty laughs, and Jack is enough of an adult to recognize he’s got a tiny bit of a crush.

______

True to form, Bitty slowly becomes a feature of Jack’s early afternoons. The first few weeks, he does little more than quietly purchase a single domestic beer before tucking himself away in a corner booth, hunched over his phone, ball cap pulled low for discretion. Jack gives him space, and aside from a few curious regulars, Bitty is little more than another closeted young man seeking quiet sanctuary.

That is, until, hockey kicks up and Mario hooks Jack up with season tickets beside the bench. It’d taken time for Jack to get comfortable with being in an arena again, especially without the ability to step onto the ice himself, but he’s acclimated and learned to appreciate his new lot in life. He can be happy for his success and mourn the end of his career with equal measure.

(Doesn’t hurt he still gets asked for autographs on the regular.)

Bittle, the new forward traded out of Columbus, spins to whip the puck between Lundqvist’s thighs and the score is 3-2 with a minute left in the third. Jack stands to cheer with the crowd as Bittle’s pulled into a celly with his line mates, and the new angle gives Jack a good look at the man’s sunny face, complete with a familiar, bright smile and missing canine. Jack’s heart leaps into his throat when he realizes Bittle is ‘Bitty’, and Jack can’t help but cheer louder.

________

After the game, Jack does his homework. Pulls up stats pages and articles on Eric Bittle. Looking to link the quiet hottie from his bar with the energetic man he saw tonight on the ice. If Jack wasn’t in love before, he absolutely is after watching highlights from Bittle’s time in Columbus.

The next time Jack finds Bitty slipping into the bar, probably between practice and a good nap, Jack makes his move; filling a pint glass, wedging an orange slice on the rim, and adjusting his shirt before striding to the corner booth as easily as one can with a titanium femur.

“On the house,” Jack says, setting down the glass gently. “Choice goal, Tuesday. Great bounce.”

Bitty’s grateful smile falters, turning into something guarded.

“What goal?” Bitty asks, voice steady, and Jack’s immediately alerted to his misstep. Jack casts a careful eye around the room and doesn’t find anyone watching, kicking himself for not thinking this through. He’s used to playing this game with guys who aren’t quite comfortable, who might be visiting with the wrong people, but he hasn’t had to do the closeted-pro-athlete dance in a while.

“You know, I must have been mistaken.”

“Happens all the time. Very sweet of you, though.” Bitty apologizes and pushes away the beer, but Jack waves him off. It’s the least Jack can do for calling the guy out.

“I should have known,” Jack tries to recover. “You’ve still got all your chiclets. But, between you and me, Bittle’s a spitfire, eh? Crazy soft hands. I’d like to meet him someday.”

Jack whistles low, rapping his knuckles on the table before turning back to the bar, moving slowly enough he catches the way Bitty’s cheeks flare pink at the compliment.

About thirty minutes later, Jack, half focused on counting down the till, nearly misses Bitty’s exit. He looks up to offer a parting wave, and Bitty returns the gesture, flashing a shy, incomplete smile; one canine missing on the left side.

________

“Anything new to report? Sales look good, think you might be able to take some time off and visit your poor parents?”

Jack slides open a window to let some air into his bedroom, not for the first time wishing he’d taken the chance to tear out a wall and convert a corner of the top floor into a balcony. There’s still time — his father never seems to wary of giving Jack renovation loans — but Jack loves his condo and hates the idea of relocating again, even temporarily.

“New distillery opened, cut a deal on some local gin. We’re working on drink specials, if you have any ideas for names I’m open,” Jack eases onto the windowsill and looks down at the line of people waiting to get into the bar. “And I met someone. Think he might be a hockey player.”

“No shit? Beer-league?”

“NHL.” Jack corrects, an edge of caution in his tone he knows his father won’t misinterpret. “Started coming around a few months ago, gave me a fake name. Went to a game last week, scored right in front of me.”

“Well, you going to tell me who or am I going to have to guess?”

“He’s keeping to himself,” Jack holds the curtain steady to catch sight of a particularly flashy person in a glittering teal gown, texting Holster to snag a photo for the bar’s Instagram. “Don’t go hunting.”

“Well, if he needs any help you let me know.”

“What could you do?”

“I don’t know. Talk to . . . someone. I guess.”

“I’ll keep that under advisement.” Jack placates, smiling at the saucy photo Ransom texts back immediately of Holster lifting their favorite Drag Race runner-up above his head like something out of Dirty Dancing.

“So.”

“Mmm?”

“Does this mean you’ve got a little boyfriend, again?”

Jack leans out over the railing and tries to see if the universe has blessed him with a sighting of his favorite new Left Winger. Sadly, it’s Saturday evening and the Penguins are in Dallas, so no Eric tonight.

“Working on it.” Jack offers, rapping his knuckles lightly against the window sill and trying not to think about the way Bittle’s face lights up when he sees that Jack is working. “Think I might really have a shot at something.”

“Well, you know what Wayne always says.”

“I do,” Jack breathes, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, taking in his one-of-a-kind view of the city. “I’ll let you know how it goes. Once he gets back.”

“ — You know, I’ve got the game on right now. I bet you $1000 I can tell who you’ve got the hots for. You have a specific type — ”

“Papa.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

“But it’s the kid we just got from the Blue Jackets, isn’t it. Bittle? You always like the fast ones — ”

“Goodnight, Papa.”

#bar au #jack zimmermann #NHL!Bitty #zimbits #Zimmermann #retired Jack #zimbits fic #look I wrote a thing #it's only been forever #my fic #my stuff #omgcp #check please

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whocalledhimannux · 4 years ago

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hello my friends it's time for another wildly self-indulgent AU, based on the fact that I spent several hours tonight with two windows open on my laptop, one showing Queen's Thief fic and the other showing the Philadelphia Phillies absolutely crushing the Reds:

Q T B A S E B A L L AU

featuring Eugenides as a hotshot player who is a rediciulous thief of bases (if u click on that link, take moment to pray for Roman Quinn's achilles 😢), incredible speed, no one can touch him, if he gets on base he will be scoring...

...until noted Absolute Asshole Nahuseresh "accidentally" steps on his hand with sharpened cleats (for the grip! he had no idea they would be dangerous! shocked and apalled and apologetic, really!) and causes nerve damage bad enough that Eugenides is more or less forced into an early retirement, reigniting the old Eddisian Griffins-Attolian Lilies rivalry with a vengeance

Helen is the manager (main coach) of the Griffins (she played baseball on teams with her brothers as a kid) and Irene is the owner of the Lilies

a year later, during the off-season, Irene and Eugenides elope, she hires him as the manager for the Lilies, and trades Nahuseresh while making it clear it's not about his playing, which is good, but because he's an absolute asshole. all of this happens in like a week and sports media goes BUCK WILD.

Dite is a very precocious pitcher, Sejanus is a shortstop. Eugenides trades both of them just under the trade deadline because he suspects Erondites is doing some shady Black Sox shit behind the scenes

Sophos is a pretty inconsistent player when he's younger and it's openly speculated he only makes it into professional ball because of nepotism--ironically, once his uncle loses a shit ton of money in a business takeover and has to sell the team to [random rich owner, idk], he really hits his stride and is called up from the minors to play for a major league team under the guidance of the Magus, who is his manager. he's a center fielder. drove his father nuts in his youth because he was always daydreaming instead of paying attention to the ball.

fun side note: like Sophos, I have a scar on my lip that alters my smile. I got mine when a softball glanced off my glove and hit me in the face, and my lip got caught in my braces. so I like to think he gets an injury in this AU in a similar way, lol.

I haven't thought this through for all of them, because it's midnight and I can't be doing this for hours, but major King's Guard/Attendants are Lilies players, cousins/major Eddisians are Griffins, etc. I'm de-aging some of them to make it fit.

MoW (is it weird that's still my default for him?) is a base coach, Ornon is a long-suffering umpire

Teleus is captain of the Lilies and their catcher (for non-baseball fans, the catcher does a lot of directing during the game--helping pitchers choose which pitch to throw, helping to decide if fielders should move back or move in or cover certain gaps)

he does get into a shouting match with Eugenides at one point, on the field, and again, sports media goes BUCK. WILD. the Lilies have so many good unwritten rules/bench-clearing/wtf-just-happened moments during this time.

as a player Eugenides defied a couple of the unwritten rules--he was not shy about bunting or stealing bases whenever tf he wanted to, for example. he dodged a lot of intentional hits from pitchers but he was too damn charming for the fans to be really mad at him

Relius is their general manager at first, the guy in charge of numbers and trades and negotiating. he's kicked out after a scandal but Irene ends up keeping him around. he starts to actually attend games in a private box and watch instead of schmoozing and rediscovers his love for the game.

oooooh I kind of like the idea of most of the attendants being pitchers. pitchers are sort of divas and teams have like 10+ and fans of Certain Teams experience a LOT of exasperation over their pitchers' inconsistent performance (not that I would ever ever point to any specific team and the fact that Lilies rhymes with Phillies means absolutely nothing)

Costis is the first baseman (because TALL) and has a killer batting average, is v close with Aris who plays second base, and kinda sorta accidentally becomes the first out MLB player when he gets caught making out with Kamet after winning the home run derby. oops.

Teleus, who has been successfully avoided winning that title for years, mocks him ruthlessly (although he does have a Glenn Burke kind of deal where his teammates know but keep it private)

Kamet has relatively little interest in sports and there is a lot of online complaining about the fact that he openly grades papers/works on other stuff during games, but hey, this PhD isn't going to earn itself. he does pay attention to Costis's at-bats, though, and gets more invested in the games as he gets to know other players better--he also eventually reveals that he's got a mean head for stats, even if he doesn't feel the need to be watching every second of every game. there are 162 of them for each team and they go on for 4 hours, okay? give him a break.

dear god, I don't even know exactly where Pheris fits in (once he's like. an adult.) but please take a moment to scroll through this page of commonly tracked baseball statistics and appreciate how much Pheris would lose his mind over this game

WAIT no I've got it, Relius becomes the scouting director for the Lilies and Pheris works with him. Moneyball.

the equivalent of the fighting the guards scene at the end of KoA is one day Eugenides is running a practice with the team and lets Laecdomon (one of the pitchers, doomed to be traded soon after) goad him into stepping in the batter's box. Laecdomon goes between strikes and balls that come VERY close to hitting him, including one that almost beans him in the head, but Eugenides manages to hit the ball even with his bad hand, fuckin' zooms around the bases while the team fumbles and commits multiple errors trying to stop him, and leaps over Teleus at home to score.

ok I spent an hour typing this up when I should have been sleeping lmao, but I have written two other baseball AUs for two other fandoms (as a contributing writer/brainstormer for one, tbf) and I am totally down to talk more about this concept if there are other QT baseball fans out there

#queen's thief

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supershadysideorthodontics · 5 years ago

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Braces for Adult in South Philadelphia

Clear Braces in South Philadelphia

#adult braces in Philadelphia #Affordable braces in South Philadelphia #Clear braces in South Philadelphia #affordable braces Philadelphia

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years ago

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @bookandband @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

#but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #but you can never leave #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #queen fic #queen fanfic #queen fanfiction

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frazzledsoul · 4 years ago

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Thanks for tagging me @dollsome-does-tumblr even though I haven't written fic in a gazillion years.

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favourite opening line. Then tag 10 authors!

The first thing that hit Rory Gilmore when she woke up was an overwhelming sense of vertigo.

The migraine was encroaching on the borders of her skull soon followed.

Where was she?

(The Morning After, Gilmore Girls, post series, Rory/Jess, or what happens when two not-quite-stepcousins hook up and everyone in Stars Hollow debates whether they should be encouraging this or not)

The first time they tried a real relationship again, it was a disaster.

He hadn't seen or talked to her for five years. Part of him regretted that a little, but she did say no, and he knew he had to start fresh if he was going to make any sort of clean break from the family legacy that had claimed him long before he was born.

(The Dynastic Plan, Gilmore Girls, AYITL era, Rory/Logan, or Logan explains to us why he could not get his shit together with Rory during AYITL)

Luke first noticed that something was amiss when he picked April up from the airport.

It was the middle of spring and she was wearing a turtleneck, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. When he asked her about it, she shrugged and claimed she thought that Connecticut was having a late winter spell, which didn’t sound right to him at all.

(The Cactus Incident, Gilmore Girls, post-series, in which Luke learns about the avian misadventures of one of his offspring)

“This has gotten completely out of control.”

Lorelai glanced up at her husband from where she was sequestered at her usual table by the window, surrounded by her laptop, piles of eclipse glasses in various colors, assorted boxes and tubes sprinkled in glitter and confetti, and a pile of streamers that had half fallen to the floor.

“This is a major celestial event, Luke”, Lorelai insisted. “A once in a lifetime opportunity to escape the daily drudgery of life to celebrate standing in the middle of the street for two hours and looking at the sky while we are treated to the spectacle of the universe pretending to usher in the doomsday a way too significant portion of the population are eagerly anticipating at any given moment –“

Luke put up his hand. “I get it.”

(A Convergence of Fancies, Gilmore Girls, Rory/Jess overtones I guess, post-AYITL, or Stars Hollow celebrates the 2017 solar eclipse, Rory is a sleep deprived new mom, and Lorelai is concerned because her family is watching too much Game of Thrones, aka the most chaotic thing I have ever written and I'm sorry)

Richard Lucas Gilmore’s second Independence Day celebration was turning out to be a lot better than his first.

For one thing, he was actually awake for it.

Rory’s pregnancy had stretched a week and a half past its original due date, leading to the delivery of her squalling bundle of joy on a humid June morning after fifteen hours of labor.

(Independence, Gilmore Girls, post-AYITL, in which Luke and Lorelai celebrate Independence Day with their combined offspring and toddler grandson and Lorelai confronts her impending empty nest syndrome)

Lorelai had thought that sending Rory off into the adult world would make her feel like her heart was being ripped out of her chest.

She had been dreading it for days, weeks, maybe even years. Despite what everyone had told her when she was a newly knocked-up teenager, she still felt that those first eighteen years raising Rory as she grew up herself had been the easy part.

(Full Circle, Gilmore Girls, post-series, in which Lorelai and Rory go through the same major milestones at the same time)

The fall of 2017 was turning out to be quite a revelation for Lorelai Gilmore-Danes.

She had never loved fall quite as much as she loved winter. Sure, there was the crispness wrought by the change of seasons and the concurrent excuse to shop for brightly colored sweaters and boots.

(The Grandparents, Gilmore Girls, Luke/Lorelai, post-AYITL, or Rory's love triangle and parenting woes as seen through Luke and Lorelai's eyes)

Few enterprises seemed to be designed with a specific target in mind quite as much as Facebook was for Lorelai Gilmore.

It caught her a little by surprise. Sure, she knew the basics of using a computer to run her business and control her finances. She could be disciplined and organized when she absolutely needed to be, and there was little use in clinging to outdated technology.

(Boundaries, Gilmore Girls, Luke/Lorelai, post-AYITL, or Luke and Lorelai try to rebuild their relationship and are very angsty about it)

Luke and Lorelai's third Valentines Day as a married couple started in the usual way.

It was usually their tradition to spend the holiday at home, but this year they had departed for Luke's cabin on the lake to spend a few days by themselves before the rest of the family joined them on Sunday. It was a beloved, time-honored tradition between the two of them to devote this day to each other to celebrate with their own brand of fanfare. Their adult children knew to stay very far away from them during this time.

(A Season of Peace, Luke/Lorelai and Rory/Logan, post-AYITL, in which Luke and Lorelai spend a weekend in the snow with their brood and we get an update on the younger generations's relationship statuses)

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm pregnant."

She turned to face me. Gap-mouthed. Shocked. Disappointed. Humiliated.

This was not how I planned to share this news.

(A Simple Twist of Fate, Gilmore Girls, AU but fairly canon adjacent, in which Jess is Rory's baby daddy and Rory discovers that he has not exactly been solely pining for her in the years they were apart)

Jess didn't exactly intend to introduce his daughter to professional sports in this manner.

For the most part, he and Rory weren't quite the stereotypical thirtysomething hipster couple that they sometimes appeared to be. Sure, Rory was still occasionally breast-feeding after seven and a half months, and you could find quinoa and kimchi in their fridge stocked next to the baby food and hoagies.

(Home, post-AYITL, Rory/Jess, a "fast forward" of ASTOF in which Rory and Jess raise their daughter in Philadelphia and try to avoid admitting that they are no longer hip)

Lorelai Gilmore's journey to becoming an active participant in Stars Hollow town life was a bumpy one.

She stepped off of the bus in Stars Hollow a few months after her eighteenth birthday, freshly divorced and clutching her almost two-year-old daughter by the hand, determined to talk herself into whatever opportunity presented itself to her. She wasn't able to work on her charms on Taylor Doose at the grocery store, or Fran Weston at the bakery, but William Danes at the hardware store gave her directions to the inn at the outskirts of town and an offer to work the counter at his store if things didn't work out.

(Beginnings, Gilmore Girls, pre-series/AU, Luke/Lorelai, in which Lorelai and Luke's parenting situations are reversed: she and Christopher are divorced and he is involved in Rory's life but Luke is raising April by himself after Anna flaked out, and they start to bond)

Lorelai Gilmore Danes didn't expect to have empty nest syndrome hit her quite like this.

She'd spent much of her adult life – even long before she was technically an adult – tethered to Rory's side and not regretting a second of it. Then Rory was grown up and off exploring the world, and she was settled down with Luke in their unconventional but happily domestic manner.

(Glimpses Through the Looking Glass, Gilmore Girls, drabble series that goes all over the place based on #NationalFillInTheBlankDay)

Ted and Robin's seemingly long-awaited reconciliation lasted just short of six months.

Five months, three weeks, and two days, to be exact. Not that anyone was counting, least of all Robin.

(Making It Easy, How I Met Your Mother, Barney/Robin, post-series, in which Robin figures out that dating a widowed Ted is actually a very bad idea)

In the end, it was decided that the best way to resolve the battle for the Iron Throne was to dissolve it completely.

It had been a savage war, far more savage than any of its players had fought up to this point. Euron and Cersei were dead.

(The Calm, Game of Thrones, post-series but written halfway through season 8 so it doesn't include any of the stuff that people hate, in which I come up with a solution to the Jonerys dilemma that no one liked but it was still better than canon)

Summer finally bloomed beyond the wall five years after Jon Snow had crossed it for the last time.

Sometimes it seemed to him that everything before those five years was nothing more than a half-remembered dream. He had braced for his departure for the wall half-hopeful: at least this grand march towards kingship, the burden of unwanted responsibilities, the dread in his chest as he wondered if he would survive to the end of the latest war was over.

(After, Game of Thrones, post-series, Jon/Tormund, or in which Jon Snow is living happily ever after beyond the wall with his ginger, his dog, and a family of his own because I am in charge and I say so)

“You’re still shit at that, you know,” Tormund whispered in Jon’s ear.

Magritte snickered from the other corner of the main room of their cabin where she was roughhousing with Ghost. Alsi sighed beside her, picking up her bow from where it was lying beside her and inspecting it for flaws.

(The Line, Game of Thrones, post-series, Jon/Tormund, in which Jon is still living happily ever after but takes his family to visit Queen Sansa)

The images solidified in Jaime’s mind as he made his way through the streets.

Charred skeletons. Screaming children. Rampaging soldiers. Blood. Smoke. Mangled limbs. Chaos. He couldn’t keep any of it straight.

(The Lion and the Snow - Snapshots, Game of Thrones, AU, Jaime/Brienne, in which Jon is King, Jaime is the Hand Without A Hand, Brienne is the Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, they are all disasters, and I am not telling this story in order)

Tormund didn’t intend to get seriously involved with anyone when he moved to King’s Landing.

It had been a rough couple of years. Hell, the entire last decade had been its own special blend of unexpected pleasure and slow, turgid, relentless episodes of confusion and pain. That was adulthood, he supposed. Always one damn thing after another.

(The Dragon Heist, Game of Thrones, modern AU, in which single dad Tormund - Brienne is his baby mama - falls in love with art student Jon Snow and there are lots of coparenting shenanigans)

Patterns: Gee, I like to start these stories off with long, complicated explanations of everyone's relationship status.

Favorites: I guess that would be starting off The Morning After with Rory half-horrified at what she has gotten into. I also like dropping right in on Jonmund domesticity in The Line.

Tagging: @fineosaur, @seethemflying, @aliveanddrunkonsunlight, @janiedean, @angel-deux-writes, @littlerockerao3, @istaricelebelasse, @tormundjonthings, @sdwolfpup, and anyone else who feels like it (apologies if y'all have already been tagged)

#mine #fanfiction #thinking about writing again for the first time in ages

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galadrieljones · 5 years ago

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The Lily Farm - Chapter 48

AO3 | Masterpost

Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth

Rating: M (Mature) - sexual content, violence, and adult themes

Summary: After Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. What takes place at first is a simple love story: full of trials and journeys that they must endure together, as a team. But over time, things complicate. The gang is in trouble, and as Arthur and Mary Beth aim to set out on their own one day, they must find a way to help those they love while eventually, finding escape. Their ultimate goal is to go north with the Marstons, to find the bucolic stretches of Wisconsin where, rumor has it, there are lily farms. Will they make it? How will they survive when all hope seems lost? This is their story.

Chapter 48: Wayward Sons and Wayward Daughters

“Arthur?” said Mary Beth, handing him the binoculars. “What the hell is all them lawmen doing down there?”

Arthur was flattened out on the chilly top of a hill, Mary Beth by his side, just the two of them, dressed warm, breathing the crisp air. The snow was finally starting to fall. It had held off all night, but the sky looked heavy as hell now. Charlotte hung back, unsure of what was going on. She had gathered some red winter berries into a basket, which she would use for their juices, to dye a new pair of gloves.

“I ain’t rightly sure, Mary Beth,” said Arthur. He spotted a dozen of them, moving about the town in parasitic pairs, asking questions. “They ain’t Pinkertons though. That’s for sure.”

“What the hell are they?” she said. “Can’t all be with the sheriff. I doubt they got more than two deputies in this dump.”

“They’re federal prison guards.” He gave her a look, closed his eyes and took a mighty breath. “A couple of county guys, too. From all over. Goddammit.”

“How can you tell they’re prison guards?”

“It says Sisika Penitentiary, right there, on their arm badges. If you look real close, you can see.”

“Shit,” said Mary Beth, looking through the binoculars again. She was bundled up in her red coat with a hood. Her hair was floofed forward and getting in her eyes. Arthur pushed it away for her. She thanked him, bit off a hangnail. Then she said, “You think it’s to do with John?”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur. He took back the binoculars, stuffed them in his satchel. Then he helped her to her feet. “But I do know I can’t go down there. Not today, and neither can you. I got no idea if they got the drop on us. I ain’t seen no wanted posters, but who knows.”

“Wanted posters?” said Charlotte. She was coming up the hill with her basket, wearing her lovely shawl with a paisley embroidery. She was a sight to see, looking like a figure from a snow globe. “What do you mean, wanted posters?”

“Oh,” said Mary Beth. She looked at Arthur, a little exasperated. He shrugged. He was not wearing his hat, and the snow was catching in his eyebrows. Mary Beth went to Charlotte and said, “It really ain’t what you think.”

“What do you think I think?”

“I don’t know,” said Mary Beth. “That were murderers?”

Arthur sighed. “Jesus Christ, Mary Beth.”

“What?”

“I don’t think your murderers,” said Charlotte, taking one little step forward in her leather boots. “I mean, you couldn’t be. Could you?”

Arthur took a deep breath and hung his head. “We ain’t wanted for…murdering,” he said. “Not exactly.” Then he looked right at her, squared up. “But we are on the run, Charlotte. Me and Mary Beth. No use lying by omission no more. It's how we ended up out here in the first place.”

“On the run?”

“We’re outlaws,” said Mary Beth. “But we’re trying to get out, to escape, and start over.” She placed one hand on her sloped belly. “It ain’t easy.”

Charlotte was looking at them now like they were both crazy. Not in fear, just like she had no idea what the hell they were talking about. “You’re…outlaws?” she said. “Like stagecoach robbers?”

Arthur smiled and tried not to look too strained. She knew very little, which was a good thing. “Stagecoach robbing is somewhat old fashioned,” he said. “But yes. Trains, stagecoaches, banks. You name it, I've robbed it. But not Mary Beth. She don’t do that. And I don’t do those things no more.”

“I only rob rich men, not stagecoaches,” Mary Beth said, like she was real proud of herself. But then Arthur gave her a look and she remembered who she was talking to and corrected herself. “I mean—rich men who got it coming. I pickpocket, mostly. But like Arthur said. Not no more.”

“We don’t hurt innocent people,” reassured Arthur. “Okay? That’s rule number one. I promise, you’re safe with us.”

Charlotte stood a little frozen, with her mouth open. The snowflakes had picked up between them. The air wasn’t too cold, so they were big and fat. “All right,” she said, eventually, like she wasn’t sure what else she could say. “I mean, thank you for telling me the truth. I trust you.”

“You do?” said Mary Beth.

“You’ve helped me for two weeks,” she said. “You’ve been nothing but generous and kind. You’ve asked for nothing in return. I have to no reason not to trust you.”

“Good,” said Arthur. He patted her on the shoulder. This seemed to comfort her. “That’s real good.”

“What is it that you need to get in Annesburg?” she said. She took another step forward, this one more certain than the last. She stood on her tip-toes to assess what was going on down there, from the ridge line.

“We need to check the mail,” said Arthur. “We are expecting important correspondence from friends and have been for some time. And I was gonna grab a few supplies. Some salt, maybe. Coffee. Ammunition.”

“That’s it?” said Charlotte.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looked around, holding to her basket. She then tightened the shawl around her shoulders and said, with confidence, “I’ll do it.”

“You will?” said Mary Beth.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s the least I can do. What name should I ask about at the post office? Arthur Morgan, or is there an alias?”

Arthur was a little surprised by her astuteness in the situation. “Ask for Arthur Callahan," he said.

“Sure thing,” said Charlotte. She handed Mary Beth the basket and proceeded to mount her horse. “I’ll be right back.”

“Are you sure?” said Arthur. “You don’t have to do this.”

Charlotte smiled, pulled on the reins. “Absolutely,” she said. “Do you want ammunition for just your rifle, or are there other kinds?”

“Uh,” said Arthur. He thought fast, took a page out of his journal, and scribbled up a little list for her. He handed it up. “There you go.”

She scanned it, nodded, and folded it into her dress pocket.

“We’ll keep watch on you,” said Mary Beth. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

She trotted her filly back toward the path, down the ridge.

“That went…unexpectedly,” said Arthur, putting his arm around Mary Beth as they watched Charlotte go.

“You’re telling me.”

Once she got down to the snowy town, Charlotte rode up to a hitching post outside the store. She tied up her old girl and dismounted, her scarf tied tightly around her hair, and the shawl delicately tied around her shoulders. Her clothing was, perhaps, too fine for this place. She felt she stuck out. But as long as she kept her eyes straight forward and her mouth in a low smile, she did not seem to catch anyone’s eye.

She went to the store first to buy the supplies for Arthur. It was not well-stocked, but they had everything she needed. She also bought a tin of chocolate for Mary Beth. She thought it would be a nice surprise, and a treat. She had never been pregnant, but she had known women who were, and they all seemed to like chocolate a great deal. After she left the store, she crossed the street to the post office, which was in the same building as the train station. She went up to the man and said, “Hello, sir. I need to check my mail.”

“Name?” said the clerk. He did not even look up from his paper.

“Arthur Callahan.”

This piqued his interest. He gave her a funny sort of look. He was smoking a cigarette.

“Arthur is my brother,” she corrected. “He hurt his back, in the mine. I’m—well, I’m in town, helping out. Until he’s better.”

This softened the man right away. Like all she needed was to say something, anything, and be her indelible self. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

He closed his newspaper and turned around. He was wearing white gloves. He checked many compartments, lined up in a big grid. After a moment or two, he turned around, holding an envelope. “You’re in luck,” he said. He handed it to her.

She took the letter, pleasantly surprised, and tucked it into her pocket with the list from before. “Thank you, good sir,” she said.

“You’re welcome, ma’am. I hope your brother’s condition improves directly.”

“Me, too,” she said, and she smiled. She lingered then. She had one more thing to do. “May I—may I post a letter as well?” she said.

“Of course. Where to?"

"Philadelphia."

"Postage is two cents.”

She paid the man and handed him the letter. As she let it go, she felt an enormous wave of nausea wash over her. It tipped her off balance, and she had to lean into the counter to catch herself.

“Ma’am?” said the clerk. He was kind, with blue eyes. “Ma'am, are you all right?”

“Oh,” she said. She placed one hand over her eyes to collect herself. “Yes. I’m sorry. Just a little hungry, I suppose. It’s been a lot of…work.”

“Well, take care of yourself now,” said the man. “You hear?”

She smiled softly. “Yes, I hear.”

She turned to go. Bracing, she took a deep breath in, and a long breath out. She felt proud of herself, in that moment. She felt proud, and she allowed it to be so. She was proud of her bravery and of her mission accomplished. She tried looking forward, not back. But when she got outside the door, the cold hit her like a sledge hammer. The letter she had posted, she had written several weeks before. It was for Cal's parents, and his sister. She broke down sobbing, but only for a moment. She pulled herself together quickly, wiped her cheeks on the back of her gloves, and faced forward.

A woman had followed her out the door. Charlotte thought nothing of it at first. She had not seen her while inside, was surprised to see her now, but that meant nothing. The woman wore a long, dark men’s overcoat, with the hood pulled up so that half her face appeared in shadow. She withdrew one of her hands from her pocket and held it out, as if in a peace offering. They could both see their breath out there on the lonely platform, beside the empty train tracks. “Excuse me,” said the strange woman. “Miss, may I talk to you?”

“Yes?” Charlotte, standing very still near the door.

“I think maybe you can help me,” said the woman. She had a deep, scratchy voice. Like she’d spent her whole life screaming.

“I don't see how."

“Did I just—hear me out, okay? Did I just hear you asking the clerk in there to check the mail for Arthur Callahan?”

Charlotte looked around. Her heart ceased up, then began to race. She thought she had been caught. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said. She placed her hand on the door handle, prepared to go back in. “Good day.”

“Wait,” said the woman. She held up both her hands, in surrender now. Then she took down her hood. She looked very worried and very tired. She was pretty, but she had a scar on her face that meant business. “I ain’t law. I promise.”

“Who are you?” said Charlotte.

The woman got closer. A man came out the door then, casually, into the cold. He was just your average joe miner, barrel-chested and balding, in a dirty duster with tails and a scarf. He nodded to the women chivalrously, went away across the train tracks with his hands in his pockets. The strange woman lowered her voice then, getting closer. “I am a friend,” she said. “A very close friend, of Arthur and Mary Beth.”

Charlotte blinked, several times.

The woman smiled. She nodded, in excitement. “Are you with them?”

Charlotte said nothing.

“Take me to them, please?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Please, trust me,” reasoned the woman. She held out her hand, for a shake. “My name is Sadie. Sadie Adler.”

Charlotte shook Sadie’s hand, with hesitance. “I’m Charlotte.”

“You been helping them, Charlotte?”

Charlotte felt suddenly plunged into some sort of underworld. It was mildly exciting, but she did not know how to act. She usually knew how to act, having been raised in a society of manners. But none of that did her much good now. “Not really,” she said. “They’ve actually been helping me. I am new to the area. I needed a bit of…introduction.”

“Yeah, that sounds like them,” said Sadie.

“If I take you to them, will that get the into trouble?” said Charlotte.

Sadie was offended, but like she was trying to see apples for apples. Charlotte was protective, and overly suspicious. Those were good traits where Sadie came from. “No, of course I ain’t gonna get them into trouble,” said Sadie. “I’m a friend. Didn’t I mention that?”

“You did,” said Charlotte. “I just—I told them I would do this favor for them. I didn’t expect to run into one of their friends. I’m simply calculating how to proceed.”

“Well they’re gonna be glad to see me,” said Sadie. “You rest assured, Miss Charlotte.”

“Are you wanted, too?”

Sadie pulled her hood up again. “Something like that,” she said.

Sadie did not have a horse. She had hiked down to the town from her hide-out, on reconnaissance. The two women walked side by side in the falling snow. Charlotte took her filly by the reins and together they just exited town together, no questions asked. In this way, it was easy to be a woman. Nobody suspected a damn thing.

When they got up the path to the ridge line, Charlotte could see that Arthur was very alarmed to see that she was not alone. He placed his hand on the pistol at his side. He didn’t seem to recognize the other woman, not at first, and for a moment, Charlotte thought she had made a grave mistake. Mary Beth had dozed off atop her horse, but Arthur shook her awake. She sat up, looking confused, and Arthur drew his gun and stepped in front of her.

“Wait,” said Charlotte. She set down the bag of coffee, salt, and bullets.

“Charlotte, who's this?” said Arthur.

“It's me." Sadie took a step forward. She put her hood back, the snow catching in her hair. She put her hands up, a sight for sore eyes. “Surprise, I guess.”

“Sadie?” said Mary Beth. She hopped down from the horse, rushed to her immediately, and took her into a massive embrace. It happened so fast, Sadie was taken for shock. Plus, Mary Beth was stronger than she looked. “Oh my god. It's you!”

“It’s good to see you, too, Mary Beth.”

“Mrs. Adler?” said Arthur. He holstered his gun, got to her in about two long strides. “What on god's earth are you doing here?"

"Here on business,” she said, blowing into her hands as she and Mary Beth parted their embrace. “The shady kind. Obviously.”

“Is all these lawmen on your tail?"

“Afraid so,” said Sadie. “I got John with me, too. Busted him out of Sisika not two days ago. He’s hid out in a cabin north of town.”

“How the hell did you pull that off?”

She smiled, kind of sly. “Your Texas Ranger buddies was a big help,” she said. “I’ll tell you all about it. Later. For now, the law is on our asses like green on grass. Running into Charlotte here couldn’t’ve been better timing.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Charlotte. She reached into her pocket, withdrew the note. “Here.” She handed it to Arthur. “There was actually a letter. For Arthur Callahan, just like you said.”

He drew perplexed. He took the envelope, and then he looked right at Sadie who seemed as surprised as he was. “This from Hosea?” he said.

“Not a clue,” said Sadie, shoving her hands in her pockets. “But maybe we could get indoors before we get to deciphering what comes next. I am freezing my ass off.”

“That is a good idea,” said Charlotte.

Arthur looked at Mary Beth. She was happy to see Sadie, but she did seem a little cold. Her nose was red. Arthur tucked the envelope in his satchel and said, “I agree."

“We can go back to my house,” said Charlotte. “There's plenty of room. Do we need to stop, and get your other friend. John, was it?”

They were all taken aback by Charlotte. Her calm commitment to the situation, which was uncanny in its immediacy, was a reassurance. Her cheeks were a little splotchy though, as if she had been crying. Still, Arthur and Mary Beth knew not to ask too much about that anymore, unless she offered. "Yes," said Arthur, nodding in agreement. "We need to pick up John."

Sadie rode Mary Beth's horse, while Mary Beth rode with Arthur. They followed a backwater trail north of town so as to avoid the main road. They ran into a cougar who'd got waylaid by the snow at one point. Arthur scared it off with a couple shots from his pistol. When they got to the shack Sadie knocked on the door in a premeditated fashion, as if they had established a secret code. The structure was well hidden, in a clump of pine trees, with about two inches of snow layered on the tin roof. It looked like an old hide-out, shiners. There was smoke coming out the chimney.

Then they heard John's voice. "Come on in."

When they got inside, Sadie went first. John did not look up right away. Mary Beth was disturbed by what she saw, by the smallness of the shack, and how cold it was inside, even as the fire blazed in the stove. John was sitting at a small kitchen table with a woolen blanket over his shoulders. He was a goddam bag of bones, she thought. She had never seen him so skinny, with sunken cheeks, and his hair chopped short, his beard grown long. He was staring at his knuckles, which looked like they had a lot of old bruises healing under new bruises. He had one battered eye, too. His leg was going under the table, wobbling a millions miles per hour. "You get the whiskey?" he said.

"I got a whole hell of a lot more than whiskey," said Sadie.

Finally, he looked up, to where they were all standing in the doorway. When he saw, he blinked, stood so fast that the chair tipped over onto its side. "Arthur?" he said. "Mary Beth?"

Mary Beth stood in paralysis as Arthur moved past her. He clasped John into his embrace.

John closed his eyes, as relief had finally found its way to the door. "Goddammit, brother," he said.

"You look like shit," said Arthur.

"I feel even worse," said John. "But Jesus Christ, it's good to see you."

Sadie went to the stove to put out the fire. As she did, Mary Beth stood in the doorway with Charlotte and realized how much time had gone by since the night on the riverboat, how it had seemed so slow, for so long. She and Arthur had been isolated in the romantic woods of the Roanoke Valley, ensconced in the privacy of nature, and distracted by their time with Charlotte, for months. But what must it have been like for John? Arthur had never done time in the federal pen. As far as she knew, none of those reprobates had, except for John, and John had done it on a lark to save their lives. As soon as he parted from Arthur, she rushed him and hugged him so hard, he bumped into the table. She could feel his ribs. It was terrible.

"Hey there," he said, laughing still as he got a good look at her. "You're looking good, Mary Beth. You look, uh." He glanced to Arthur, then he looked at her, dumbfounded. "You look pregnant."

She smiled. It was kind of a clumsy, boyish way to say it, but that was the point. It reminded her of home.

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #mary beth gaskill #arthur x mary beth #the lily farm #<3

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somekindofseizure · 5 years ago

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When the Ink Dries Part X

<Conclusion. Rated for adults. Thank you @icedteainthebag, @gazeatscully and all of you for your help and support over the years (wtf?!!) it took to finish this. Hope you enjoy.>

Chapter 26

Stella had been bracing herself to enter a courthouse with the two of them for three years, ever since Scully had delivered news of their engagement. Self-preparation for this had involved two phases. One: fuck all of London for about six weeks and two: settle into the rationalization that nothing would really change. Mulder and Scully were a couple before any sort of documentation, and they would be after. Stella had made peace with it, anticipating that they might spring the actual event on her any time, that every time she came to America, it might be the one. But that had not happened.Scully didn’t have a dress. No one spoke of dates and no one had given her the address to a courthouse...until today.

“Why don’t you sleep over,” Mulder stage-whispered, leaning in beside her. He smelled of whatever he’d been chewing on the car ride over - almonds? - no, seeds, those fucking confounded seeds. “You haven’t been to our new place. It has a guest bedroom.”

“Hotel is fine.”

He hesitated, hovered over her shoulder in a particular way that men generally did not have the temerity to do. Luckily she liked him more than other men, still liked him, even if he was poised to marry the only person for whom she’d ever considered unravelling the tightly wound spool of her existence. Thankfully, circumstances had not allowed her to make such a mistake. She reminded herself to be thankful often. Forcefully.

“Why?” he pressed. He was eager to keep her close, Stella knew. On her better days she believed it was because he cared for her, was her friend. It was also possible he only wanted to be forgiven for winning. Most days, when she was feeling her cheerfully doubtful self, it struck her as strategic. One distances one’s wife’s female friends at one’s own peril, particularly if said wife has had sex with said female friend.

“I’m not sleeping in your guest bedroom,” she declared in the hushed voice required of their environment.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not your great aunt,” Stella said, her eyes firmly rooted on the hulking shoulders of the man in front of her in the light grey prison uniform. Mulder righted himself beside her, took a sharp inhale. The air was stiff and stale in the room, tasted of chalk. This must be as frustrating for him as it was for her - watching Scully testify on Jerse’s behalf twenty some-odd years after she’d helped put him in jail. Only fair that Mulder was distracting himself with matters of guest bedrooms.

Ed was taller than Stella remembered. Also, less nimble, the kind of man who might lose his balance trying to kill a mosquito rather than someone who had escaped notice as he escorted human beings to their unwanted cremations. His tattoos had multiplied over the years behind bars - all the faces of girls, and each one turned out to be meaner than the last. Stella and Mulder had both taken turns judging Scully as she made phone calls over the years to keep him out of or remove him from solitary confinement. But even her (arguably inappropriate) kindness had not spared him. Time had passed for all of them, but it had passed hardest for Ed. A courtroom was a very good argument for the health benefits of freedom.

Funny that Stella had always assumed they’d get married in a court and not a church. Scully was Catholic, after all, but somehow she’d always pictured herself in a skirt-suit set and a plasticky smile watching an uncomfortable hour-plus of Mulder pawing gently at Scully as she stood steel-eyed and stiff-jawed before a government clerk, her favorite skeptic allowing an indulgence of incalculable faith. It was enough of a stretch without bringing God into it, maybe.

She had kept her negativity about marriage to herself, had made a concerted effort not to spoil things. It would be unseemly considering. But she had tried to talk Scully out of this, and Mulder had tried too. But Scully was adamant right up until last night’s spaghetti carbonara; there was an uncommon amount of swearing, flame-freckled seething, tossed crumpled napkins and waiters trying not to look.

They’d relented - what else could they do? He was her potential murderer, after all, not theirs, and one supposed she was entitled to a certain amount of possessiveness on that account. Many was the sleepless night that Stella had spent cursing the people who had interfered with her plans for Paul Spector.

The worst part of hearing about the engagement had not been the news itself but the manner in which it was delivered. Scully’s lowered volume, the gentle lovers’ cadence, lips pressed against the mouthpiece, two hands surely cupping the phone. The worry, the consideration, the sizzling quiet on the other end of the line as Stella rustled up a response she thought she might be able to live with forever. The grand poetry of it all, the drama and Scully’s quietly feverish attempts to mitigate it.

Scully, neatly trimmed in burgundy, hair just so, shifted at the small cafeteria-style table where she sat with the other testifiers. As someone else stood to speak, Stella saw Scully clasp her hands in loose prayer, gaze resting on her fingernails. She had not turned to look at them since it had begun. Perhaps she was thinking of the first time she met him, trying to reincarnate the moment when she knew him only as an innocent entity. A memory that had been discounted by such drastic measures lived on uncomfortably, vividly, a spider pinned alive and preserved under glass.

And what about the day Stella had met him? He’d impressed himself upon her almost by accident. It had been a lark, something to get her out of England and keep her busy, but had turned into something she would never forget, scenes in a movie that only later seemed significant. The heavy stench of fear-twinged anger, the impressive composure of the beautiful ginger-faced detective, the nearly imperceptible twitching of her fingers at the table, the lanky male counterpart’s eventual leap at the killer’s throat. Stella had felt safe and separate from them all, even the killer; she’d ridden the experience like a seasoned surfer, keeping an eye on the two young kids desperately paddling in the frothy tension beside her. That is how she used to do things before Paul Spector had gotten under her skin. Or maybe it was how she used to do things before Dana Scully had. Sometimes, Stella was unsure which had been the bigger danger.

Stella glanced down at the skin of her bare knees and thought maybe she had unravelled a bit over the years after all.

Jerse appeared to be watching the speaker, but with a slight tilt of the head, Stella could see that he was focused on Scully. The others were guards, cafeteria workers, psychologists - but Scully was something else, someone he’d had feelings for, someone who had known him as good before evil. Mulder must have caught the look in his eye as well, for beside Stella, he gave an angry swallow, widened his legs in macho (and pointless) provocation. Stella knew that Mulder’s concern about today was the physical threat of Ed - what he might do if he were out, how his fixation with Scully might manifest into an act of violence or possessiveness. But Scully could handle her own safety well enough. Stella worried instead about the subtler effects - the nightmares, the guilt she might experience wondering who he was luring in the dusty pick-up joints of Philadelphia. Things you could not fix with a lock and key or a sidearm.

But when Scully stood and spoke, it seemed she was not worried about any of these things. Her voice was steadfast and clinical, though it carried a heartfelt quality that unsettled Stella to her core. Stella had heard the rundown of events before - years ago, when she’d asked as a matter of professionally curiosity and Scully had answered as a matter of courtesy. But now Scully spoke of the invitation to dinner and the subsequent date with a matter-of-fact tenderness. The way he seemed before “the voices” had interfered, her belief in an underlying true nature beneath his mental illness. She had been sparing Mulder the nuances back then. Stella had been just an acquaintance. But inadvertently, she’d spared Stella too. For all these years, Stella had not had to look at the inky snake on Scully’s back and think: she liked him. She’d been spared the pain of identifying with how that must have felt. To have been so wrong about someone.

Scully finished without flourish, smoothed the wool skirt at the hips with two hands and sat - still not looking back at them, seemingly alone in her moment, and perhaps rightly so, for this was her unsupported decision. Stella felt vaguely hypocritical for even attending, but then not attending had seemed wronger.

Snippets of Ed’s report cards were read aloud, brief and modestly generous endorsements he’d received over the course of the years. Mistakes here and there, but a generally cooperative nature, etcetera - no compliment as persuasive as Scully’s sincerity. They were going to let him go - Stella could feel it the way she could sense a confession coming or intuited a multiple murderer’s next attack before he actually crept up someone’s back flight of steps.

Mulder’s hand startled her as it descended heavily atop her own and quieted her wriggling thumbs. The weight of him in the lap of her skirt made the mucous in her throat thicken - was he holding her hand or asking for his to be held? He tightened his sweaty fingers around hers. There was no reason to cry. This was not her moment. Not her murderer and not her fiancé. She was in the role she’d always found most comfortable - observer. Someone to put in the guest room.

When it was over, Scully stood, looked at the floor and moved toward them like a funeral attendant in the aftermath of an Irish wake - sad, but relieved - attending to the memory of something she’d long past buried.

“That tattoo hurt at all?” he asks with a dipped clefted chin and a gleam in his eye that reminds her of her little performance in the shop. Scully is not even sure why it happened – the booze or the slow burn of the needle or the way he looked at her. It makes her look away for a second now in shyness - the fact that he’s already seen that face she makes. But she did not call him up earlier to be shy. She did not sit in a dirty dive all night with a handsome stranger all night to be shy. She did not break skin, make permanent marks she might later regret to be shy. She is too quickly running out of time to be shy.

She steals glances at him standing there across the room with his flop of dark sailor’s hair and suggestive sailor’s tattoo and she stammers through something about feeling different. This is true but she doesn’t mean the heavy handed flashart on her lower back. She supposes she might feel strange the next time she’s at the beach with her mother. Supposes, the next time, really, anyone looks there, she’ll probably have to laugh. But nobody ever looks there. And that’s why she’s here. She’s responsible. She’s a woman of faith. But she’s human, she’s mortal, she knows that more now than ever, even before the doctor’s appointment, and tonight she wants to act like it. That is what feels different.

He looms over her as he lifts the back of her shirt to peek and she actually believes he just wants a peek. He’s enormous by comparison, a monument to masculine threat. He could crush her. He will try to crush her. But she doesn’t know that now. Has no way of knowing that now as he traces the outline of the snake with his finger and tells her it looks all right. It actually seems like too much of a cliché to fear someone who looks like him, like flinching when you walk down the street past a Doberman. Every cop knows the scrawny ones can be meaner.

She likes him, has liked him from the moment he spoke to her. She considers herself a good judge of character and she feels in her soul that he is good, but she’s not looking for a soul mate. She’s in the mood for someone who’ll look at her like she’s a problem, not their problem-solver. Someone who’s not just handing her instructions and checking in. He is not a slap in the face to Mulder. He’s just not Mulder.

He doesn’t leer and he doesn’t suggest. He offers to take couches and asks her if things hurt. He’s aware of his own strength even as he displays it. It may be that none of this counts at St. Peter’s gate, but it will count for something when she’s letting a man a full foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier fuck her standing up. It will count when he tries to kill her too, but she has no way of knowing that’s what fate – God? No, not God, that’s not the God she believes in – has in store.

If she were going to stop him, she would’ve stopped him by now. But instead, she’s telling him she’s a doctor and nothing turns her on like telling people she’s a doctor. Instead, he’s holding her wrist firmly in the dance partner position, looking down at her like he doesn’t care about his bleeding infected arm as long as he’s got her. She has wanted to be needed in this way, has been wanting someone who will trade in their other obsessions for five feet two inches and a few hours of her, and she’s been ashamed of that desire. Then such a person appeared, offered himself up and she’s accepting. She feels compelled on behalf of her mortality. Funny - it’s the very thing he’ll turn out to be after.

It’s a quick rundown of events, some of which she’ll be forced to mention later to law enforcement or doctors or both. She’ll glare and ask them what that has to do with anything as they jot down her perfunctory details. There are some she doesn’t give. That she reaches for the hem of her shirt two seconds into the kiss, feels his tongue touch her nose when she sloppily backs away to get it over her head. That he unbuttons her pants as she runs her hands over his chest and his stomach, makes shapes across it with her mouth. They look for cause and effect, these medical doctors and detectives - she knows because it’s how she normally thinks too. But the system is working in reverse. The moment his hands graze her ass over her underwear – simple briefs, work underwear, investigate-the-Russian-mobster-underwear – is when she realizes she’s wet. The moment she drops his pants and puts her hand over his erection is the moment she hopes she’s wet enough. Effect is what she notices first.

It’s been a very long time. This might hurt a bit, she tells herself, and gets wetter.

He takes out the condom of his own will but she insists on being the one to put it on him, stares, buying time, as she rolls it down his shaft. It could stop here, she thinks. She could still wake up tomorrow not feeling a bit of regret or the urge to confess, still go into work and not duck from Mulder’s gaze, but it doesn’t occur to her that she could still avoid waking up concussed in a hospital, and that ought to be a fair oversight.

She brushes the infected pinupped bicep by accident, but when she does so, an evil little smile appears on his lips. Blood as permanent as ink itself smears beneath her hand and there is something beautiful about it or something perverse, something she doesn’t take the time to put her finger on because he’s a very good kisser and he can span the entire width and length of her torso with two spread hands, and now he is lifting her with those hands, tossing her up like a lost princess, starting to carry her toward the bedroom. Just think - Dana Scully, a princess.

“No, here,” she says and so he backs her into the wall as she squeezes her thighs around his thick body. He shows her with various little touches that he’s willing to take this step by step, but if he does, she’ll lose the nerve, and if she loses the nerve, she knows how she’ll wake up feeling nothing tomorrow morning, because that is how she has woken up many mornings, and she doesn’t think at the time that it might even be worse than waking up in the hospital. “Fuck me here.”

And then he gets a look in his eye that makes her not care whether there is a tomorrow, not that she has reason to wonder (no cancer moves that fast, has that glib a sense of timing). It’s a look that says he’s going to ravish her, take her and at the same time sacrifice himself. It is the look that will haunt her when she’s bandaged and stitched, when she hears of him going to prison, when Mulder makes his stupid, insensitive quips about ass tattoos.

He fucks her with her bra clasp digging into the wall, her underwear pushed to the side, his upper body curled over her like a cobra as he tries to kiss her neck and stay inside her at once. She lodges her fingernails in the plates of his back lest he drop her, listens to the sound he makes as they penetrate his skin, feels his dick go so high inside her that she’s sure despite all knowledge of anatomy that he’s occluding the base of her throat.

For the moment, with his cock stiff and wholly inside her, she is the threat, the overpowerer. He’s awed by it, grateful for it, and - she’s sure - fearful of it.

“You can do whatever you want,” she orders, “I want you to.” She hears but barely feels her shoulder blades bruise the wall, any remaining sense she has left sliding out her ears onto the paint job. He holds her waist very still to the wall as he thrusts upward into her and she tilts her head toward the heavens to moan. Her eyes burn and her hips ache and she will laugh in a few minutes when he holds her sweetly and still offers to sleep on the couch after giving her a pounding like none she has experienced.

“Come for me, Dana,” he begs and she clutches at his hair, presses her open mouth to his jaw, uses her tongue to try to reach him when she’s not using it to swear, digs her heels into his backside for leverage, consistently pressing the full weight of his hips into her body and she lets herself slide into the deepest, slickest, hardest home plate she’s ever come across. Or at least that she can remember coming across. It has been a very long time. As of tomorrow morning, that won’t be true, but then a lot of things won’t be true anymore.

He’s looking at her like she’s the only thing that can save him but the reason she is doing it is to save herself.

The decor was sleek and dripped in silver grey, an unslept-in bed at hip height. There was a photograph of a naked woman in a carnival mask on the wall opposite, the figure’s seductive pout leering over the edge of a dressing-room-style vanity mirror. The room looked like it belonged in another home - a distinct departure from the oaky, slightly inexplicably Asian-influenced-Americana couple-who-hikes aesthetic of the rest of the townhouse. Sleek and sexy and cool. Nobody’s great aunt would have slept there.

“Hope this is all right,” Scully said behind her, leaning against the doorjamb with pantyhosed feet piled one on top of the other.

“Fine, more than fine.”

“Thank you for staying.”

Mulder’s sports announcers prattled on in the master bedroom down the hall. The bedroom Scully should be in, would be in by the end of the night.

“I wanted you to be close tonight,” Scully said, punctuating the statement with the kind of breathy chuckle that stood for self-criticism. The days of their holing up in hotels with platonic devotion for a weekend were long gone. Now, Stella stayed in those places alone and Scully visited for dinner or shopping - a pair of regular friends. Scully no longer came to London - Stella’s request - and she did not generally make admissions, however innocently voiced, of wanting her close.

Stella spotted a bronze-brown silk robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door.

“Pour moi?”

Scully smiled, nodded and Stella grabbed it, turned her back to Scully as she exchanged her clothes for the robe with as much modesty as she could. There was a brass-edged glass bar cart in the corner, fully stocked with red wine and whiskey - the place was a veritable theme park in her honor. Stella resisted the urge to tease and instead took advantage, tweaked two glasses in one hand, opened a bottle of Macallan’s and poured. Anyway, there was no way to know if the room had been decorated for her because it was meant to court her visit or because there was no one else’s visit to court. They were solitary people, all three of them. It was part of the reason they had held onto each other the way they had.

Scully stepped fully into the room for the first time, rolling from heels to toes like a soft-footed doll in stockinged feet.

“Sentiment get to you?” Stella inquired as her drink pooled, syrupy, in the bottom of the lightly dust-coated glasses. She lightened her tone to a mild taunt in order to refract any impression of flirtation. “Whenever we visit Ed Jerse together we sleep under the same roof?”

“Something like that,” Scully murmured, untouched by the sarcasm. She had known Stella too long, had developed an immunity to it. Sometimes people could say they meant nothing by their sarcasm; with Stella, something was always meant and yet one had to be able to take it in stride. It was not one of her best tendencies but she had never been able to control it.

She handed Scully a glass sympathetically, gestured for her to sit on the bed. Stella sipped and Scully gulped...

“You all right?”

Scully’s eyes began to water. She looked at the ceiling, preemptively tightened the skin near her eyes with her fingers. Stella came and sat beside her.

“Do you think it’s wrong, what I did today?” Scully asked.

“You know I don’t see the world that way.”

“But do you feel like…”

“You’ve a good heart, that’s all.”

“I remember when you first told me I was good, do you?”

“Not really.”

She’d always thought it. It was rare for her. Usually she suspected people of things, even when she liked them. Scully stared at her, chewed her lip until it was practically blue.

It would pass. It would pass. It would pass. They had more practice letting it pass than anything else. But this time, it didn’t.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Stella said finally and she meant it.

“You don’t really want me to marry him.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you marry him.”

“You don’t care if it means you’ll lose me forever.”

“What do you want from me, Dana.”

She’d said it quickly, not meaning to, was immediately angry with herself for doing so. But Scully’s shoulders softened, some long-suffering secret released.

“You sent me back here for my own good, didn’t you? Because you knew about William. Not because you wanted me to go. I need to know.”

That was three years ago and in that time Stella had gotten the hang of her being gone. This was no time to undo that, not with an engagement pending.

“I sent you back because I couldn’t do it anymore,” she said methodically.

“You couldn’t do it every minute of every day-”

“No - not with anyone-”

“But you could do it sometimes.”

“What does that matter?” Stella said, her voice rising into the tight part of her throat like a trapped scream. Fighting with Scully was like fighting with a teenager sometimes - ridiculous and yet impossible to come out on top. Stella always had the urge to tell her not now, you’re tired, you’re emotional, and yet, there was always a devastating honesty to Scully’s behavior when she was being influenced by such feelings. “You want something constant, that is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed. But it doesn’t mean I need everything to be constant.”

Stella’s head ached - she shook it, rubbing her temples, sipped her whiskey.

“I don’t even know what we’re talking about,” she said, sorry that she’d come here.

“I’ll stop,” Scully said. “It’s been a long day.”

Stella drank. Yes, a long day. Scully was tired, emotional, deserved a pass.

“Can I lie down?” Scully asked.

“It’s your house.”

“It’s your room,” Scully said and Stella couldn’t help but smile a little.

She let the Scotch burn the back of her throat a bit as Scully scooted back on the bed, dropped herself into the center of a stack of white linen pillows, put her buttoned-up wrists by her ears.

Stella lay on her back until the remainder of her anger dissipated into the plume of Scully’s perfume. Stella pictured Scully dressing, powdering this morning, pretending to herself it was like any other day. She turned onto her side, placed her hand carefully in the center of Scully’s sternum, carefully avoiding the structured brassiere swell on either side. A warm heartbeat patted at her palm.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable in these clothes?” she asked.

“Deeply.”

“Want to go change?”

Scully shook her head no.

“May I?” Stella asked as her hand drifted button by button down the front of Scully’s shirt. “I won’t touch you, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Scully said.

Stella half-smiled, flicked the front clasp of the bra, dragged the side zipper down Scully’s hip and finally rested her hand dutifully on the comforter next to Scully’s still wool-crepe skirted, nyloned thigh.

“I’m still deeply uncomfortable,” Scully said, face turning toward her, the malted, woodsy scent of alcohol drifting on the air between them. A forest, an orchestra pit full of string instruments, hollow and waxed and just removed from velvet cases. “I am actually more deeply uncomfortable than before.”

“Sorry.”

Stella held her breath, her nipples hardening against the silk of the borrowed robe as Scully licked her lips at her, breathed with her whole body so that her open blouse slipped from her chest to her sides.

“Want to kiss me?” Scully asked.

Goddamit.

“He’s down the hall.”

But she was salivating, tasting Scully, the memory of her. It had been years. Scully slithered out of her clothes, shedding them like snakeskin, looking new as she lay back down on the pillow.

“I dare you,” Scully whispered.

Stella brusquely threw a knee over Scully’s opposite hip, straddling her as the golden robe slipped its knot. She shook it down off her shoulders, let it fall to her thighs. Her chest rose, naked and weighted by her heart as she dipped forward toward Scully’s face.

Scully caged her ribs with two hands, traced the black and white tattoo on Stella’s body, draping a finger this way and that in the shape of the rose.

The door was open. He would hear them. It would be a betrayal greater than any Stella had ever committed. But she could feel her entire body sinking toward Scully, melting at the heat of her. Muscles trembled, spine withered like an end of summer plant, hips rolled, changes Stella assumed would be imperceptible but Scully’s body moved in response to each one.

She reached down, took Scully’s chin in her hand -

And in a flash of Scully’s eye contact, it all made sense.

“He knew you were going to do this,” Stella said, measuring her surprise.

Scully gulped. Nervous.

“You can live in London, come and go as you please...”

Stella tensed, probably would have moved away but in a burst of effort, Scully reached for Stella’s neck, pulled her close so that she could speak directly into her ear.

“I need you.”

Stella closed her eyes, trying to process the enormity of what was being asked of her but paralyzed by the scent of Scully’s skin and hair and mouth so close.

“I don’t know,” Stella said, her pores sucking up Scully’s skin like the air. She was drowning in her.

Scully’s heart beat faster, she’d begun to sweat, and rightly so. She was gambling with her future - all their futures. Stella wanted to be angry with her but it was impossible. Impossible not to lift her mouth to Scully’s, just briefly enough to leave some of her shimmery gloss on Scully’s lower lip. She paused long enough to settle, to let herself enjoy the certainty of a decision having been made. Sometimes she thought this was the best thing about sex - the rare moment of knowledge, of conviction, of committment. She could not agree to whatever Scully was asking of her, some sort of future promise, but she could agree to right now. The moment would come and go, and in a few minutes, when they were having sex, she would have other ideas about what the best thing about sex with Scully was. With other people, this was often not the case.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” she said. “I’m going to make you pant and swear and moan and we’ll see if your fiance will come down the hall.”

“Do you want him to?”

“I don’t know,” Stella said. “But either of you cries, I swear to God, I’ll never speak to you again.”

She covered Scully’s body from the palms of their hands to the tips of their feet, slipped her tongue into Scully’s mouth before either of them could ruin it by saying anything further.

Chapter 27

He wasn’t sure how he’d feel about it until he saw it. He had agreed to it without reservation. It was even possible to interpret it as having been his suggestion. But still, he could not be absolutely sure how it would feel. And if he was going to live with it, he needed to see it with his own two eyes at least once. It had always been him or Stella, not both. He’d only shared her once - the first time - and the second time they’d tried had ended in disaster. They’d all kept things separate, Scully in her actions - he doubted she had ever been unfaithful to him when they’d been a couple - and he in his mind. He’d approached his memories of that night with the chastity of a priest, resisted even thinking about it until Scully had made this recent proposition. It was not an unpleasant memory to relive but still, it was a memory.

And now he had arrived at the reality. Stella’s mouth suckling Scully’s nipple in a room wreaking of Scotch and women, her arm’s well-hewn muscles spasming as they worked on Scully beneath the weight of her body, four rounded thighs swathed in a pond of flaxen silk. Scully’s skirt and nylons had been discarded near her ankles, and one of her hands was cupping Stella’s jaw, the other raking up her back. He had waited until he could hear Scully from down the hall, which meant that he had waited until things were very near the end, too near to undo - he could not have stopped them now if he begged. It was a scientific experiment, a matter of proving to himself he could handle what he’d feel.

What he felt when he stood in the doorway to the guest room was hard. Superman fucking hard.

He watched for as long as he could stand it, cleared his throat when he couldn’t stand it any longer. Stella pulled back and sat on her haunches with a well-well-well sort of expression on her face, hair whipping like a blonde gauntlet over her shoulder as she held Scully deep-breathing beneath her palm.

“Come here,” Stella said. He stepped up to the side of the bed, resisting the urge to look anywhere but her eyes. They turned bluer when she made love. Of course - he’d only seen her with Scully. He wondered if they did the same when she was just having sex. “I’m very impressed.”

“With my middle-aged hard-on or my open-mindedness?”

“Both. Have a drink, you might need it.”

She gestured at the friendly half empty glasses left gawking and scandalized on the nightstand. Scully took his hand, squeezed Stella’s thigh with the other. She was in no mood for banter.

“Finish me.”

“You talking to me, honey?” he asked with a slow smile. “Or your girlfriend?”

“Both of you.”

Mulder picked up the glass and sipped - just a bit because he was old enough to be negatively impacted by substances at such critical moments - and then he tipped the glass at Scully’s chest, poured it over her body from navel to neck. She gasped, body rolling like pavement over a growing root. He sat on the bed and leaned to kiss the tip of her drunken shoulder.

They settled in on either side of her, Stella’s breasts nestled beneath her armpit, his dick wedged against her opposite hip. His arm slid under Scully’s back, his hand pinned by Stella’s trembling belly as she arched it into the hollow of Scully’s waistline. Stella playfully hooked her foot over his leg in the space between Scully’s spread calves.

“So wet,” Scully murmured and he wasn’t sure if she was talking about herself or the stamp of Stella’s body on her hipbone, but either way it made him desperately want to fuck her. He settled for a kiss, first on the mouth and then the side of her neck the way she liked as she turned her mouth to Stella.

“Shall we make her come now?” Stella asked without looking at him. Scully’s little ovular fingertips dug into his skull.

“You want to come, honey?” he teased in her ear, and Stella said something similar in the other, each talking to her as if they had her to themselves, but revelling in the knowledge that they didn’t.

Scully gave a feverish nod yes to all the questions she was being asked, hot tears of simultaneous need and something else - relief? - dripping from her tightly shut eyes. This would not just be the conclusion of a steadily built orgasm, but the proof that her love could carry them all, that she could have the life she wanted but feared was too much to ask.

Their arms draped Scully’s body in the shape of a V, two pageant queen sashes - one ivory, one olive - as they reached inside her together. Stella’s finger was slender and deft against his, leading him sportingly as they found a rhythm they could both live with. Scully hooked her elbow around Stella’s neck, put her hand on Mulder’s cock.

“Dana,” Stella whispered.

The sound of her so-rarely-uttered first name made him ache like a dirty word. He writhed naked against her thigh, and across from him, Stella’s head hung loose toward Scully’s shoulder as though it might unhinge from her neck. Scully held the center with ease, the flexible crux of an unwieldy machine.

“You’re both so incredibly beautiful,” he said.

Stella thanked him in that a spare, sweet tone she sometimes used but which every time sounded like someone else, and Scully told him to shut up in a voice that sounded exactly like her. Everything slid, slithered - the hand he had wrapped around Scully’s waist bathed in their combined sweat, the whiskey sheen tanning Scully’s chest as she curled it this way and that between them, dipped her tailbone to grind against their hands.

“Good girl,” Stella purred, composed enough even as she gripped Scully’s hip tight between her thighs,. “Good -- girl.”

He lowered the hand up between Stella’s belly and Scully’s waist, bent his knuckles to be of use. Stella found them as she rolled her clitoris from Scully’s hip over his knuckles and back down, delivered a soft fuck from her lips.

Scully liked it too.

“We’re going to -- take such good -- care of you, Mulder,” she said.

It happened soon after that, the two of them in swift syncopation, Scully moaning and swearing liberally as Stella held her breath, her lips frozen open in the shape of an O. There was a rush of tension and release, sore, slick fingers, wet hair sticking to skin like a sacrament, baptizing a long night to come, and maybe, a new reality.

Chapter 29

The sequence of events was not identical but it was close. A questionable interaction with Ed Jerse that she stubbornly stood behind, come hell or highwater. Stella’s seduction (she had, admittedly, played more of a role in that this time), the precise feminine touch combined with the loving enthusiasm of Mulder’s involvement. And finally, waking up in a bed with him, snoring like a Golden Retriever beside on one side, while Stella’s side was a cool evening desert, bereft of the musky morning jasmine scent that should have been wafting over her shoulder.

Twenty years and somehow she had still not got it right. In some ways she felt they had all been through everything, moved the pieces around in every configuration that existed and she’d landed on a new one, one she knew she wanted best, one in which she knew she could make them both happy. But in other ways, she felt as though she’d been standing still ever since that night, learned nothing, come nowhere.

And more than anything, she was angry at Stella for letting her feel that way. The least she could have done was stayed, told her she hated the idea, rubbed her temples grouchily over a cup of inferior tea while Mulder flipped pancakes. Was that really too much to ask from someone she had known and loved so long?

And in place of that tiny bit of consideration, she’d left a little gift box.

“Sorry...xo” said Stella’s haughty half-script on a prismed, torn-off piece of paper she’d turned into a card.

A hasty unwrapping revealed a shiny little ivory-colored porcelain replica of Big Ben. A delicate and expensive version of something you’d get an an airport. Its base stood in the center of a small dish.

“What’s that?” Mulder grumbled, squinting one eye open. He’d lost some of his voice, left it in one or both of their bodies.

“Stella left us a wedding gift.”

“She left it? You mean she’s not here?”

Scully didn’t answer, so he took the object from her and looked closer.

“It’s a ring holder,” he said. “What does that mean?”

Scully slammed it on the nightstand hard enough to get some satisfaction but not hard enough to crack it. She knew that at a later date, she would cherish this object as the only connection to their union that Stella condoned. She had Mulder had not exchanged any rings - she was no more a jewelry person than she’d been when Mulder had first bought her that Elvis thing and then second-guessed himself. But maybe they should, maybe they would. Maybe she had clung to all the wrong ideas she could have about herself, let all the wrong things slip away into the unlived version of her life. She flexed her fingers over her forehead with a groan.

“She’ll come around,” Mulder said gently. “Let me get you some coffee.”

He was only gone a minute when she heard him calling her name from the kitchen. She joined him, expecting to be shown the spectacle of an ant problem or a pretty bird sitting outside the window or a strange neighbor out to get the mail in a funny outfit - he looked hard when he was aiming to cheer her up. Instead, the presentation involved a brown paper bag on the table, the oven-y smell of bagels hovering, and Stella... leaning against the counter in the rare odd wrinkled t-shirt, lips pursed, arms folded under her breasts. Scully clung to Mulder’s bare back for protection.

“She came around,” Mulder said.

“Isn’t that getting old?” Scully demanded of Stella, stepping forward, and Mulder sat down, pulled the bag of goodies over. He hesitated to open it in a sudden bout of manners, waited for Stella to answer her.

Stella dipped her head for a deep look at the ground, as though checking to see if she’d stepped on something. Her arms did not uncross.

“Yes,” she said finally with the bluntness Scully imagined she applied to a cold case re-opened and placed unwelcomed on her desk.

“It’s childish, Stella. I asked you a question, all you had to do was answer it,” Scully pressed.

“You asked me a question while I was taking your clothes off -”

“Because I thought if I combined it with sex, you’d be more likely to unders -”

“You thought I’d be more likely to say yes. Is there any behavior more childish than that?”

Scully opened her mouth, made a couple of sounds that didn’t turn into words.

“You’re right, Stell...” Mulder chimed, “Is what Scully is trying to say. She has trouble with that sometimes.”

Scully swallowed her pride, realizing only then that she could let go of both her disappointment and her anger. Stella was still there. They were both there.

“Sorry,” she said softly.

Stella nodded matter-of-factly, uncrossed her arms.

“Eat a bagel and re-ask the question clearly and while I have my wits about me.”

Chapter 30

The neighborhood was full of cobblestone and good bones, svelte-faced buildings painted in aristocrat white, noses in the air as people swept past with briefcases, the damp winter wind whipping chilled hair in their faces. Scully hugged herself tighter in her long black coat and little white dress, swayed from side to side as she picked a wave of red from across her forehead. She looked too perfect for this stuffy old courthouse. She also looked nervous.

“She’ll be here,” Mulder said.

Scully smiled close-lipped, dusted the chest of his jacket, tightened his tie and lied to his face.

“I’m not worried.”

When she looked at him here on the courthouse steps, she saw him as he once was, young and bitter, eyes that looked perpetually impressed and a smooth-lipped mouth that looked forever disappointed. She saw their son, the short exchange Stella’s cleverness had allowed her to have with him that day in the park. She saw all the close-calls, the times they should have been parted from one another forever and yet somehow found their way back. They were, as a couple, simultaneously inevitable and a miracle. They were each other’s something old and time itself, their something borrowed.

And Stella - though she’d met her just a few years after Mulder - was still her something new - and that’s how Stella liked it. It was part of the allure of her and the problem of Stella Gibson. She liked to maintain the shiny, silvery lacquer of mystery, and Scully knew Stella worried today would tarnish it. She had considered Scully and Mulder’s offer very carefully, very sensibly, then delivered her answer as she tore bread from the inside of a bagel, a calm voice but a tear in her eye, an embarrassed smile, a mellow-limbed embrace - joy. But there had also been signs of anxiety that day and ever since. It didn’t upset Scully, it only worried her that it might upset Stella. Along the way, Stella had become something else besides the shiny new toy, she had been for some time.

She moved in closer to Mulder as they waited, let her nose rest against his Adam’s apple, a small concession to the robust unflappability she was determined to show off today. She did not want him to feel his presence meant less to her - it was just that, in this current incarnation of her life, she worried less about losing it. He was sturdier these days, took his medicine and jogged and read novels rather than nonfiction and conspiracy theory websites. He less apt to disappear on her or on himself.

“Maybe we should have stayed at her place last night,” she said. “Reviewed things.”

“All she has to do is show up, what’s to review?” he remarked casually but through it Scully could see he was more concerned than she was. “You tried her phone?”

“Three times.”

Him too.

“I could go to her place, make sure everything’s okay?” he offered.

“No,” Scully said, her face stoic but her fingers slipping up and down his tie. The gesture brought him back to the moment and he smiled. His eyes were greener than usual here in the English afternoon.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Mulder? There’s no part of you that would be relieved if we didn’t pull this off today?

He took her chin in hand.

“I’m sure, baby. We’ll do it another day if she can’t make it. Something must have come up.”

What he didn’t say was: we could do it without her. Because he wasn’t sure that he could. It was almost perfect, him and Scully alone. Almost, except that at the same time, always teetering on not-at-all. Stella’s involvement made it possible somehow, even when she was physically apart from them, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. They seemed to need her to survive each other. And as stubborn as he was about not needing people, he was also too old, too experienced not to admit when he did.

Suddenly, Scully smiled and he saw Stella getting out of a black cab in a wooly grey dress and the highest heels he’d ever seen. She turned to pay the driver through the window, at first glance betraying nothing but her usual charmed confidence, although upon closer inspection, he could see the way she was gripping her leather clutch with nerve-wrecked white fingertips.

“See? She’s here,” Mulder said and twirled a length of Scully’s hair between her shoulder blades.

She kissed him briefly on the lips and in a moment Stella approached, tapped their cheeks with her own, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

“Sorry I’m late. You look lovely. What are we doing afterward?”

“We’ll go get you a stiff drink,” Scully said dryly with a tweak to the neckline of Stella’s sweater dress, playing as she’d done moments ago with Mulder’s tie. An excuse for contact, a doctor’s emotional temperature-telling.

“Drink, yes, maybe several,” Stella said a little more gently, as though she too had merely been awaiting the doctor’s call to feel better. A malady that eased by benign diagnosis. You will not regret this, I will not let you regret it, Scully tried to communicate telepathically as she looked Stella over, but couldn’t quite rein in the eye contact necessary.

“I’m surprised she doesn’t have a flask on her,” Mulder said.

“Who says I haven’t,” and she handed Mulder her little bag. “Here, just a second.”

She smoothed her dress, checked the backs of her earrings. Perfume stabbed the air and committed Stella to memory with every flick of her wrist, every twist of the neck.

“I hate weddings,” she said. “You know that right?”

But Scully was not fooled by the mask of Stella’s comfortable complaints. She busy staring at Stella’s body, trying to place the odd feeling of deja vu and then -

“I remember this dress.”

And for the first time that day, Stella steadied, really looked at her, let her eyes rest there in the cradle of Scully’s gaze. Her cheeks colored pink a little and her eyes deepened, the greyness of them taking on the hue of brushed denim, the deep hint of indigo.

There it was, the something else Stella had become, her something blue.

It was one of Stella’s great weaknesses that being told she was loved made her want to cry and not in the so happy tears are falling sort of way, but rather in the way of someone falling to pieces. There was only one way she could handle it - in the passive elocution. There were people, mainly men, she’d known over the course of her life who’d somehow learned and observed the rule. One of them had probably taught it to her in the first place.

“You are loved,” her father used to say, or her favorite uncle, or her late-mentor at the academy. “You are missed,” Mulder would sometimes tell her on the phone. But Scully either couldn’t or wouldn’t get used to it. She was restrained in the frequency of her expressions of affection but not in the manner or delivery of them. She gave her love actively, when given.

So of course she remembered the dress, the thing Stella had been wearing that first time.

“Yes, I thought you might,” Stella said, allowing Scully to believe that she’d done it on purpose. She had not consciously thought of that day this morning when she reached for it. But admittedly, there could be no coincidence in such an action. She had dozens of outfits that would have been suitable, in fact two others she’d bought expressly with this day in mind.

“My, you do look lovely, darling,” she added, tingling with warmth as she looked Scully over. More ethereal and yet more solid all at once. “What is it about white that makes a woman look like a new person?”

Actually, all of it was new to Stella except Scully - she was the only thing familiar about this willingness she felt, the generosity of spirit. She was not pretending to be pissed off for having been asked to do this. But really she was self-conscious about not being pissed off. It would have been more comfortable to resent being here, would have felt more herself.

Inside, there would be waiting to do, the collective and similar but varied anxieties of twenty other strangers pledged to do this same thing this same day. She and Mulder would bicker amiably, tease about who was going to be fucking whose wife later. Scully would hold her head high, pretending to be above it all, threaten them with moving entire affair to a church, but secretly be glad she’d done it here, in the shadow of all the petty tragicomedies of bureaucracy. They all three were creatures of the system, and they were also its rebels. That included Scully. Sweet, silently subversive Dana Scully, who was sneaking her hand into Stella’s palm, the other already tucked deftly and permanently into Mulder’s elbow.

It had been Mulder’s idea to configure it this way. He’d said it made sense because then she and Scully would be able to visit one another longer. And it would make it easier for her to move to America if she ever wanted to join them there. She had marveled at the breadth of his spirit, his confidence and his love, had been glad she’d fucked him the previous night. But she’d also panicked. She had only just returned from possible escape minutes before.

Scully had hedged when she heard it and fidgeted, twiddled her fingers and smiled shyly as she admitted to approving of the plan. They each took turns making sure Mulder was in his right mind. And ultimately Stella agreed to it because she wasn’t sure any other way would feel binding enough, would serve to remind her that somewhere, someone expected something of her. And if she didn’t feel that, well then what was the point of being involved at all?

Courthouses could be jarring settings for ordinary people but they were familiar to her, and this one in particular. She’d come out of them over the course of her career in all manner of states - furious, indignant, satisfied, vengeful, victorious - all three of them had. When she came out of this one on this day, she would be no more and no less than... married. No one was changing their name. But hers would be a little different because it would be signed on a piece of paper beside Scully’s, with Mulder’s below as the “witness.”

He would get Scully with his morning coffee every morning. She would get her on vacations, on special weekends, and, somewhere she had never in a million years expected to either get or look forward to getting - on paper.

The law would be involved, black ink and clerks, a mess to undo if needing undone. And the fact of all this did, at moments, make her want to run. But what did Scully deserve if not that? Her momentary fancies of flight, her panic. That was worth more than her love, it was more than she had ever been willing to entrust to anyone else.

Overhead, a couple of birds scattered noisily from the ancient stony doorway. Mulder and Scully watched them in tandem, eyes arching from here to there with expressions of matching surprise and gratitude.

“Are those pigeons or--?” Mulder asked, and Scully tightened the lobster clasp of her fingers. “Doves,” she said. “Mourning doves.”

Stella squinted and smiled alongside them in the breeze. For once, for the moment, there was nothing for any of them to mourn.

The end

#wtid #myfic #stella and scully #xfiles fic #the fall fic #thank you all for being a part of this

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grecoorthopa-blog · 4 years ago

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lilithnewzealand · 5 years ago

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Outlasting the darkness: lessons of six Scottish winters

A view towards the Isle of Mull from its neighbor island, Kerrera--spring

I begin these winter musings in the final weeks of the American summer. Light is waning, and we splash one last time in the magnificent lake, pretending that the golden heat of this muggy, molten season will live on forever. In reality, the earth in its tilted run is already siphoning the minutes off the days. We can no longer reliably plan late evening BBQs around our garden’s shady oak tree, for it will already be dark by 7pm in these last weeks of August. Suddenly, we’re careening into the hectic, school-filled days of early September. One or two punctilious neighbors have already mutinously exchanged flip-flop door wreaths for pumpkins and gourds. I know that in the weeks to come, a veritable sea of hay bales and potted autumnal mums will sprout up in pleasant but unoriginal beatification of this dying season.

Chrysanthemums seem seductive envoys of death, cultivated to bloom only in hues mirroring those of a mature leaf’s swan song—pear-like yellows, burnt oranges, reds umbers, and even crackling browns. Flowers that are unwelcome and doer in the heady exuberance of spring find themselves the befitting adornment of atrophy and waning. Festive gourds, Halloween treats, and crisply weathered hayrides ease us like a conciliatory lullaby into the season that flows towards the utter darkness of the northern hemisphere’s agonizing winter solstice.

I will admit that It is not beyond me to pray, to beseech, to quietly plea for something as elementary as winter sun. Just as I pray quirky prayers that as a Western populace we’d forgo ease and profit for truly earth-honoring, nutrient rich, non-carenogenic farming, or that God would bring suffering children out from pain and fear this night, or for a friend who’s mother no longer lives, so I whisper this prayer for the mercy of winter light. I lift my voice in an entreaty that as the icy air stings our braced, pale faces, and layers panoply our bodies, that the far off winter sun with its weakened winter force would reign over our sky.

I come to these prayers with memories of winter’s capacity for mental woundedness. For six long seasons, I lived as a young adult through the insanity inducing darkness of west coast Scotland’s seemingly amaranthine, sodden winters. While before my travels I had known in theory that places such as Finland, Alaska, and Russia endured a departed sun for seasons together, I was wholly unprepared for the true, if somewhat functional insanity human beings endure when caught in the grip of a dark, far north winter. I had come to a country whose springs and summers produced some of the most stunning landscapes on earth, but whose winters’ lightlessness and wet stung the equilibrium of every cogent citizen. At ten steps beyond cozy indoor lounging, and peaceful snow-filled Saturdays, winter in the Scottish city I’d called home was, in my experience, something to survive, like an ancient, enveloping, heavy, returning foe. This is my small tale of everyday endurance.

When I left east coast America for Glasgow, Scotland in 2005 as an energetic, adventure-seeking twenty-two year old graduate student, I only vaguely considered British lore of generally omniscient rain and mist. If tea and scones accompanied that promised rain, I felt equal to its challenge. After all, I was no stranger to varieties of weather. We of the American Northeast gloried in the wonder of nature’s four faces, and cherished each one’s splendor.

Not we the soft, milk toast citizens of mild Florida, with its perpetual clemency like the slog of a meteorological purgatory, never proceeding from heaven into hell, or fleeing hell into the promise to heaven (apart from those apocalyptic moments of hurricane decimation, to be fair!). Nor were we the unfathomable folk who think it prudent to nurture community so far north as to warrant cars block heaters and homes with double heating systems. Surely a routine -30 F was nature’s indication, to western folk at least, that such landscapes as Alaska or Manitoba were not intended for human flourishing!

For all the variety of season, one reasonable constant was sunshine. From fifteen hours of committed, humid sunlight in the height of a suburban Philadelphia summer to a mere, miserable nine hours mid-December, with sunsets slipping down by 4.36pm instead of summer’s 8.32pm, the sun still at least shone weakly and cruelly in winter. How different it all was just across the pond where dramatic lochs lay and bagpipers piped.

In the beginning, my new young adult life in the art-loving, gritty, dually medieval and Victorian city of Glasgow proved mostly splendid. The beauty of nearby Hebridean islands, hill walking, and Harry Potteresque Edinburgh all soothed the longing I’d followed for vivid, three-dimensional encounter with everything I’d seen on the countless BBC murder mysteries and Jane Austen adaptions. With ceilidhs to dance, coffee shops to visit, curry to discover, and accents to unpack, the insidious impact of a profound lack of vitamin D3 upon my skin and in my body went under my radar. My mind perhaps registered the lack of sun, but only to complain or “winge” of its inconvenience, as the Scots would say. Surely, the November sky was darker than I’d ever known, but there was a jolly Burns night feast to attend, and a grotesque Haggis to address and devour.

Loch Katrine, July

Soon, alongside studies, I had found work at an inner city hotel’s vivacious restaurant. The job stretched my world from church and post-graduate university to the bustling business district of that medieval city. Working the evening shift at the flashy five-star hotel’s eatery, I saw business executives live in rooms week-to-week as their veritable second home, while lush, pleasure-seeking weekend holiday makers shifted the energy to indulgence come weekends. Often, I’d wake from a drug-like sleep the next afternoon in recovery from a previous night’s early morning finish. Weary from consecutive hours of cultivating restaurant elegance on the ground floor, while then frantically couriering steaming room service to more private, weary, or work burdened guests on upper floors, we topped long evenings with free beers and huge communal plates of greasy chips in the wee hours. Night after night, we sat like those participating in a greasy, ritualistic, pagan Scottish communion, where no one but me remembered Jesus’ body and blood.

As the sun glowed a very muted gray buzz across the daytime sky, I’d then half glimpse two hours of cloudy half-light before diving back into the murky cave of our sophisticated but windowless hotel restaurant. Here, I served Scottish rack of lamb to the lonely Welsh businessman, or waited upon the elderly far north Scot who kept the chefs in their windowless aluminum kitchen interested in life by routinely ordering the “special” of the day, chased down by an elegant but heavy triple Laphroig. We’d watch this distinguished man canter very intentionally, like a lad pulled over for his sobriety test, back across the street to the more budget hotel where he slept off this gourmet evening, ready for the following day’s to work on Scottish Educational databases.

When I’d dart out to the wide atrium bar for a diner’s wine or beer in winter, not a spot of sunlight could be seen after 3.30pm, despite the 25 foot floor-to-ceiling windows that invited every ray of lingering sun. Blackness framed the football (soccer!) fans zealously bedecked in their ribald sporting colors, marching drunkenly through the streets to and from pubs screening their games. Their glamor and serious fervor was like a shout of resolve against the depressing dimness.

As I raced along hotel corridors with my dented aluminum room service trolley and my tender, undying hopes of a small cash tip, I’d consume any glimpses of light or sky in passing windows. The mournful beauty of gulls swooping in the inky night’s electric semi-glow is my salient memory of visual grace on these long roomservice patrols along unrelieved gray corridors. Arriving at the penthouse suite on such a preternaturally shaded evening, burdened with the happy, hot, succulent roast chicken for Tony Bennett or hot chocolate and scrambled eggs for Jermaine Jackson and his shy, Caucasian girlfriend, I would sometimes pity the confusion I imagined these grand American stars must feel in our dark cityscape. Why would a civilization choose to stay and inhabit such a gritty and preternaturally dark island? On the surface of things, our commitment to this dim, soggy winter space seemed bewildering and foolishly patriotic.

Wrapped in the stalwart blanket of Scottish pride, Scots rarely discussed why they stayed at all, or how they survived. A tale of explanation that I once read was that in former generations the peoples occupying the coastal lands had found the atmospheric shoreline and islands habitable by aid of their vitamin D3 rich fish, seaweed, and cod liver oils. These they kept in a vat of fermenting sea fruits near the door of their mud-made huts. Oozing the invaluable nectar D3–liquid sunlight in food form--these earlier chiefs and clanspeople weathered the darkness abetted by foodstocks most natural to human survival in their particular climate. Did some of this impulse survive in the English and Scottish default to fish and chips on any possible occasion? In America, we grab burgers or sushi on the run. In Scotland, folk did a wee nip doon to the chippie, perhaps in an unconscious genetic compulsion back towards the fish liver oil origins enabling their earlier mental survival.

Modern-day Scotland offered not so much a supplemental strategy, as a mission of pitiable smothering —endurance through camaraderie and pub life. In short, we drank the winter away. The prevalence of alcohol, clubbing, and more alcohol, to forget or enliven the threatening, consuming darkness was farught reality. This turn to the wine, the jack and cokes, the gin and tonics, and what became gallons of hard cider was followed, inevitably, by pursuit of deliciously repulsive fried food. A vivid memory of a winter’s evening during my university years in Glasgow was standing with friends in a grease-filled chip shop at 3 am, where a sober, level-headed, but smirking shop owner in turban and mustache served the scantily dressed, blitzed, and literally tottering western “Christian” guests a zero nutrient meal of hot chips (fries), with the chip shop’s familiar grayish green anointing curry. Indeed, a mini industry had sprung around the predictable depression of winter-bound, partying Scots—that of chippies and fish shops, open into the wee hours of the morning. By the end of six years in Glasgow, I stood well aware of the national sting of alcoholism, but certainly, and sadly, not without understanding.

I paint with broad strokes here, of course. These are memories mainly from days spent among hotel friends and university colleagues. My church friends weathered the winter rather more sedately, but not without a wee nip to get through the days, and certainly with a lion’s share of fish and chips. West Wing DVD binges, evening parties of games and “chewing the fat” (fun, leisurely chat), and mini-breaks for those who could afford to flee the gray all sustained the less alcohol prone types, as we grinned and struggled to bear the black winter away.

For myself, winterizing our let Scottish flat remained central to my mental survival. There is such a thing as cutting off your arm to spite your face. And, there is such a thing as having no good choices. When the darkness of a Scottish winter crept into Glasgow like the angel of death looking for blood on the lintels of homes, I was living with two American expatriate friends in a grand West End Glasgow flat. A magnanimous blonde stone mansion that had once outfitted an oil or railway baron of sorts in one of Glasgow’s poshest neighborhoods had now been sequestered into four elegant westend Glasgow flats. By some beneficence I still thrall to remember, we three American post-grad students had obtained “letting” rights to this splendor over a small host of other applicants. During spring, summer, and into autumn, we were the envy of all we knew. Our sprawling lounge with its twelve foot high bay window allowed in light, images of foliage, and the sound of children at play on the grounds of their expensive public (private) school across the way.

As winter crept through, however, opulent settings that had once framed our elegant spring view transmogrified to the Achilles heel of wellness and peace. My male flatmate at the time worked part-time researching medieval and modern lives of the saints, and the other seventy percent of this time drinking Jack Daniels and coke and playing an internet based video game with brothers and friends back in the US. His perch was the delicious round table within the sweep of the elegant bay window. Come November, he and I would rather awkwardly heave out the hidden, original, indoor Victorian window shudders, painted black and capable of covering literally the entire span of the floor-to-ceiling windows in a complicated inter-working of hinges and panels. Assembling this indoor screen felt like the muzzling of a bulldog or the blinding of hero, Samson-style. But we did this because there was other way to keep warm. The meager oil heaters scattered here and there like tokens to modernity held no real efficacy. They were no match for the high ceilings and now-insanely tall windows, and this shudder system in effect double glazed the space, however imperfectly. Whereas with a modern home, one stood a chance of creating somewhat stable warmth with space heaters and extra layers, these old flats stood impotent against the softly insidious sting of that millions-strong army of wet winter water cells.

In western Scotland, winter was not the season of snow, but of the far worse dual enemy of damp and darkness. This was the place of clothes that took a week to fully dry on British drying racks, and Victorian floorboards that leeched cellular moisture perpetually. Continually running dehumidifiers, we found, was positively the most effective form of heat management. Would the yesteryear drying power of real fires in the tenement fireplaces proven the key to survival against the potency of this winter water cell army? I certainly hope so for the sake of our forefathers and foremothers!

When we were done securing the blackened panels across our lounge’s windows, I turned to my own small room, likely once a servant’s quarters. There, too, hung original wooden indoor shudders for my window. Around the awkward fitting paneling, I stuffed old pajamas and the summer shorts and tank tops I’d literally never worn in Scotland. Their summer lightness now served as plugs and sealants against my greatest enemy--winter. At last, my small space lay hermetically sealed and guarded against any speck of outdoor water, and indeed, any ray of weak winter sun. I slept, lived, and worked in a cavernous darkness at least three or four months of those years in which I resided in that flat of historic luxury. Night blended almost unnoticed into day, and a cell phone flashlight directed into my eyes each morning was the best means of indicating dayspring to my searching body.

Deeper into the stretch of the city’s west end, my husband-to-be, with a professional job, traditional office hours, and a somewhat larger bank account, battled the lows of the western Scottish winter more genteelly. His best mate, a distinguished Scottish surgeon, lured him into membership at the sleek and financially exclusive David Lloyd west end gym. Here was a gorgeous, artificial, perpetual summer of sorts—the chemical paradise of an indoor pool, ensconced safely within the glass. Here, eminent surgeon sat swan alongside high stakes IT programmer, property developer alongside Oxford-trained eye surgeon. Thus it was that Alistair and Chris swam their way through the sadness of winter.

Somehow, when I think of Alistair, quietly and dramatically insisting that the David Lloyd gym and the pool were the only places keeping him from actual insanity between the pressures of complicated, risky surgeries at a large regional hospital, estrangement with his brother, tensions with a difficult mother, and the memory of a dead, beloved father, I recognized a specter of my own mental workings–a reluctance to admit or inability to see that a beloved object or passion could actually be foremost implicated in my own harm. Was the west coast Scottish darkness the true force that exacerbated all other struggles beyond the point of endurance? Yet, for this Gaelic patriot, the Scottish winter’s almost unrelenting lightlessness never came to the fore as perhaps the central instigator of mental agony. Alistair loved Scotland deeply. The main fonthead of soul-reviving relaxation outside of the gym lay in his emotional involvement with the waves and rhythms of Scotland’s contemporary celtic music. For a man so somber and focused by day, it was spellbinding to observe him unwinding with dances, fast foot-tapping and a subtly rocking body at modern celtic concerts.

As I would think of those two friends, my mind would automatically contrast them, for some reason, with the astonishing scarred man I met at the Garnethill laundromat one Scottish summer’s day. It must have been the year after my own traumatic second degree burns to my feet—boiling kettle, rushing for church, tired and stressed, slippery hands–and my subsequent skin graft surgery at Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary. The scarred man was short, almost childlike in stature, as I found many Scottish men to be, but clearly aged. Almost up the rim of his chin, where neck and head met, danced plaited, pleated scars so complete and decorative that he almost seemed reptilian.

A thick, three-dimensional scar smiled darkly across the top of neck of where throat and chin meet, reminding me of the mark made by my great uncle, who, carrying the burden of PTSD from violence seen in WWII Pacific battles, and now in the first stages of dementia, had slit his throat with a huge metal saw. This gentle, kind, and tall music-loving man had once played the saw musically, eliciting its wobbling, otherworldly siren song with a cello bow against the flat side of the tool. The musical saw’s sound is piercing and otherworldly, finding its sound family with the glassy, wobbling chords of Benjamin Franklin’s glass harmonica. Two decades later, during my undergraduate years, that tall, German-American vet who’d lied about his age to begin serving before he actually turned 18, took that very musical blade slashed it across his neck. “Look what you made me do,” he cried to my usually strong, forceful Polish-American great aunt. He survived, but forever wore that same ring around his long, elegant neck.

Now, as I bid hello to this diminutive, thoroughly scarred man, I looked quickly away, resolved to appear oblivious to what seemed a very intimate tale of attempted suicide on his body. To my surprise, however, after polite greetings in the otherwise empty laundromat, he immediately commenced the tale of his body with strong Glaswegian inflections. Perhaps it was our isolation. Perhaps it was my conspicuous burns scars blazing through summer sandals. Whatever it was, I was so glad to know him, and moved hear his story. I’ll loosely translate from that lilting Glaswegian brogue into more comprehensible but less lyrical American style.

When he was no more than 5 years old boy, he began, his mother had spilled a full kettle of boiling water over her wee son in a horrible kitchen accident. He was taken to hospital, and almost died. These scars besmirching his flesh were the best doctors could do in skin repair forty years ago, and so he’d borne these ostracizing wounds for almost his entire life. Through no fault of his own, this scarred and anxious man stood thoroughly adorned by permanent markings of unintentional violence. He displayed on one frame forever, something of every person’s lifetime of wounds, internal and external, secrets which other bodies adeptly conceal.

He continued his story by describing a most isolated life, one that I can only attribute to the visual taboo of his grotesquely slashed and matted skin. His home was a single bedsit in the Glasgow city center, where he shared a tiny kitchen with four other single men. His trade, however, was sharpening knives and blades of all kinds. I was mildly surprised to learn that he worked, for it had become routine to me to meet men and women “on benefit” for an array of real mental and physical struggles. The delight he took in his labor delighted me.

From the small, highly regulated and much rarer hunting knives that still circulated after the successful 2005 Scottish gang crackdown and knife amnesty, to larger industrial blades for manufacturing machinery, the man whose name escapes my memory, but whose face and form I’ll never forget, could sharpen them all. Here, with talk of his trade, his eyes finally shifted from their haunted anxiety to brightness. I was blessed to hear him speak with some joy of camaraderie among the gents who worked on site with him at the mechanic’s shop. While the rest of the team fixed tires and engines, he practiced his own highly tailored, solitary trade in a small corner.

Perhaps boldly, because of the safety of my engagement ring, I asked him about girlfriends and women, only to hear confirmed a lifetime of isolation and singleness. He sticks out to me among these contemplations of winter for perhaps unmatched mental resilience against outwardly imposed suffering—a human creating what order, purpose, and joy he could amidst day to day agony. It was the story of a lifetime’s Glasgow winter.

I longed for him was to experience acceptance and community across ages and genders. And so, I, not being one to routinely do so, invited him to stop in at our church in the center of the city, a place of community at the very least. I knew men like him there, faint bodily memories of times past —beatings, disabilities, and trauma—but now slowly flourishing, incrementally renewed, and even married against all odds.

At just that moment, my posh Oxbridge roommate arrived. In the wake of the awkwardness of that invitation and her aura which recalled both my connection with another social realm and his gendered isolation, he quickly scurried off down the road, bearing the burden of his laundry like Quasimodo returning to the tower. I have thought of him often since then, praying for love, for community, and great, new hope. As I write here of winter and mental survival, of Alistair needing the bright lights and chlorinated waters of the posh David Lloyd spa and fitness club, of drunken friends, and mentally suffering colleagues, I think of him. I think of the steady, determined living of the scarred, knife-sharpening man.

One late winter’s evening sitting before the artificial blue glow of my laptop in a room enclosed by the total blackout of a Glasgow winter’s evening, I purchased tickets to the romantic heart of Southern France to visit a childhood friend. I was going on mini-break! Think Van Gogh’s cafe by night painting, and you will know Arles, France, the actual location of that iconic coffee shop, and the Dutch master’s home while at the from February 1888 to May 1889. Late February, almost March, I flew from Glasgow to Barcelona, Spain, and from Barcelona to Grenoble, France, and then by train to Arles. My dear American friend’s smile and transcendent ruby curls greeted me, and together we sauntered like those who’ve reached heaven itself through her adopted hometown, a healing intellectual and aesthetic distance from the New Jersey suburb of her youth. I posed by a Baroque fountain, while an enthusiastic male youth, adorned in an expensive Chanel “merce”, man-purse, jumped in to cradle me and photobomb the shot. We paused at a cafe on a winding, cobblestone street resounding with gentle guitar music for coffee and cocoa--all my European dreams were coming true. We continued on to Arles’ ancient Roman arena, where I heard tell of jazz and opera concerts, and finally emerged before the pinnacle, iconic Arles sight–its mirthful 1900 carousel.

Each of Katherine’s overseas guests were brought here and invited to ride the most famous of all Arlesian beasts—the black bull—El Toro of the carousel. Arlesian voices, Katherine explained, cacophonied in a dynamic, regional debate over the beauty or butchery of the bullfight. When these people of Southern France craved societal momentum, their chosen form of activism was always the formation of a society–the Society for Perpetuating Bullfights, the Society for Ethical Treatment of the Bull, the Society for Ending all Bullfights, etc. Across the road from one such society in an elegant turn of the century building, I paid my euros, and we laughed as the little carousel propelled my postgraduate student body up and down like a child’s. I balled my hands into fists and extended pointer fingers into two playful horns for my own forehead. For one puerile moment, I embodied El Toro himself.

For all the charm of that exploratory, Southern France day, the moment that stands immortalized in my mind was a quiet one. Descending the bull, and resting on the cobblestone pavements between the carousel and the boulangerie where Katherine quickly ran to purchased dinner baguettes, I felt a warmth steal across my face, neck, and decolletage. What was this glowing orange heat descending from the sky? How was this mercy of a peachy, gentle heat present on a mere late February day? Soaked in the mild ecstasy of this magnanimous anomaly, I drowsily wondered again what was this golden orb was doing filling the winter sky so warmly. I am not one to anthropomorphize flesh, but in that moment, my assemblage of cells spoke almost audibly. They begged me to pause, to stop, to soak, to drink in every lingering ray of sunlight. They would not budge.

There can be tears for the relief of battle we barely knew we had. There can be weeping with the realization that we had unknowingly survived truly destabilizing insufficiencies for so long. And at that moment, tears literally sprang to my eyes as I luxuriated in the gentle fullness of a benediction so long denied—the necessary mercy of sunlight for my pale, deprived epidermis. Here was a long forgotten grace for both body and mind. Here was a reminder of an alternative world where sun reigned not as a far off, chance promise, but as an immanent, abundant love.

In 1971, John Denver, the American folk singer with a flaxen gold bowl cut sang, “Sunshine, on my shoulders, makes me happy…Sunshine almost always makes me high.” This racy line sat neatly memorized in my mind, snuck in among other more lighthearted folk fare from my parents’ 1970’s favorites. I vividly recall my parents discussing, with insufficiently hushed voices from the front seat of our gray airport limousine-style van on a trip west around America in the mid-1990’s, whether Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecilia was appropriate musical fodder for the mixed company of our family’s emerging pre-teens, teens, toddlers, and elementary students. “Makin’ love in the afternoon with Cecelia, up in my bedroom! Makin’ love!…” So little music did our parents bring, and so many long hours in the car made for a categorically memorized albums–beauty, revolution, salaciousness, and all. By the end of that month-long trek we kids had memorized much of Peter Paul and Mary’s In The Wind, John Denver’s Best Of, and Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Waters—all of which rotated like clockwork with an audiobook performance of Jane Eyre.

That day, standing in the long alien sun on that street in southern France, the line from John’s “Sunshine” filtered to the surface of long forgotten memories. To be clear, whether it makes me nerd or novice, I have never been “high” in the usual illegal, high school manner; yet, I have experienced the ebullience of a day out with friends and no obligations and money to spend, or the delight and honor of winning a grand, unexpected prize, whether first place in a the school wide coloring contest in kindergarten, or the university Presidential Award. This moment of sun’s mercy was like that—a shock of sheer biological joy, soaking in upon my skin, almost against my will or asking, and ushering with it, a deeply gladdened heart and endorphins. I no longer giggled and smirked at John Denver and his chillaxed, hippy musings. I sang alongside in fully realized understanding. How, oh how, could I return to dark Scotland?

Back in my little cavernous bedroom a week later, I distractedly ordered a large jar of encapsulated vitamin D3. Each small, smooth and marble-like tablet appeared so inane, harmless, even placebo. I tossed one in my mouth, In fact, I think I tossed 5 in my mouth for few days straight. I had no idea of their efficacy, but I reasoned that if in theory, I had been missing out on this necessity for five years, my body would require a small jolt of awakening to begin its journey into recovery. Chasing them down with water, I probably raced on with the movements of my busy life. And suddenly, a week or two later, as I turned up the circular staircase of our Victorian flat, I noticed that the unhinged sadness and chaos that had darkly plagued my inner world had calmed ever so subtly.

It was not the burst of what I imagine a drugged high must be, but the soothing calm of gently increasing stability, the slow, almost imperceptible release from the whirling bedlam of a blurred and muddied mind. The little blue pitch-forked demons of Disney’s 1959 Sleeping Beauty had ceased their authoritative dance and disappeared into a poof of nothing.

“Wow, I’m not insane anymore,” I muttered softly to myself. Gratitude, then annoyance flowed through me. Why, oh why, hadn’t I just tried it before? I would have liked to know that I was more than the “sweet” but distracted and zany blonde—that a measure of winter peace was possible, ever so subtly.

I’ve been a sun chaser ever since. I could not go back, could not slacken my pursuit of the gift of God’s best UV rays. My body and practices have grown more savvy, tailoring their thirst to the most vanguard research—10-20 minutes a day of obsolescence before the orbital rays on as much skin as possible in the prime window of lowest UVB rays—10am to 2pm. I respect the sensitivities of the face, neck, and shoulders.

For so long, I’d scorned the Glaswegian flight to crass, boozy Majorca, Spain, with what I deemed to be its tacky modern hotels and abundance of alcoholic loitering on the sands. Why, I mused, would a nation with such ready access to Europe’s innumerable cultural splendors and fine countrysides beeline in droves to a that tasteless resort landscape? I’d drunk the molding Kool-aid of belief in fading science—wearing sunscreen even on overcast days in cloudy Scotland, and trying to cover every inch of skin with fabric, even on warm far northern days, dreaming all the while of the crowning trophy of smooth, creamy pensioner (retiree) skin, coupled with a remarkable freedom from skin cancer. But now, after seven years of winter darkness and year-round mist, my snobbish disdain broke down with understanding for those I’d once slighted –you must fill up on sun and wellness before any culture becomes important. Pale and D3 deprived as I was, it dawned on me that there was grave logic to British comedian Michael McIntyre’s routine about the Glaswegian airport bombing attempt. Contrasting successful terrorists in London and Manchester, British born Islamic jihadists failed in their malicious bomb plots here in Glasgow, where a winter-beaten Glaswegian man tackled the physician- turned-jihadist in overweening determination to let nothing keep him from…Majorca.

When I next visited Glasgow seven years following our emigration, my friend Lindsey stood contemplating my Americanized postpartum body. She who had known me well in the Glasgow days observed, “You have some curves to you now, and some colour!” It was late October then, and so particularly gratifying to appear even remotely tanned! I reveled in my new hue, a sun-kissed peach, no longer the pallid, muted white linked to breast cancer and MS.

Now as a thirty-something year old scholar, mother, and partner, I look to photos of fellow thirty year old Scottish friends. Two Octobers ago, I sat with them in an ornate Victorian sandstone building-turned-Starbucks, drinking in the miracle of their lovely children, and seeing photos of their flourishing middle class lives. They worked as a professors, teachers, bank tellers, mothers, and volunteered with refugees, addicts, and international students. They lived day by day still in this cloud of gray, and theirs is a resilience I marvel to behold. I raise my glass of almond milk and another of kombucha to them, and salute their Scottish hardiness. My heart opens in prayer for the gift of mental wellness for them, and for those of us everywhere who find the shift to winter darkness an elephant of gloom sitting upon hearts. Let us fill our homes with green plants, keep connected in fun and kinship with friends, especially the lonely, pop our vitamin D3 with its enabling K2 buddy, and long for the lights of Christmas, Hanukkah, and Yule who offer bright, needful stars of hope and celebration against a black winter sky.

As we walk in darkness, visions of summer remains my close companion hope, a specter walking by my side, the dream, like heaven reaching close to earth. And if we have eyes to see, we raise our fragile fingers to touch the veil between this present world and the next springtime. Memories and testimonies from far across the equator where antipodean New Zealand and Australian summers reign alongside our winter become the motivating promise that at the culmination of this obligatory darkness, there will be my body glistening with sun and sweat by the sonorous utterance of the lapping ocean waves.

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