#quick what’s the opposite of carve-er

[mentallyillmindmeld]

What if his name was Curt Tiny and it was called Spies Are Sometimes

[exquisitexagony]

"Your hair is different too, non? I like it," they muse as they lead her across the marble flooring of the foyer. The only reason their hair was any different was his parents' personal preferences. They liked him to stay cleaned up as much as possible, so they didn't let him ignore hair care or personal hygiene. It felt a little childish to be controlled by them, but he would do what he could to make them happy--avoid conflict.

"I'll make this quick, OK?" They're already striding ahead down one of the halls to the right of a massive staircase leading up to the second and third floors of the home. They pass plenty of classic artwork on their way down the halls, many of which appear quite expensive, originals even. The pillars carved out of the corners of the hallway were huge, magnificent, stretching high to the ceilings that seemed almost as tall as skyscrapers. They pass a wall-to-wall window on their way to one of the rooms, gazing out upon the hedge maze in the far corner of the yard. There's even a telescope set up to view it and a map with information about the historical value of hedge mazes and where the idea came from--artistic pleasures.

"Eh? Oh! No, no, no, non, non..." he's quick to disagree when asked if he grew up on that estate. A small laugh, shaking his head. He takes a short drag from the cigarette between his lips, glancing back at her. "No, we moved here when I was, er... 17? I graduated high school early, took a couple gap years so I wasn't the youngest student starting college." A shrug. "On connaît la suite. The rest, you know, is history!" The flash a grin, not willing to expound much further on their childhood. There were too many painful and difficult memories back there. Instead, they gesture to the living room space as they pass, but don't stop.

"Ah! The, er...How do you say..? Le salon..? The main sitting space..." They pass another door or two and point out the intricately decorated rooms as they go. Their walk is shockingly long with just about every possible room that could exist being pointed out. They do pass a few servants on the way, Antoine sure to give some a wave or a polite greeting. He shares a bit of conversation in French with some of them, laughs and smiles given. Clearly he was good friends with all of the staff there and they seemed happy to be working there--well paid and treated kindly.

"Billiards, bar, family room, movie theater, racket-ball court, foosball and ping pong tables...Er...Oh! This door leads to a water closet, a couple more bathrooms here and...here..." The rambling continues until finally they make it upstairs to the hall where the bedrooms are. "Sunroom, there. Piano hall. My parents' room..." A little further. "My room." A wave toward the door, though he does not open it, continuing a little further. "Annnd..." A pause in front of a lovely mahogany door painted with sunflowers around the frame. "Your room..." He unlocks and opens the door, passing a small golden skeleton key to her. "And your key. In case any doors get locked while you're here. And for your room. Most of the time, we leave them be, but we have so many people come in and out, it's sometimes a necessity. A safety precaution." A shrug. "There's nowhere you're not allowed, so..." A flourish of their hand. "Just in case."

Then, they're ushering her inside. The room is gorgeous, huge...Filled with natural light bleeding in from lace curtains. There's an attached bathroom, which Antoine quickly mentions, "Oh, erm...We'll be sharing a bathroom? I hope that's all right. It was either that or having you on the opposite side of the house, which seemed...unfair." A smile.

There are huge bouquets of white flowers on the windowsill in gorgeous crystal vases, a cream coloured couch sat just under the window with golden-white accent pillows. The bed is a queen size, draped in lovely linens and a smooth, cream comforter and throw blanket on the end of the bed. There's even a stool at the foot of the bed, dotted with indented buttons. The room is mostly different shades of white, making it feel more open and inviting more natural light into the room. The floor is wooden, but there's a beautiful white plush rug in the centre of the room, tucked just under the bed. There's even a fireplace, a television, ornately carved candlesticks, potted plants growing beautifully in the corners near the windows, a full-size mirror, and shelves and shelves of books. When Antoine looks to Leo again he's desperately searching for her approval.

"Well, what do you think? D'ya like it?"

The flight is long and mostly boring. Uneventful, besides making friends with the person sitting beside her – an elderly woman who was on her way to visit her grandchildren. Their conversation is pleasant and distracting enough that it makes the time go by faster. She’s grateful when they land, albeit a bit disappointed that Antoine didn’t meet her at the airport.

Her hair is dyed back to it’s natural brown, figuring it would be easier than having to repeatedly bleach her roots to keep the blonde. She’s dressed plainly – a pair of leggings that she’s sweltering in, an oversized short-sleeved shirt and a pair of paint-spattered vans. She feels horribly out of place when the driver drops her out front of the estate. The sheer size of it alone has her so dumbfounded that her jaw might as well be on the floor.

“Hey!” Her eyes light up instantly upon seeing Antoine, arms tossed around their neck as they squeeze her. “This is absolutely insane.” She points to the estate, and then to his hair. “Looks good.”

Leo shrugs at the rest of his questions and follows him inside. For a moment she hesitates when the workers come to collect her bags. Although it’s their job, she can’t help but feel bad for making them do something she could easily do herself. A quick glance is tossed at Antoine who is already moving swiftly ahead of her.

“You grew up here?” She’s trailing a bit slower, staring at the walls, the glimpses of the outside through the windows. “Just you and your parents?”

[plush-rabbit]

Sugar and Spice

Word Count: 2K

A/N: This is set after he passes the gym to Marnie:P I hope that you enjoyed it!! Im sorry for it being so late!! Also, since sunday was a lot,, pokemon related things will go on ao3 like tomorrow!!

Piers is a rather intimidating person. He’s tall and wears dark clothing, a certain look of disdain on his features to anyone who looks upon him. He won’t necessarily be rude to people but he has a rather flippant personality that makes it hard for people to approach him first.

You on the other hand, you try to meet him. You may not enjoy his type of music, but you do try to approach him, wanting to attend his concerts or even just listening to some of his earlier music that is different from the way he sings now. It’s softer, harsh lyrics that are whispered into your ear accompanied by static due to the low quality of the mic but you enjoy it.

Truth be told, he inspired you to start your own musical journey. Different from his genre obviously, but still. It was easy to write the music, to let the flow seep into you and sing with a lonely voice and cute look. If he could keep his dark, gloomy aesthetic, then you could keep your pastel, cheery one.

Yet, despite the hopeful encounter that you wish you could have had with him, ended horribly. He hadn’t exactly called you anything mean and while you were aware of the tone he held, it certainly didn’t prepare you to be on the receiving end of it. It was a heavy feeling that it left, an unmistakable uneasiness that made you squirm and want to leave.

And yet, you still hold a strong admiration to him. You still want to meet him and go against him in a battle even if it isn’t his strongest suit just for the fact that you believe like everyone else that a battle is what people go against, what they put all their might into and see how they can prevail at the end of it. You wanted to see the light in his eyes up close and see how he would fight.

You’re everything opposite to Piers. Where he dresses in dark clothing and has a rather cold demeanor, you dress in soft colors and try to appear friendly to others, often accompanied by your team of fairy and mostly pink colored pokémon. You spent a good portion of your youth hating pink, wanting to go against gender norms but as you grew older, you fell in love with the color and the frills, wanting to be dressed in a cute way that while others may have seen as overbearing, you just liked it and it made you happy. Where as he sang metal and rock, you stuck with pop, you wore your dresses and had even jokingly called the type of music you sang “bubblegum pop”, no real reason behind it- agains, it just made you happy to call it. Despite the differences, you greatly admired the ex- gym leader. He had been able to hold his own in a town that was failing- no fault on his of course- and had been a caring brother from what you have seen. He was an admirable person and while the music he made wasn’t exactly your taste, you could learn to enjoy it.

However, due to your rising fame and the type advantage against him, people around the region- who knew of both of you- had begun to jokingly call the two of you rivals, wanting to see you both battle it out and see who would reign above the other. And while you would have happily accepted the chance to meet Piers, a trainer you strongly admired, he had only sneered at the idea of you and him having a battle. To say it hurt would be an understatement. He’s a personal inspiration and to have him act that way to the mere mention of you left you deflated. 

It’s a mere accident that you both are in the same area. Mentions of him of you are sprinkled into your notifications, buildings that match in the background and while you aren’t proud of it, you take to following the buildings and the threads. You walk around, your white tennis skirt paired with a soft, baby blue pullover and pair or white tennis shoes, an obvious giveaway to who you are, a yellow star shaped bag that crosses over your chest, and a bow with trailing ribbons falling and curving around your shoulders, tickling at your neck with every step until you finally seem to be in a surrounding area that he was last seen at. While it left you with an odd taste, you wanted to run into him and express your admiration for him- just for a quick second, to tell him how much you liked the music he put out and how he stuck with the aesthetic- you could understand how expensive it could be to stick with something as money-consuming as clothing.

You find him by accident. It’s a completely stereotypical moment when you do. You both stand at the opposite ends of the fountain decorated with carvings of various water types from the region, the sun shines and you can see in front of you with his sister and the rising champions. You hold onto the straps of your bag, your lips pulling into a flustered line, heat that rises from excitement or general shyness- you aren’t sure yet, and you stare at him with wide eyes. In the pockets of your skirt, you can feel your phone buzz and in the corner of your eyes, you can see people hurriedly take out their phones. And just like that, the serene, very stereotypical moment is over when he turns around and your eyes meet. Where you widen and flush under his gaze, he hardens his stare and grows an annoyed look, brows furrowing and lips pulled into a thin line. 

Your resolve is broken. You gasp, and look around, seeing people stare and a small circle forming, whether for the both of you or the rising stars of the region, you don’t know and you don’t find out, choosing to leave the area. You jump a bit, standing on the tips of your shoes and you turn to leave. 

You don’t want to stick around and see what he might have to say, the thought of the smallest bit of rejection far too much on your mind. You manage to make your way into a bookstore, the scent of coffee lingering in the air and you greet the employees with a tight smile, wandering deeper into the store, hoping to distract yourself and walk between the aisles and find something to buy. 

You stand at the end of the store, against a corner as you trail your finger against the spines of the books. In your peripheral, you can spot a figure, standing tall and you pay no mind. There is no real reason for you to worry- you may not look the part, but you can certainly fight dirty and the store isn’t abandoned so you could always call for help. You hum under your breath, pulling out a book and pursing your lips as you read the synopsis. The figure at the end comes closer and you turn, a soft squeak sounds past your lips. You feel yourself stand straighter, your shoulders squaring and the book held close to your chest, fingers gripping onto it tightly, enough to pale your knuckles.

“You ran away,” Piers muses, his fingers trailing along the spines, his steps quiet against the carpet. “You must be really scared of me,” he says, looking away from you, chuckling lightly. He stands in front of you, his brows raising as he looks down at you. 

His dual colored hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, a thick part of it obscuring half of his face and you can only do so much to not cower under his gaze, eventually breaking from his eye contact and looking at the top of your shoes that differ from his. 

“‘S not that,” you mutter, biting at your bottom lip. “I just… panicked,” you end, licking at your lips. “I- I didn’t mean to offend you.” 

You were kidding yourself if you thought you could talk to him. Much less have a battle against him. Once he showed up, your resolve fell, further than it did before when he looked at you. You take a small step back, your shoes shuffling and messing at the carpet underneath, and your eyes still locked on his boots. Just a second ago, you wanted to proclaim your admiration to him, enough to go and see him and find him and yet, here he is standing in front of you without any distractions or prying eyes and you can’t bring yourself to talk to him with faltering. 

“You’re a lot jumpier than I expected, ya know?” His reply to you is done with a simple roll of his eyes. “I mean, fuck, I guess it’s expected for a type user like you.” You stay quiet and you can almost hear his smug grin. “Lots of people comment how you’re a pushover because of your, er,  type and all.”

You look up at him, your brows furrowed and frown against your lips. You lean towards him, the book still held in your hands. “It’s- So what? I like pink and fairy types! They happen to be cute and they’re strong!” Your voice starts to raise, slowly raising into a higher pitch, shoulders raiing a fraction to meet the ends of your lobes. “Plus, there are a few fairy that have a dark counterpart and Mimikyu is one that I’m going to add to my team!” Your eyes narrow and you pull away from him, crossing your arms in front of you, a scowl on your lips, face growing hot under anger. “I just happen to be,” you make a small noise of discomfort and bite the inside of your cheeks, “quieter.”

He looks taken aback, eyes wide as he blinks owlishly at you. His down turned lips start to twitch, forming into a wicked smile. He snorts and shakes his head, a pleasant sound ringing through the small corner, and you soften, your arms slowly lowering from their harsh grip. 

“You got some fire in you, huh?” He asks, tilting his head “Damn, didn’t think you had it in you to actually stand up for yourself like that.” You meet his eyes and he flashes a quick grin that reveals his teeth. “Nothing bad about it, I swear.” he holds his hands up and brushes a hand through his hair. “Anyways-” he waves a hand and you watch it with careful eyes- “you oughta be more careful about who you yell it at, as all I’m gonna say,” he muses. 

“Piers?” He hums in response and you swallow nervously. “Wh- Why did you come here?” You don’t want to accuse him of following you here, for all you know it could be a happy, little accident. “And why did you talk to me?”

His milky complexion turns into a bright pink that fills in his cheeks, a flustered look on his face where his eyes narrow. “Oh, hah, I- Marnie needed a book and I-” his hand swings around at a much faster pace, circling around in front of him with an open palm and you react instinctively.

You make a pained gasping noise, the book dropping onto the floor with a thud as your hands come up to block your face, back hunched as you try to cower under the minimal protection that you offer yourself. You whimper and take a stumbling step back that leads you against the wall, your eyes pinched shut and it’s a second too late that you realize you messed up. You gasp and straighten up, an uncomfortable heat running down your back as you meet his eyes.

He stands frozen, his hand still in midair and his eyes are wide, darting down to the book and back to where your hands still hold a semi-protective barrier against him. His eyes turn from shocked into pitiful and you break away from his gaze, mumbling an apology under your breath.

“Shit,” he hisses out, bringing his hands close to his body. “I didn’t mean to trigger you or-”

“It’s not that,” you respond quickly. “I- Can we not talk about it?” You turn to look at him, your bottom lip trembling ever so slightly, your eyes glancing back to the fallen book. “Please?” He nods slowly and you return it in response. You crouch down to grab the book and pull it close to you only to look back at it with disdain. You turn and place the book back into the shelf, your hands coming down to play with the hem of your skirt. 

It’s silent. The soft music that plays from the music is not enough to drown the silence between the both of you and you want to chastise yourself for ruining a moment with your fears. Your teeth bite into the soft part of your cheeks, painful and enough to make tears spring into your eyes. In your pocket, your phone buzzes and you fail to pick it up, too frozen to care about the outside world. 

“Do you want to get a coffee?” You look up at him and he gives you a hesitant smile. He jerks his chin to the other side, his hands inside his coat pockets. “I was thinking of getting a cup while I was here,” he clears his throat, “I could get you one if you want. We can drink it here too,” he adds quickly.

You give him a tentative smile, slowly pulling yourself away from the wall and taking a step closer to him. “Do you want to look for Marnie’s book first? I don’t- I don’t mind.” 

“Right,” he says slowly, “her book. The uh- you know, let me message her to see what the title was, yeah?” He nods his head and moves to the side, jerking his head to allow you to walk in front of him first. “Let’s just get a drink first, all right?” He gives you a nervous smile, laughing quietly with eyes that come to a close. You come to stand next to him, nodding softly, your hands flexing at your sides in an attempt to calm down. “Neat,” he says. “Let’s get a cup

[tokisguitarpick]

balcony

characters: Pickles the Drummer x Reader

length: 1700+ words

listen this is really self indulgent but pickles’ back story hits me on a personal level. tried to phrase the mom self in a way that even someone with a good mom could see themselves in the reader but s/o to bitches who’s moms stress them out, we see you

You sighed, holding your own hand and staring up at the night sky, sat on top of Mordhaus. About three months into your employment, you had found the perfect place for lunch breaks, sneaking out with a joint mid-shift, anything. Up the emergency ladder, around the smokestacks, and over a large generator, there was a tiny balcony that no one seemed to know about and it was one of your favorite spots on the whole ship. And tonight, you needed it for the clarity it gave you. 

Nails bitten to the quick, you had spent a couple of hours pacing in your bedroom before making your way up here to sit in the peace and quiet and really just be alone.

“Doode, what ahre you doin’ up ‘ere?” Your eyes closed. Of course.

It’s not that you would normally mind Pickles for company. In fact, quite the opposite. Something about the drummer drew you to him and between his chill demeanor and frequent offers of hits off his joint, he was typically your favorite band member. But tonight, any company felt like more energy than you had to spend.

But it was your job to spend energy entertaining, safeguarding, and checking on Dethklok so you fixed your face into a neutral expression and replied, “I like to come up here when I need some fresh air.” 

Pickles swung himself over the generator with ease and plopped down next to you, both of you sticking your legs through the wide gaps under the balcony fencing and letting them hang down. “Oh yeah, me tooh.” As usual, the drummer brought with him the stale scent of alcohol and sweat, as well as the very pungent smell of fresh weed. “You know me, I like to be high.” Pickles chuckled at his own joke as you watched him pull a silver cigarette case from his back pocket but his laughter died on his lips when he met your gaze. “Sam’thin’ wrong?”

Your head tilted as you looked over yourself in your mind’s eye. “What do you mean?”

Slowly, Pickles raised a calloused thumb to your cheek and you felt him wipe away some wetness. Fuck. You hadn’t cried much and the cool night air had dried most of the tears as Mordhaus chugged forward but apparently, there was enough evidence left for him to find. 

“Yah knoow,” Pickles started, his eyes trained on his hand instead of meeting your own, “I’m naht really one for… talkin’ about feelin’s and shit. But ah, uh, I can listen?” His eyes were a deep, comforting shade of green, something you noticed when they finally met yours, his pierced eyebrows raising as he ended with a question. 

Your heart softened and you smiled softly, prompting a lopsided smirk from the drummer as he finally dropped his hand. He fiddled with the cigarette case in his lap until he produced a blunt and held it out for you. “So whaht’s goin’ on?”

Taking the blunt from him and then the offered lighter- a zippo with a dill pickle carved on the side-, you lit up and took a long drag before passing both back to him. The paper crackled next to you with his inhale and you stared at the sky again, breathing your hit out like a cloud in front of you. 

“My mom called.” No longer a happy notification to receive, the information turned your stomach. Ever since you had gone against her wishes and applied for the stressful, dangerous, terrifying job of being a managerial coordinator for the band Dethklok, she had turned into someone you could hardly recognize. Cold, petty, always passively asking for money and aggressively telling you how little you must care about her since you were always too busy to call her when she was free (not when you were, though. She was a busy woman and she couldn’t wait around all day just for a call). You assumed she was angry you hadn’t listened to her and was even angier that you didn’t volunteer those, frankly, sweet as hell Dethklok paychecks to appease her.

You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Pickles make a sour face, his cheeks puffed with weed smoke. Releasing his hit with a cough, he passed the blunt and nodded. “I know that feelin’. When my mam’ calls, I send it straight tah’ voicemail.”

“Maybe I need to start doing that,” you mused quietly. Puff and pass, you moved your gaze down to watch the traffic passing on the various highways around the house.

“That bad?” Pickles asked, holding onto the blunt for a minute as he tried to fix a run in the burn. You didn’t mind, your high creeping up and the wad of anxiety in your stomach loosening. 

Turning your answer over in your mind a few times, you finally spoke when you realized you had been quiet for an embarrassingly long time. “She’s just different now. I feel like she’s not the same person I knew growing up and the person she is now… I don’t know if it’s a person I like.” You had wondered a few times if she was destined to become this woman but when memories resurfaced, you felt as though your current feelings tainted them and you weren’t sure what the truth was. “I just- I don’t know. Do you ever feel like your family would like you so much more if you just shut up and gave them all your spare cash?” 

This time, Pickles was the one who was silent for what seemed like a long time and when you finally looked up, you were surprised to see he had completely disassembled the blunt and was rolling a joint with the leftover weed on one side of the open cigarette case. It was balanced carefully on his thigh- full of a few dime bags of ground weed and spare rolling papers- but his face was angled towards you. “Uh, yeah. That’s all I feel when it comes to my family.” Bringing the joint up to his lips, he gave you a curious look, furrowing his brow. “Cahn I ask you sam’thin’?”

You nodded.

“Is yuhr mam’ hasslin’ you for money?” Lighting up with a couple of puffs, he passed the joint to you and leaned back on his palms.

That was the long and short of it from as far as you could tell, you mused. You took a deep hit, studying Pickles as you nodded again. Your high was hitting you and suddenly, the terse phone call that had been weighing on you seemed much less important than the physique of the drummer next to you. Long, deep red dreads flowed in the light evening breeze, drawing your eyes down his neck and shoulders. Almost always in a dark tank top, his muscular shoulders and arms stole the show, lithe and wirey from years of being a professional musician. God, he was hot. Sure, he was more than a little older than you, and balding just a little, and maybe unable to be sober for longer than a half hour without complaining. But otherwise, very hot. Your gaze fell to his hands, fingers with blunt nails spread to support himself, and the backs of his palms flexed with large veins.

You were only moments away from poking one when his voice broke your concentration. “Like whaht yah see?” Looking back to his face, Pickles’ smirk was now a full blown grin and he wiggled his eyebrows at you. “Wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer.”

“Sorry,” you chuckled, the heat of a blush finding your cheeks as you puffed and passed the joint, “I’m kinda stoned. Your weed is always so fucking strong.” 

Pickles broke out into nasally laughter and you couldn’t help giggling yourself in response. “That’s why I get it, only the good shit,” he replied, still chuckling. He puffed then snuffed the joint and tucked it behind his ear for safekeeping as he sat up.

Unable to get a handle on the stoned laughter coming out of you, your giggle fit continued and you leaned over, resting your forehead on his shoulder. You put a hand over your mouth as you tried to relax. Pickles shifted under you, letting your head find his collarbone as he wrapped his arm around your waist. He seemed to freeze like that and if you had been sober, you probably would’ve stayed that way, savoring the feeling of closeness with your celebrity crush in such a private moment. There were over a million Dethklok fans who would kill or die for this to happen to them.

But you were high as fuck and didn’t like how stiff the embrace felt. You shifted yourself to lean more comfortably against him without realizing it, until his hand started to fall from your side. Instantly, you grasped his wrist and brought it back to your hip, murmuring, “You’re good.” 

Pickles laughed again, squeezing you and resting his hand on your ribcage. He was so warm, you could feel his palmprint burning through the thin cotton of your sleepshirt, so close under your breast that it made you shiver. “Oh, honey, I could get you tah’ say that a hundred different ways,” he stated confidently. It made your blush burn even hotter, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. Pickles, however, cleared his throat and muttered, “Uh, not like in a sexuhal’ harassment type way, just, uh, yah know… If you were down…”

You giggled again and nodded. “I got you, I got you… I’m down.” You erupted into nervous giggles and covered your face with your hand again. Unable to believe your own gall, you were about to dismiss your words with a quick ‘I’m joking’ but Pickles moved faster, goosing your breast with a bark of laughter.

“I’ll keep thaht in mind,” he said, seemingly to himself, his hand resting once again on your torso. You couldn’t say anything, your body alight with tingles radiating from your breast and your mind slowed, so you simply nodded against him. 

Quiet for a moment, you tried to settle your breathing while Pickles relit the joint and puffed in thought. Finally speaking up, he just said, “Seriously though, Y/N, I think you need to tell your mom to go fuck herself.”

[decadentenemyturtle]

Broken heart t'was made of wood

Part 1 - Gift

Summary:  It's not the money you put in one's gift, but the time and love. And if they cannot appreciate your gift, do they really decerve your time and happiness?

Words: 2499

Pairing: Thorin x Reader

Warnings: Angst

What was suppose to be one of the best gifts given in your life, turned to be complete opposite of that. And just because of a simple fight, a misunderstanding.

 It had all started months ago, actually, when you got an idea one evening in one of the meals with the company. Dwalin had mentioned making a gift for his lady, and you just had happend to see Thorin's face at the time. The longing look, the look one has when they wished that someone gifted them something. And, well... Not just someone... But, nevermind that!

Few days later you had staretd to craft small, no bigger than your arm, wooden statues of Thorin's family. They turned out rather well, and even Balin was impressed. He had helped you for getting old drawings of the family for you, but only after hearing that you wanted to gift Thorin something special. And the look the old dwarf gave you was more than well knowing granfather of the very secret of his grandchild's, but he did not say anything about it. He only encourage you to do your stuff.

The Company knew you were a woodscrafter, and how you had done the crafting for a living before being pulled in this mysterious world. And after Erebor had been taken back and restored, you were given a change to continue your handiwork in Erebor. You even had your very own workshop! And customers came to you eagerly, even from Dale (well, they did need furniture and your work was more than well liked) and from Mirkwood. Even king Thranduil had ordered a new, bigger table for his study from you. He even got you rarer wood, a specic you did not know and deffinetly expensive and hard to get.

After you had finished the last wooden statue, you started to think how to given them to Thorin. Or when. And just now did you realize that you hadn't thought that how you should deliver these gifts to the king. Oops... Oh, well, oh well... There had to be a way, at leas for you since you knew Thorin and were even some sort of friend of his.

Asking him to take some time for you from his work felt wrong, and you didn't see him outside of his work often, so you decided to turn to his sister - asking help from Fíli and Kíli was out of option for a reason, Balin had already helped you too much, and the rest of the company? Yeah... no... Anyway, you needed to know how and where you should send the statues, and who you should ask to help you to carry the box to his.... Well, you didn't even know where you should send them. Or if you should give them personally to Thorin, in which case you should ask Thorin's time in your workshop and get few dwarves help to carry the statue's to wherever Thorin wanted them.

Yeah, that sounded most logical option, you thought just as you entered the royal wing. Just because you had an idea for doing a thing didn't mean you shouldn't ask if it was alright to do, you thought as you sought an living person in the area.

After looking for a while, you found out that Dís had some urgent things at hand and couldn't see you right now. You didn't trust enough for Thorin's maid to not to gossip about your gift for Thorin, and well, with the whole mountain, so you asked if anyone from the royal family at the moment was free to talk with you. Not that you wouldn't mind the whole mountain know about your gift, but you know... It's nicer to learn from your gift from the giver and see it, before you hear it from the gossibers probably even hours earlier. You learned that Fíli was free at a moment, so you headed for the royal private living room.

Some time later you stepped out of the living area of the royal are and then you heard it. Humming, calm and happy. After investigating a minute, you found out it was Fíli who had been humming, and after some importune of your part he had finally told you what it was about.

"It's an old lullaby my amad used to hum or sing to me and Kíli, when were still small pebbles. It's one of the only things she remember's form her childhood in 'ere Erebor" then he turned to you with a small smile. "Sometimes when I was small, I heard uncle humming it. I fear it has been years since I've last 'eard him hum it, even a little" You could only nod, feeling sad to hear this.

After talking with Fíli, you had gotten a little idea to add your gift for Thorin. It would take more time to craft than the statues, and you needed to make sure where you could get the best metal's and wood for it all the while so that Thorin wouldn't find out. And the lad had no advice how you should deliver the wooden statues to Thorin, expect to ask him to meet you alone.

"The rest will go on after that, just ask to meet uncle" he had said.

After talking with Bofur about the wood and with Gloin about the metal's, and after they heard where you needed the materials and whatever for, they were more than eager to help you.

You got the wood first - a fine chunk of pinewood's branch, and started the carving immediately. You got the metal's few weeks later, and they were brought to you by Gloin himself. When Gloin saw a glimbse of your carved statues, he eyed them for a second before giving you a firm nod and then leaving you to be. You wondered his behavior for a moment, but soon you forgot it as you started to work.

  Few months later your little extra work was almost finished, when Thorin came to your workshop. You were a little surprised, when you opened the door for him. And even more so, when he asked about the wooden statues of his family "dusting in your workshop". At first you didn't understand, how he could know about them. Not many knew what you had been prepared for their king - you could count them with one hand - and those few who knew, had promised not to say a word. And you always covered them, when a customer came to your workshop for whatever reason.

Then you remembered the one time, when you hadn't covered them proberly, and how Gloin had looked at them. And it hit you. Of course, that ass had not realised that they were part of your gift and he had went and told or sent a message to Thorin about them, blaming you for making statues of the royal family, from wood on top of that.

"I made them for you, your majesty" you told Thorin, hurt clearly heard in your voice. Thorin wasn't clearly impressed of your work, no matter how much they reminded of him his family, even less so when he thought that you had not told him about your little work or shown them to him. And he had told you as much, rather angrily. And really, you could understand his anger. You just wished he'd calm enough to hear your version of the story.

"Then, please, do tell me, why I haven't seen these, or even better, received these from you?" he asked, his voice cold, almost as cold when he had had the gold sickness. You swallowed, eyeing quickly your main worktable behind you. A wooden box ornated with silver and gold sat on top of it, tools around it. Thorin gave a quick glance to the box you had made and then he sighed.

"(Y/n), I have no decire to receive any jewelry from you. Not that you could actually make something that would be suitable for a king. Wooden jewelries are somewhat beautiful, but they do not suit for me" he said, turning to look at the wooden statues at the bigger table at the corner of your workshop. "And those statues shall be destroyed. I will not have my family been carved out of wood out of all the materials" You opened your mouth to arque with him, to tell to shovel up the crown to his royall ass, to say something, but Thorin quieted you by lifting lifting his hand.

"I will not discuss about this. You were given a permission to make wooden furniture and other requested item's. Those statues are not wanted or were not requested, so they must be destroyed" Thorin said and then he turned and was out of your suddenly so small workplace.

Your lips started to tremble, and your eyes started to turn glassy. Before you even knew it, you were sitting on the chair, crying your bleading heart out.

You should have know that Thorin would not appreciate gifts carved out of wood, as any other dwarf would not have done. You had been blind, too bround of your own work, that you had not thought what Thorin would actually think about your gifts.

Later on the day, when you went to the market to gather some incridiens for your food, you received odd looks. It wasn't because of your wet cheeks or red, puffy eyes. You had spent hours in your workplace after you had stopped crying. In that time Dwalin and two other dwarves came to collect the statues. None of them said anything after you had given one of the dirtiest and murderoust glares to them, when other of the dwarves crunted their colorfull opinion of your work, and of you.

When the three of them left, Dwalin stopped at the door and turned to look at you. He was about to say something, but the way you looked at him made him close his mouth and he only nodded to you.

You took a bit more food than you actually needed. Then you headed back to your office, and wrote a note that you attached to the door outside of your workplace. Then you took the wooden box you had made for Thorin and headed back home, swallowing your bride and tears. You saw Fíli and Kíli on your way, but you ignored them. You weren't angry with them - how could you - it just... You just didn't want to be around those two just now.

Safely in your small house, you set the basket on the table and headed to your bedroom. After an hour you had changed your clothes more suitable for travelling, backed the most important stuff in your small back, and had written a little letter for Thorin, the box attached to the letter.

You wiped the tears from your eyes, loaded the back on your back, took the box and letter in your hands, and headed out of your home to look for servant. In the end, you found the boys just outside of youre home.

"Where are you going?" Kíli asked. You gave him a little smile and the both boys knew immediatly that something was wrong. Not that they said anything.

"I'm going to Dale. Work stuff..." you lied, and handed the box to Fíli. "Can you..." you quicky licked your lips "Can you give this to your uncle? Please?" Fíli took the box, looking at it for a second, frowning, before he looked up to you.

"Of... course" he only said, sounding troubled. Then he added "When will you return?" You gave him a sad smile, and he, and Kíli, knew already the answer.

"I don't know, laddie. When I can" you answered, even when you all knew the answer. You wouldn't be coming back Erebor. Fíli swallowed and turned to look down at the box, while Kíli looked like sad, kicked puppy. And he probably felt like that too.

"Can't you stay? Please?" he asked, pleaded. You shhok your head, feeling the familiar lump in your throat.

"I can't, laddie. Not when the person who I love hardly even regocnises me" you choke out, tears rising in your eyes. And here you thought that you had done with crying for the day. Kíli really looked like a kicked puppy, while his brother looked just sad.

"We love you, auntie" Fíli said, and then he and Kíli both hugged you, tightly. Then, after a while, you let go of them and smiled to them.

"I love you both, too. I won't forget you, laddies" you said and gave a small kiss for a both of them on the cheek. And then you left.

  The day was turning to an evening, when Fíli was able to give the little box to his uncle. They were in the royal living room, Thorin sitting over the table, Kíli and Dís on the armchairs over the fire. Fíli was leaning to the armchair his mother was sitting on, eyeing his uncle. And finally, he sighed and pushed himself up. He walked up to the table, placing the small box and letter on the table.

"Uncle, I was truested by... someone... to give these for you" Fíli said, when Thorin looked up to him. Then Fíli just nodded to him, turned and walked over to a lonely corner and sat on the divan. Thorin frowned and then he turned his eyes to the box. He took the letter to his hand, and when he saw the box, he felt his breath live from his body.

"(Y/n)..." he muttered as he let his hand slide over the wooden surface. He remembered this little box from your workplace. Then he turned his eyes to the letter he was holding. And he frowned, again. He opened the letter and his lips went on a thin line.

"I'm sorry for, well, everything...." Thorin read the part of the first sentence and then he turned his eyes back to the box. And then he opened it. Just out of the curoisty he wanted to know, what kind of jewelry you had made for him. But...

But...

"What..." he started just as a beautiful melody started to ring in the room. Thorin's eyes went as big as plates. Fíli stopped his lonely, gloomy musings and turned to his uncle, and Kíli and Dís stopped their talking and turned to look at Thorin. They all knew this song far too well.

Thorin could only stare at the small box, seeing the mechanism in it to work their magic to create this music, the old lullaby his mother had sang to him when Thorin had been small pebble. Just as Fíli was approaching the table, Thorin turned his eyes back to the letter still in his hand. And Thorin had to swallow his pride, and tears.

"I never meant to offend you, your majesty. I just wanted to make you happy"

[blackberry-gingham]

Hiya! Could you write a little something about Paul dating a girl who is a big bookworm? She can’t go anywhere without a book in her hands. She’s just very timid and polite and Paul just instantly falls for her! Thank you so so much, my love <3

Oh it's SO cottage core time lol.

Thank you for sending this in!!! I love bookworm reader type stuff 🥺🥺 enjoy!

---

Today has been very bizarre indeed.

Paul sits on a worn leather bench in the hall of a recording building all by himself. He's brought his bass and some music sheets he's been working on, fully prepared for a little practice and recording with the lads.

He checks his watch once again. It's 12:38, over half an hour past when John told him they were going to meet up for practice. Paul huffs and thumps his head against the panel wall behind him. Damn that John...

"Well, this is a waste", Paul slaps his knees and stands. He does a quick stretch, and an old office door creaks open. You poke your head out to see what all the ruckus is about.

"Hello? Is everything alright out here?"

Paul nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of your voice, "Oh, pardon me! I uh-", he turns to face you. He's seen you around here before plenty of times when he's come to record, but never found the time to talk with you. Not that he ever thought he could, that is.

You always seem to be reading everywhere you go.

And yet, that fascinates him. Your clothes are stylish, but simple and comfortable. You don't appear to care too much for loads of makeup or elaborate hairdos. Just... the natural beauty of you alone has his interest peaked. So different from the other girls he usually runs into...

Not to mention you've never before come to ask for an autograph or just to talk with any of the four of them! You're like a puzzle he wants to solve. He's so use to being hounded by girls, the one woman he meets that doesn't seem to care much for him, has him on his head.

You wouldn't know what to say to that, except that you're quite use to him and the other Beatles being around. Thus, you're simply not too caught up as a ravenous fan girl type.

No, you rather prefer books and your soft classics to rock n roll and it's stars.

"Oh, Mr McCartney... I'm sorry sir, but we don't seem to have a studio scheduled for you today... Uhm, is there some mistake?"

Paul leans on the wall, trying to be casual, but failing miserably. He paints on what he hopes is a charming smile, "Something like that, but it's alright! Say, haven't I seen you here before...?"

You smile kindly, although you see through his act, "Yes sir, I'm an assistant here. See?" You come out of the doorway and gently click your door closed behind you. Sure enough, your name is written in bold block letters on the glass.

Paul reads you name aloud, letting it roll off his tounge. "What a lovely name! Say, I'm about to head out, but can I autograph something for you, for the trouble? I didn't mean to scare you, haha. Uh... That perhaps!"

He gestures to a ragged old tome cradled in your arms. The pages are yellowed, the spine well worn, and the color coating has begun to chip away. Just barely along the cover, one can faintly make out the title, Pride and Prejudice.

You hold the novel tighter to your chest and turn slightly away to shield it. "Oh! Um, thank you but I couldn't... This is an original copy from 1813, it's practically a treasure! Er uh, not that I wouldn't wa-"

"From 1813?", Paul interupts you, not with the intention of being rude, mind, in fact quite the opposite. His eyes are wide and it's clear you've captured his attention for sure now.

"That's right! I just love books, you know... I'm something of a collector haha", you run your delicate fingers over the top of the hardcover and for the briefest of moments, Paul wonders what those fingers would feel like through his hair.

You continue, "I'm actually only here to bring some books home from my office, I was just leaving when I heard you out here"

Paul snaps out of his daydream, realising now that he's sad to see you go, "Heh, right then! Well I suppose I shouldn't ke-"

An ear splitting crack of thunder shakes the building, followed immediately by a heavy torrent of rain that you can hear even through the brick exterior. Your face falls, "Oh no... I'm sorry Mr McCartney, but I really must be going, tsk now I need to figure out how to get my books safely to the car"

"Would you like some help? I've all day freed up you know!", Paul's heart beat quickens as he awaits your answer.

You think for a moment. Well, you could use some help moving the boxes... Besides-

Your eyes focus on Paul who, if he's even trying to hide his excitement, is doing a very poor job of it. If he had a tail, it'd surely be wagging.

-he seems harmless.

At last you accept and usher Paul into your office. "Do you think we could find something to cover the boxes from the rain?"

Paul thinks a moment then promises to return in a jiffy. True to his word, he's come back with what appear to be drum tarps. He drapes the sturdy leather over both stacks, then stands back to appreciate his work, "There now, surely Ringo won't mind since it's for such a worthy cause"

You laugh heartily, and in that very moment Paul swears he'll remember the beautiful melody of it all his life. You clear your throat, trying to compose yourself, "Ahem, well then, my car is just this way"

Paul hoists his boxes up with a touch more effort then he was anticipating, but he'll be damned if he lets that on in front of you. He grits his teeth and hopes it's not too far as he follows you through the hallways to the back lot.

"Oh! Are those encyclopedias too heavy? I'm so sorry, I should've split the load...", You turn to check on him. He looks a bit red.

"They're fine!", Paul wheezes.

You don't believe a word, but you figure he'd rather carry on then stop now. Besides, you're nearly there. Finally, as promised, you exit the building and stand beneath the small awning.

"Alright now, it's that green one over there, see? We'll run over quick, and put them in the backseat, ok?"

Paul nods and huffs, hyping himself up for one last push.

"Go!"

The two of you race to the car, just barely able to see where you're headed through the down pour. You balance your boxes on your knee with one hand and shove your keys into the lock with the other. Without a second wasted, you fling the door open and push the stack inside with Paul's right behind you.

You slam the door closed and jump into your car for cover while Paul joins you in the passengers seat. You're absolutely soaked and Paul doesn't look much better. He laughs at the state of himself, but you feel quite bad for putting him up to this in the first palce...

"Uh, Mr McCartney..."

"Oh, Paul please", he laughs

You smile and muster up some courage, "Paul... Um, would you like to come take these home with me? I'd just hate to leave you out in the rain... Besides, I can make you a nice cuppa for your help. And, there will be biuscuits", you bite your lip, and suddenly the dynamic has flipped as now you await anxiously for a yes.

Paul looks at you very seriously, "Well, only if there will be biuscuits", after a moment, he smiles, and let's you in on the joke. You laugh alongside him.

Carefully, you drive through the storm and the city until you reach the edge of town. The rain's not let up, even as you hit the countryside. Paul sings and talks to you a little to settle your nerves, particularly as streaks of lighting and cracks of thunder battle overhead.

Before long you pull into a little dirt lane that slowly turns to cobble. You turn everything off and when the car is situated, you and Paul formulate a similar plan as before to grab the boxes and make a break for your porch.

The plan goes smoothly and Paul follows you closely across the stone path up to the painted white steps of your porch. Now that his eyes have a break from the onslaught of rain water, Paul take a moment to appreciate your little home as you fish out your keys.

The porch is quite small, and surrounded by flowering shrubs. A few vines of English ivy twine around the banisters and railing, creating a lovely frame and backdrop for the two person swing bench hanging just a few feet away. Paul is admiring the little pillows when you interupt him to come inside.

Paul follows obediently through the cottage, absolutely swimming in the atmosphere. Just inside lays a cute little door mat welcoming him to the abode. To the left is a small living room with a fireplace and a bench at the window. Every piece of furniture is tastefully laden with pillows and fluffy throws.

You travel up a short flight of stairs which leads to a single room on the second floor. The walls are made entirely of bookshelves aside from a little niche carved out for a desk and a split stopping just before the large bay window and bed beneath it.

Paul is so stunned at the sight of it, he has to freeze and take in the simple, yet majestic room. He feels as though he's in another world.

"You can just put those over there, I'll go start the kett- Uh, Paul are you alright?"

"Huh? Oh, sure! Over here you said?"

"...If you'd please. Thank you", you smile and leave after just an extra moment to make sure he doesn't fall over or something.

Paul sets to work diligently and respectfully handling your collection, occasionally glancing reverently up at the towering shelves around him. He reads every title, feeling the old binding across the length of his hands. The whole room smells of aged paper and a touch of your perfume, and Paul's never experienced such a wonderful scent in his life.

He's about halfway through his stack of boxes when you come up the old creaking stairway to beckon him down for tea. Paul snaps to attention at the sound of your voice, then scuttles down after you.

"Here, I thought we could dry off by the fire", you hand him a cup and saucer with all the fixings he could want safely placed on the old wooden coffee table behind him. Paul joins you on the wool rug as you fix your drinks then settle in.

"Thank you so much for your help Mr-, er I mean Paul", you smile sweetly, and Paul has never felt so happy to hear someone speak his name.

"No trouble...", He mumbles.

You sip in silence for a while, and suddenly you shiver quite violently. Your cup rattles and spalshes just a touch.

A little embarrassed, you apologize and put down your cup, "I guess I didn't realize how cold I was", you laugh nervously and grab one of your many blankets and a few pillows to surround yourself with.

"No no, don't worry! Here, let me help", Paul hesitates just a second, but when you don't object he scoots closer until you're sitting hip to hip. You smile gratefully, a little blush painting your cheeks as you drape the rest of the blanket over Paul's shoulder.

"Thank you...", daring to take a risk, you cuddle into his side.

Paul welcomes you, holding you tightly and praying you can't feel his heart hammering away inside him. He and rests his chin on your head and places a gentle, tiny kiss to your fragrant hair, lingering just a moment to drink in the scent of it. You smell like paper and wisteria.

"No trouble"

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Fractured Ice - Ch. 5/7

Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen.

Lan Xichen in an agony of suspense, hands shaking as he pulls Liebing from his qiankun pouch and puts it to his lips.

Xue Yang bites his finger and traces symbols on the sarcophagus in blood, breaking the seals.

Lan Xichen holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

XueXiao & XiYao - Rated M - Read on AO3! Tumblr: Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3  Ch. 4 Ch. 6

Ch. 5: damn right, you should be scared of me

Lan Xichen feels dull and heavy as they pass through the gates of the Unclean Realm.

“We were not expecting Zewu-jun!” babbles the Nie chamberlain as they arrive. “Please excuse the lack of reception; we received no notice of the Clan Leader’s arrival—”

Lan Xichen glances at him dispassionately, then dredges up a small smile and ducks his head at the chamberlain, almost overbalancing and falling forward thanks to the weight of his forehead ribbon.

A-Yao never would have been unprepared like this when he served in the same role. Never would have shown it, at the very least. Would have made the guests feel welcome, his quick mind adjusting to the new circumstances with alacrity and grace—

“My name is Xiao Xingchen,” says Xue Yang. He puts his hands together and bows deeply at the chamberlain. He’s fully back in his Xiao Xingchen role, all gentle refinement and forceful softness and slight _ otherness _, as if he’d learned social graces somewhere outside of normal society. “Zewu-jun and I have come to see Clan Leader Nie on matters of grave urgency. Our visit is to be kept secret.”

The man glances at Lan Xichen for confirmation. Lan Xichen nods.

Another bow. “Please follow me, then, Zewu-jun. This way. Thank you.”

Xue Yang winks at Lan Xichen as they follow the chamberlain through a series of side passages to the reception hall. Lan Xichen gets the idea that he’s hugely enjoying this farce. In another life, he feels, Xue Yang, might have been an actor.

Lan Xichen, on the other hand, feels his sense of dread growing as they near the hall.

Any hint of color in the Unclean Realm is swallowed by the overwhelming sense of grayness. Slate gray walls. Slate gray floors. Gray ornaments, gray ceilings, gray fixtures and furniture and sconces and statues and carvings.

Exactly like a tomb.

Lan Xichen keeps one hand out, just in case the stifling walls begin to move, to crush him, as he’s convinced they will at any second.

“One moment, please.” The chamberlain bows low at Lan Xichen and disappears through a door. Slate gray, with black accents, set in a dark gray frame.

He returns a few minutes later. “I regret to inform Zewu-jun that Clan Leader Nie is in an important conference, but he would be happy to meet with you tomorrow, or perhaps the day after tomorrow—”

Lan Xichen backhands him into the wall with his full Lan strength and pushes open the door, locking it behind him and Xue Yang.

Nie Huaisang hops to his feet, dropping his paint brush. “Zewu-jun! What a pleasant surprise—”

“Some conference,” says Xue Yang, glancing around at the empty chamber.

Nie Huaisang gulps visibly. Lan Xichen can almost hear the ropes and pulleys creaking in his head as he decides whether to fall back on his old Headshaker routine or acknowledge the fact that Lan Xichen is onto him.

He goes with the former.

“What can I do for Zewu-jun?” he asks, bowing deeply and seating himself on his throne-like seat. He seems to make himself smaller as he does so, as if well aware of how the seat dwarfs him and wanting to play up the impression of smallness, of helplessness, of innocence and vulnerability. “And, of course, our venerated cultivator friend.” He rises again, bows at Xue Yang with a flap of expensive silver sleeve. “It is a true privilege to meet Xiao Xingchen once again.”

That’s right; Nie Huaisang met Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen at the same time A-Yao and Wangji did. Lan Xichen hopes that Xue Yang, remembering this, will reign in the theatrics.

Xue Yang bows a bit too low. “The honor is all mine, Clan Leader.”

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Nie Huaisang is wearing one of his after-all-it’s-not-as-if-_ I- _ can-be-of-any-help-to- _ you _ looks, and Lan Xichen is seized by the sudden urge to rip his quivering little face off—

He blinks the thought away, a bit unnerved at the idea that Xue Yang might be having more of an influence on him than he’s thought.

Nie Huaisang, in turn, looks even more nervous than usual, as if he’s aware Lan Xichen is not quite himself.

_ Good. You should be afraid of me, you murderer— _

Lan Xichen looks away from Nie Huaisang, eyes roaming over the familiar room. He’d spent many hours here visiting with Nie Mingjue, and then, later, playing guqin opposite A-Yao—

Had A-Yao truly killed Nie Mingjue?

Nie Mingjue had tried to kill A-Yao more than once as his mind deteriorated, but Lan Xichen doubts A-Yao could have done such a terrible thing to their sworn brother in return. If there was one thing A-Yao had proven, it was that he could bear up under repeated slights. He can’t remember if A-Yao confessed to Nie Mingjue's murder at Guanyin Temple, but it doesn't matter. He’d confessed to killing Qin Su, and Lan Xichen himself had watched her commit suicide, witnessed A-Yao’s grief. A-Yao’s guilt and self-loathing, it seemed, was all-encompassing at the end, smothering him, choking all rational thought and pushing him to shoulder every impossible sin in the face of the united wall of hatred that faced him in Guanyin Temple.

_ Not me, _ Lan Xichen wants to say. Will be able to say, soon enough, if all went well. I _ never hated you— _

“Brother Xichen?”

Lan Xichen pulls himself out his thoughts. “We have come to pay our respects to Chifeng-zun,” he says.

Nie Huaisang looks alarmed. “Mingjue?”

“It has been a year since his entombment. I thought it only proper to pay my respects now that I am able to travel again.”

Nie Huaisang picks up the fan he’s painting, using it to hide the lower half of his face. “I’m—I’m afraid that’s not possible, Brother Xichen.”

Xue Yang bows low. “And why not, Clan Leader? Zewu-jun has traveled long to get here.”

“I—er—”

Lan Xichen wonders if Nie Huaisang received a message from Lan Qiren, something about keeping Lan Xichen in the Unclean Realm until the Lan cultivators could arrive. For all that he doubts his uncle would have taken Nie Huaisang into his confidence, the signal could have gone out the second he’d stepped inside the fortress’s gates. Or perhaps Nie Huaisang simply sensed something wrong on his own.

“It’s like this,” says Nie Huaisang, emitting a nervous little laugh from behind the silk fan. “Er—you see—Da-ge is resting in the eastern family tomb.”

“Meaning?”

“Er—well—that’s where we keep our more—how should I put it?—problematic dead.” His eyes dart over to Xue Yang, as if he’d rather not air clan laundry in front of a near-stranger, no matter how distinguished. “There are many seals on the tomb, many—er—dangerous areas—”

“The tomb is booby-trapped,” translates Xue Yang bluntly.

“It’s perhaps not as safe as one might have liked—”

“Like the sabers’ Stone Castles?” asks Lan Xichen. Even before Wangji and Wei Wuxian’s little adventure, he’d heard stories from Nie Mingjue.

Nie Huaisang blanches. “Nothing like that! These spirits aren’t dangerous—it’s simply a precaution—”

Lan Xichen can almost see the calculations in Xue Yang’s head—how fast the cultivator could pounce at the clan leader, snatch his stupid fan away, grab him, _ force _ him to help them—

Lan Xichen shakes his head at Xue Yang warningly. “Your brother was my friend, Huaisang. I have a right to pay my respects, as I was in no condition to do so when he was entombed.”

Nie Huaisang’s tone changes to one of pathetic flattery. “You won’t hold this against me, will you, Brother Xichen? Please understand, Brother Xichen. You know how I value our clans’ friendship, Brother Xichen; but I just simply cannot. Nobody in a hundred years has stepped foot inside the tomb unless it’s to bury a body; even I pay my respects from outside the tomb—but not _ too _ close—”

Xue Yang smiles as if about to make a comment about there being one more Nie body to bury if Nie Huaisang keeps this up, but for once his mouth remains shut.

Nie Huaisang hops off his oversized seat and scurries over to a side door in a funny little trot. “I’ll call the chamberlain; make sure you have comfortable rooms made up!” he says, and he darts out.

Xue Yang smirks. “He certainly lives up to his reputation.”

But Lan Xichen shakes his head. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

By request, Lan Xichen and Xue Yang eat alone together in Lan Xichen’s quarters, the same ones he used to stay in when he was a frequent guest here.

“This food is as bad as the Lan junk,” says Xue Yang in disgust. “What did they put in here? Haven’t they ever heard of salt? Meat? Chicken? Honey? Are these raw carrots and leaves stewed in fucking barley water?”

“They prepare it specially for me,” says Lan Xichen absently. He can’t bring himself to eat. He paces the room, trying to ground himself with the firmness of the hard gray stone beneath his feet, the solid smoothness of the walls under his palms, but he’s drifting and he knows it.

“So we can blame you for this inedible garbage? At least at the Cloud Recesses they know how to prepare the stewed leaves properly; this, however—” Xue Yang frowns suddenly. “You don’t look so good, my friend.”

Lan Xichen has sunk to the bed, leaning forward on his knees.

“Zewu-jun?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not worrying about the Lan popping in? I'd say we should get moving, but you don't look great. ”

Lan Xichen glances up. He'd forgotten about the Lan since leaving Nie Huaisang. “I thought we decided my uncle would never trust Nie Huaisang with the truth, and you told me you asked around and were told no Lan cultivators were seen heading here—”

Xue Yang shrugs. “I’ll admit, I half expected to be arrested the second we stepped foot in this metal box. Glad we got an opportunity to eat instead, if you can call this food. I'd figured you could fight us out, maybe take out the Headshaker in the confusion, do the Nie Clan a favor while getting a bit of your own back—”

“I wouldn’t hurt Nie Huisang, no matter how much I wanted to.”

Xue Yang raises an eyebrow. “Never?”

“I am not a murderer.”

“Murderer, killer, same thing.”

“We’ve been through this. It is not at all the same thing.”

Xue Yang makes a face and puts down his chopsticks. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll be right back.” He slips out of the room. Through the door Lan Xichen hears him sending the chamberlain out for different food, but he doesn’t pay attention to the actual words. He’s been here many times before, he knows this guest chamber like the back of his hand, but suddenly the room is unfamiliar. A flash of alarm, as if he can’t remember how he got here even though he can clearly remember the past two hours.

At least he thinks he does.

He lies down on the bed, taking deep, meditative breaths. Stares up at the ceiling. Familiar gray ceiling with familiar stone carvings, but the memory of when he last saw this ceiling is hazy. Hard thin mattress—was it always so hard?—“a warrior’s bed”—who had told him that?

A faint brush of memory: a shared meal—a war conference—a blade flashing beside his—but all that stands out is the sound of guqin music, played in duet.

A sensation of floating, of expanding, of being outside himself, reaching through the walls, feeling the wetness of the rain that has begun to fall—

He opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed. Xue Yang is just finishing up his meal, watching Lan Xichen with an almost worried expression he just manages to hide as Lan Xichen sits up.

“We leave in five minutes,” he tells him.

Xue Yang grins. “To the tomb?”

“To the tomb.”

* * * * * *

They fly out over the fortress walls.

“I counted a dozen sentries on the parapets,” says Xue Yang as they land. He returns Jiangzai to his qiankun sleeve. “They definitely saw us, despite the rain.”

“Your knocking out the chamberlain did not help matters.”

“He was in our way.”

“He was bringing the dessert you ordered.”

“He had it coming.” There’s a new bounce in Xue Yang’s step, as if he’s happy to be _ doing _ something, _ after _ something. If Lan Xichen didn’t know that there had been nothing but vinegar-water at supper, he’d think the delinquent cultivator had been bending the elbow too freely. “You should have seen the look on his face when I asked for extra honey for my dumplings. As if none of these musclebound Nie ever—”

“Xue Yang, we haven’t the time.”

They hadn’t flown very far, needing to preserve their spiritual energy for the booby-traps and ritual at the tomb. They hurry down the road, expecting guards to be following them at any moment, but the night is quiet save for the pattering rain.

“You do know the way, right?”

Lan Xichen nods. He knows where all the many Nie tombs are thanks to the many internments during and after the Sunshot Campaign, but he hadn’t known which one contained Nie Mingjue and A-Yao or he could have spared them the afternoon’s charade.

“The Headshaker, I feel, is someone I could get on with,” says Xue Yang, who seems to feel it his duty to fill any silence with conversation despite the fact that silence would serve them far better. “Squirrely little bastard, isn’t he? Never boring around him, I’d guess. Always something to laugh at.”

Lan Xichen ignores him. Barely even hears him. He’s outside himself again. He tries to bring himself back into his body, focusing on the drenching wetness chilling every inch of his skin and the muddy squelch beneath his feet as they cut through a hardscrabble little farm, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s bobbing above his body, watching a tall blue figure and smaller green-and-black figure slog side-by-side though the rain.

Without consciously deciding to, he embraces the feeling.

He’d spent the better part of a year like this. It’s familiar. Welcome. A cushioning cocoon of numbness.

And yet, still somehow sharp. Focused. Clear.

A part of him somehow knows that it’s a blessing, how a few hours in the Unclean Realm undid all of the changes of the past month. Knows that he needs the old version of himself to do the things that will need to be done to bring A-Yao back.

Besides, he’s happier this way, on some level.

It’s almost dawn when they arrive, drenched and shivering, at the tomb.

Outside the tomb are seven Nie guards, which explains why nobody has come after them.

“You!” Three of the guards converge at the sight of the intruders. “Oh, it is—begging your pardon, Zewu-jun—”

Lan Xichen reaches inside his qiankun pouch, removes his guqin, and blasts them into the tomb’s outer wall with a single arc of blue light that illuminates the falling rain like lightning.

Xue Yang nods approvingly at the three bodies lying prone at unsettling angles. “You tore through them like rice paper.”

“Captain! We heard—” Four more guards run up.

Four more guards flung into the wall with such force Lan Xichen has Xue Yang check to make sure none are dead.

Not that he cares. Nothing is real. Nothing matters.

But just in case.

“All breathing,” says Xue Yang. “Do you think you could teach me that technique? No?” He glances at the tomb door. “How about using it to open the door, then? Preferably without the blue light giving everyone and their great-aunt our location.”

Lan Xichen’s heart is pounding so hard it’s a miracle the countryside isn’t roused by its thunderous beat.

This is it. Inside is A-Yao.

His A-Yao.

Waiting for him to rescue him—

He summons the awful, wonderful energy swelling within him, focuses it, releases it through his guqin in an explosive blast of energy, rocking the thick stone door off its hinges.

Xue Yang grins delightedly. “I was wrong about you Lan,” he says. “What you lack in pizzazz you make up for in power.”

Lan Xichen strides in. Xue Yang follows, Jiangzai out and resting across both shoulders in a way that, if he’s not careful, might result in his severing the tendons in his shoulder.

Xue Yang takes a torch from a wrought-iron sconce on the wall and lights it with a touch of his finger, a trick he’d learned from the Wens. The light and warmth are welcome, but Lan Xichen is still soaking wet and chilled to the bone. The chill goes deeper than mere autumn coolness. It’s a chill he thought he’d gotten rid of but had in fact just burrowed deeper, to be excavated in the Unclean Realm.

That’s fine, though. He likes the cold. It keeps him awake. Keeps him on his toes, despite his detachment.

Sharp. Focused. Clear.

“No booby traps,” says Xue Yang as they step into a chamber a bit bigger than the Nie reception hall. “Do you think the little chipmunk lied to keep us out?”

“Undoubtedly. Lying is his specialty.”

“Same decorator as the Unclean Realm, I see. All gray stone and ugly monster carvings. At least the Unclean Realm doesn’t reek.”

Lan Xichen ignores the overwhelming musty smell. “There. This one.” He rests both hands on the lid of the sarcophagus. A faint hum can be felt through the thick stone. They had sealed off Nie Mingjue’s ghost, immobilized it, but he can still sense the power of the two spirits, locked in eternal battle. How metaphorical of a battle still remains to be seen. “What next?”

Xue Yang is pulling materials out of his qiankun sleeve. “First of all, we have to be prepared to fight a ghost once we open that coffin—”

“We are not fighting Nie Mingjue!”

“He’s not exactly going to want to sit down to tea, though if we had tea it might we worth a shot—”

“We immediately suppress him.”

“Not liberate? Xiao Xingchen was always keen on setting them at rest.” His tone is dismissive, but Lan Xichen senses the effort it takes to mention Xiao Xingchen so casually.

“His spirit is too far gone for that. The kindest thing would be to put it out of its misery.”

Xue Yang shrugs. “You’re the boss, Zewu-jun. Don’t mind me. I’ll work around you. Actually—” He bows, suddenly deferential “—I will need a drop or two of your blood.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t bother asking him what it’s for. Doesn’t matter at this point, as long as it can help.

With surprising delicacy, Xue Yang pricks Lan Xichen’s finger where it won’t interfere with using his flute, guqin, or sword.

“And now,” he says, removing something from his qiankun sleeve with a flourish, “we prepare the accommodations for our guest of honor.”

It’s the spirit-trapping pouch he’d given to Lan Xichen and long since taken back, its brown sides smooth and blank. As Lan Xichen watches, riveted, Xue Yang uses Lan Xichen’s blood to cover the bag in intricate, entirely foreign symbols.

Xue Yang hands it to Lan Xichen when he’s finished. “Just one moment; I need some...grass from outside. I’ll be back in a second.”

He lights another torch and leaves, returning soon with a handful of grass. He scatters it on the coffin and sets up the rest of the ritual, humming to himself, drawing an intricate array around the sarcophagus in red from a jar he has with him. Red paint, Lan Xichen would have assumed had he been paying even the slightest bit of attention to anything but the spirit-trapping pouch. After all, where would Xue Yang have found so much fresh blood?

“All right, then,” says Xue Yang, straightening up and rinsing his reddened hands off with water from his canteen. “Step away from the sarcophagus, Zewu-jun, if you please. We have work to do. I’ll need the pouch back, please. Thank you.” He waits until Lan Xichen is a safe distance away before putting his hands on the side of the sarcophagus lid. “Sword out,” he reminds Lan Xichen. “Or flute, or guqin, but don’t just stand there.”

Lan Xichen shakes himself out of his reverie. “Do you truly think he might attack?”

“I just know that that fan-waving little prick would rather torment your friend’s spirit than set his own brother’s spirit at rest. After a year of being confined in there like that—”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Lan Xichen has to admit. It had been explained to him once, the rationale for leaving both spirits like this, but he can’t remember the details right now.

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it isn’t. Now, places, everyone.”

Lan Xichen in an agony of suspense, hands shaking as he pulls Liebing from his qiankun pouch and puts it to his lips.

Xue Yang bites his finger and traces symbols on the sarcophagus in blood, breaking the seals.

Lan Xichen holds his breath.

Nothing happens.

Frowning, Xue Yang pushes the heavy stone lid off the sarcophagus.

Black smoke roars up from the sarcophagus, spinning furiously in a tight vortex. It rushes Xue Yang, flinging him into the wall before he can react.

Lan Xichen begins to play battle music.

Nie Mingjue is one of the angriest spirits he’s ever encountered. But though Lan Xichen is not the man he used to be, tonight he’s committed.

Sharp. Focused. Clear.

Xue Yang is back on his feet, Jiangzai drawn, but he’s smart enough to stay put as Lan Xichen plays.

He channels all of his remaining spiritual energy into Liebing, channels the affection he bears for the man the spirit had once been, channels his feelings for the man whose spirit this man is tormenting, and with the sense of something rupturing, Nie Mingjue’s spirit dissipates.

“I told you it was sheer spite, keeping him in there,” says Xue Yang, spitting blood. “If you could do it, anyone could.”

“Not everyone can do what I can.” Lan Xichen isn’t bragging; it’s simple fact. He glances over anxiously at Xue Yang, who stands looking down into the sarcophagus. “What now?”

Xue Yang turns away and draws unfamiliar symbols in the air.

The array glows red.

At the sight, Lan Xichen goes entirely numb. He’d swear he’s as faded as Nie Mingjue, as vague and amorphous as his birth name, Huan—“to dissipate”—a handful of vapor, a human-shaped patch of nothing so focused on Xue Yang’s next words that it’s lost all sense of self.

Xue Yang turns back to Lan Xichen. In his hand is the spirit pouch.

The symbols on the sides are glowing with a touch of the array’s eerie red light.

Grinning, he tosses it to Lan Xichen.

“He’s all yours,” he says.

* * * * *

Up Next: Xue Yang and Lan Xichen pay Chang Ping a friendly visit in a desperate bid to bring A-Yao back.

Or: Don’t try this at home, kids.

Chapter 6

[darkpetal16]

Apologies if these are out of order! For the Anon with 5+ questions about Bleach!Lilly. 

Anon your excitement really put a smile on my face and some of your ideas were pretty funny so I wanted to share. 

To show my gratitude for your excitement, here’s some pieces of the Bleach story I am still working on: 

Lilly’s zanpakuto: 

I placed the sword in the white sand and took a seat in front of it. It was a black blade--it had darkened to this morbid color the moment I touched it--and it gleamed with an almost malicious aura.

This almost made me want to pout because I liked to think of myself as someone who was not morbid or malicious. Most of the lives I lived I was a relatively good guy! 

Run the genocide route just a few times and you’re marked for life, I thought ruefully, shaking my head.

What else was there to do when cursed with immortality, though? It was bound to happen, I wasn’t that self-disciplined. I thought, perhaps, if I played the role of the villain that maybe my punishment--my karma--would be permanent death.

Nope.

The sinister looking sword remained stock still--not like I expected it to move, really--while I continued to give it a stink eye for its appearance.

I better not have an evil spirit inside, I thought. I’m a happy, bubbly, hero! Not a damn villain.

Only one way to find out, though.

I reached forward with my spiritual energy and forced my consciousness inside the spiritual energy that resided inside the sword.

<cut out> 

“This is a really morbid mindscape,” I observed with narrowed eyes, walking through the black gunk. “Ugh… don’t give me villainous powers, please.”

Then red eyes gleamed beneath the sea of black, and a wicked smile stretched underneath it.

“Damn it,” I cursed, now realizing I did indeed have the evil sword.

<LOT of cut out> 

Lilly requesting new minions. 

“You’ll be happy to know I’ve picked out a new lieutenant,” I chirped, folding my hands together behind me. 

Genryūsai looked up from his caligraphy, dark eyes assessing me. “It’s good to know a hundred years of nagging pays off.”

“I told you I was waiting,” I dismissively returned, taking a seat across from his floor table. “He won’t be with me for very long, though.”

“Hm?” Genryūsai’s attention returned to whatever he was writing. As always, my oldest student was pristine and meticulous in everything he did. His back was kept perfectly straight, and his captain sleeves were tied up to prevent them from dipping into the traditional ink slabs on his desk. He only ever sat on seat cushions—he hated chairs with backs, as he believed they were handicaps for those who couldn’t maintain a proper posture. 

I pouted at this blatant show of disinterest. I knew I still had his attention—he’s been hounding on me to get more people in my squad for over a century since the last of my members switched to different divisions.

Not everyone had the stomach to work with me, apparently. Although Mayuri only left because he wanted to focus more on research, and not at all because I bothered him.

What a fun fella..

Genryūsai knew me better than most, though, and he knew the best way to get under my skin was to not give me the attention and reactions I so craved.

Cheeky trolling bastard.

I was so proud of him.

Some kind of showing of interest would be nice, I thought, reluctantly handing Genryūsai the file of my future lieutenant, and squad members.

Genryūsai silently accepted the folder, setting it in his lap as he opened it and began to peruse through my choices. 

I finally got my anticlimactic reaction when he quirked an eyebrow at my choice of lieutenant. “Sōsuke Aizen? He graduates next month, but his grades aren’t particularly impressive.”

“I want him as my lieutenant,” I stubborn said. “He’s going to become the fifth division captain.”

“You’re third division,” Genryūsai idly pointed out. “You have no say over who rules over fifth division.”

“Shinji has been keeping an eye on Sōsuke for a while,” I said. “Shinji will try to take Sōsuke soon enough.”

Although Shinji’s watching Sōsuke because his instincts are tellin’ him that Sōsuke’s ba-a-ad news. He’s not wrong, but I’d be damned if I let this chance pass up.

Sōsuke Aizen was inevitably going to become a captain. Shinji’s division was the most likely one out of the bunch, since Shinji wants to keep an eye on Sōsuke and by consequences, he’ll get caught by Sōsuke’s trap. 

Which sounded like a hell of a lot of fun. 

For over a thousand years I was waiting for Sōsuke to hurry up and appear!

He tricks and outplays everyone, catching everyone by surprise.

For an old troll like myself I live for shocking people, and getting shocked. Sadly, very few have been able to get the drop on me since coming to Soul Society, though.

With Sōsuke as my lieutenant, though, I had a good chance of falling for one of his traps!

Super~!

“Not very nice of you to swoop in, then,” Genryūsai mused. “Certainly unorthodox to choose a lieutenant as a student instead of someone with proper experience.”

“I’m unorthodox.”

“Very true,” he agreed. “And these members of your squad… Gin Ichimaru, Kaname Tōsen, and Sajin Komamura. Komamura? Ah, are you taking him under your wing, then?”

Sajin Komamura was our resident werewolf. Genryūsai took a special interest in him when the two first met, and offered to sponsor him into the academy. Sajin, humbled and grateful for the opportunity, accepted it.

Unfortunately, the poor baby felt so horribly self conscious about his wolf-like appearance. He refused to go anywhere in public without wearing gloves, a helmet, and every inch of his fur covered. 

Which was such a shame! He was our resident furry, after all, and with all that fur he easily ranked top three as Best Cuddler, and top five for Best Boi. 

Poor pupp—er—poor fella.

Gin and Kaname were obvious choices. Sōsuke was already working hard at trying to recruit Kaname to his side, undoubtedly, and Gin wanted to stay close to Sōsuke to extract his Ultimate Revenge on Sōsuke for attacking his waifu, Rangiku.

Who unfortunately wasn’t graduating, yet, but I already put her in the file as wanting her the moment she did graduate.

Genryūsai hummed and tapped his fingers, needlessly drawing out verbalizing his decision to try and needle me. 

To combat this obvious attempt to annoy me, I started to whistle. 

Off-key.

“Fine,” Genryūsai immediately cut in. He knew if the whistling didn’t work I’d start belting out renditions of I Like Big Butts.

Quick as can be, he stamped his approval and I took my leave after blowing him a kiss.

<Cut out> 

Lilly monologuing and reflecting before meeting her minions. 

The barracks for the fifth division was one of the prettiest, and most feminine.

This was because I literally made it with my own two hands and decided to practice my woodworking skills.

Hey, I had thousands of years to kill before the story finally rolled around. Picking up odd hobies were a necesssity to keep myself from starting wars out of sheer fucking boredom.

Unsurprisingly after a while I used my skills on my division barracks. 

Every single post and wooden wall had some kind of woodworking design hammered into it. Most of it was flowers, or feminine-esque designs because it was so not want Genryūsai would want one of his bad ass military divisions to look like.

To this day, over a thousand years since I made the change, Genryūsai would still wrinkle his brow as he glared at the flowers every time he had to visit the barracks.

He even had the audacity to swap out all my pretty artwork for standard, uncultured, plain ol’ wood when I went out on a mission.

In retaliation, I gave the first division a fabulous hot-pink make over.

What followed next over the next century could only be described as an incredibly petty war between student and teacher.

It was hard to claim that I won just because I got my flowery barracks because my cunning student got me to promise not to decorate the other barracks without their captain’s permission.

So many wasted opportunities to make people misery went out the window because of that.

But I got my pretty barracks.

And inside my pretty barracks I eagerly awaited my new minions. 

The barracks had a main greeting room where meetings were intended to be held. It was a decently sized room fashioned like a traditional japanese main room. The floorings were made up of tatami mats, the doors were shoji (room dividers). On its walls hung artwork I had collected over my many, many years in the Soul Society. Some painted by myself, others by friends. A few were prizes I had stolen off the corpses of our enemies, and a couple were actually bought legally. All of them centered around tranquil environments—snowy mountains with a red sunset behind them, a stormy ocean, a field of flowers, and so forth. 

At the center of the room was a long rowan wood table—all the wood in the barracks were cut and carved from rowan trees—and some soft seat cushions. One seat cushion was placed on one side, and there were four opposite of it.

I prepared some ikebana, and a lovely tea party to greet my new squad members. The red tea was kindly provided by Unohana when she went out to forage for medicinal herbs, and I baked a rich chocolate pound cake, alongside orange scones, and lavender cookies. 

As I took my seat at one side of the table, I hummed a merry little song to myself. 

Soon, they would arrive.

While waiting for them to arrive I did another check over of myself. My captain’s jacket was kept neat—Genryūsai would throw such a temper tantrum (and not the funny kind) if it was anything less. I kept the sleeves cut off for better maneuverability, though. My pink hair was long, shiny, and well-groomed.

Not a speck of dirty was to be found on me, nor anything to give me a less than completely awesome first impression. Even my Evil™ sword looked spick and span in its black tabard. 

Although it still gave off a rather malicious aura if someone looked at it long enough. Even though I tied a cute little pink ribbon around it and everything! 

Stupid Evil™ sword.

Ah.

I felt their presence the moment they entered the barracks. One of them, likely Sajin, felt distinctly unsettled and nervous. 

It didn’t come as any bit of surprise that Sōsuke took the lead in entering first, uttering a polite, “Excuse me.”

The shogi doors slid open and I finally got my first good look at the future captains. 

Sōsuke Aizen, currently only in his fifties had the appearance of a young man in his early twenties. His scholarly chestnut brown hair was carefully styled to give the impression of soft and innocent. He had a pair of thick black rimmed glasses that helped convey the same tone. Even his expression went on to underline this!

What a smoother fucker. Honestly impressed. If I didn’t know better, I would have immediately categorized him in the moe-bishie section.

This only heightened my excitement at being tricked by him later on. What surprise would he have in store with my addition to the story? The fact that I couldn’t accurately predict what would come with his interference put a big smile in my heart.

It was that same feeling you get when you watch a fantastic movie and it reveals a plot twist you never expected, but made it all the better.

Next to Sōsuke came Gin, who was actively working on coming across as a little creepy and malicious. Or maybe not actively. Maybe he hated being next to Sōsuke so much a little bloodlust leaked out. 

Gin had a strained—and very clearly fake—smile on his face. 

Made me want to pinch his cheeks and stretch out his smile until it didn’t look so painful to look at.

Standing a bit further away from Gin and Sōsuke were Kaname and Sajin. Kaname instantly struck me as absurdly focused. He had an aura of: Don’t approach me, bitch. He definitely didn’t become a shinigami for the fun of it. 

He was either going to hate me more than he has ever hated anyone in his life, or he was going to adapt to my insanity and relax. Dare I say it, he might even have fun if he did so.

Standing the furthest away was our fwuffy boy, Sajin. He was the tallest of the bunch, and bulkiest. Every inch of his appearance was covered in either cloth or armor, and he reflexively kept a glove hand on the hilt of his sword. His appearance and stature might have been intimidating to some, but his spiritual energy was twitching in a clearly nervous fashion. 

I put a big grin on my face. “Welcome home, minions!”

<Cut out>

Lilly training her new minions. 

“Come on now, minions! Surely you guys can kill hollows faster than that,” I encouraged, sitting in the air as I watched the four of them struggle against a few dozen hollows. 

To be fair, this was before any of them had reached bankai, and none of them had worked together before. 

Which was why I (secretly) snuck them into Hueco Mundo for some good ol’ fashion hollow purging. 

Not a lot of people knew I could open portals between the three (four if we count Riddlefucker’s palace) worlds. Genryūsai would prefer if I kept that information on the need-to-know basis. He would rather the research team found their own way into Los Noches without having to rely on me.

Apparently he said I was too fickle. 

Me!

What a silly student I had.

Still, I tried not to get on his bad side too often, so I respected his request for the most part. Hence why I had to sneak these fellas here and lie to them about it being a random spot I found in the Soul Society. 

Although I don’t think Sōsuke believed my lie, he didn’t question it (yet). 

And now they were fighting off hordes of hollows with the teamwork of bickering teenagers. More than once they nearly bumped into one another, or another was accidentally caught in the crossfire. None of them were hot headed, so it didn’t lead to some hilarious shouting matches, but damn were they petty. Especially Sōsuke and Gin. 

Poor fluffy boy accidentally used a hado on Sōsuke, and Sōsuke “accidentally” returned the favor.

I wish I had brought popcorn, I thought, watching Kaname accidentally(?) kick Gin and use him as a launching pad.

Oof.

Sajin, poor baby, coincidently leapt up as Kaname was leaping up and collided into him. Since Sajin used a lot more force in his life off, Kaname was sent flying into Sōsuke who then collided hard enough in the ground to leave a crater.

And—yep, that’s definitely a glare Sōsuke tossed the apologetic werewolf.

“I know I said that we’d only be here until it was time for dinner,” I casually put in, “but change of plans. We’re camping out here until ya’ll can fight for at least a five hours without killing each other.”

A moment of stunned disbelief flickered over their faces as they all turned to look at me. There was even a touch of resentment in Sōsuke’s eyes that made me want to cackle.

I folded my legs together and blew them a cheeky kiss. “Have fun, minions.”

<OH SO MUCH Cut out>

Lilly meeting Orihime as a child.

“You see, Hime-chan, I have a ship,” I said. 

“A ship?” the small girl repeatedly cutely, big eyes looking up at me in wonderment. 

“Yes, dear. A ship I intend to make sure sets sail. And you, my dear, are on board this ship,” I went on. “Do you understand?”

“I’m going to help you sail a ship?” the child tried to guess.

“Yes,” I told her with a smile. “Yes, you are.”

<Cut out> 

Lilly advising how misbehaving captains should be punished.

“You know if you really wanted to punish these two boys you could just make them strip, and do a dance on a pole for their fans to see,” I wisely pointed out.

“Sensei,” he sighed. “No.”

[isitgintimeyet]

The Ties That Bind

AO3

Previous

Thanks for reading so far. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge for the beta and support.

The first part of this chapter was written in a spirit of lighthearted frustration, in the run up to Christmas, as I marvelled at my husband’s (and many other men’s) ability to take no responsibility for family gift buying at Christmas, devolving it to his long suffering spouse (i.e.me “But you’re so much better at it than me!”). As my daughter says, it’s fun to see the look of surprise on her dad’s face as she opens her presents from ‘mum and dad’.

Chapter 26: A Grinchless Christmas

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas… perhaps… means a little bit more! ― Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas

Three days before Christmas Day and Claire had officially started her holiday. Much to the amazement of many of her colleagues who couldn’t quite believe that this year, there would be no Miss Beauchamp to cover gaps in the rota or deal with unscheduled emergencies. She had made it clear that she would be absolutely unreachable.

Claire filled two mugs with fresh coffee and placed them next to two of Mrs. Crook’s homemade mince pies on the serving tray. She hesitated before adding a third pie and went to join Jamie in the conservatory.

Snuggling next to Jamie, Claire sipped her coffee and gazed out of the wall of glass. The garden was blanketed with a heavy frost, glittering in the winter sun. Snow hadn’t reached this far south yet, but they had been assured, or warned, depending on one’s viewpoint, that there was already “a wee smatterin’” on the hills around Lallybroch.

Claire stretched contentedly. Ahead of her laid two whole weeks, the longest break she’d ever taken from the hospital. Her Christmas shopping was complete, her clothes sorted for the festive season at Lallybroch. All she had to do one pick up one present for Jamie and she was done.

The chirp of Jamie’s phone announced a text. He finished chewing his second mince pie as he read.

“Christ. Season of goodwill and all that but I could do wi’out this.”

“Is there a problem?” Claire asked, worried.

“Nah, just the usual. Geneva wants tae pop round, her words no’ mine, this evening tae give me ma present. Ye’ll be here, won’t ye, Sassenach?”

“If you want me to, of course. Have you got her a present?”

“God, no. Didna think it would be a good idea. I have some boxes of biscuits left over from work. I can give her one of them.”

“James Fraser, we may not be fond of the woman, but she is the mother of your child. You can’t give her biscuits. That’s for work colleagues and elderly neighbours. Besides, I don’t think she’d even touch them unless they were Fortnum and Mason’s at the very least!” Claire playfully punched Jamie’s shoulder

With quick reflexes, Jamie grabbed Claire’s fist and brought it to his lips.

“Sassenach?” He whispered.

Claire sighed and waited. She knew exactly where this conversation was going.

Encouraged by her silence, Jamie continued. “Ye’re headin’ intae the shops this morning, are ye no’? D’ye think ye could buy something… er… suitable for her?”

“Suitable? And what do you think is suitable for a woman who’s been trying to steal you away from me for months? I know what I’d like to give her…”

“Please, Sassenach. Just dinna get her anything too personal, no smelly stuff, nothing like that.” Jamie made pleading, puppy dog eyes at Claire. “Ye’ll ken what tae get her. Ye’re much better than me. Look at all the lovely stuff ye’ve bought Maggie. I couldna have chosen any of that…”

“Enough.” Claire cut his pleading short. “Spare me the helpless man routine. I’ll do it. But only because I love you.”

Jamie smiled and, rising, pulled Claire to her feet. He kissed her soundly on the lips while fondling her bottom. “Alright, so, d’ ye want me tae drop ye off at the shops on ma way tae the gym?”

************

The initial agreement, made several weeks before, had been not to bother with Christmas decorations at either Jamie’s house or Claire’s flat, since they would be spending a lot of the holiday season at Lallybroch. They both confirmed this was a logical decision, as there would be plenty of time in the future for all that.

First it was a pair of candle holders, that Claire noticed during her shopping. Clear glass beakers with frosted pine trees etched all around. Subtle, they agreed, but with scented candles would provide enough Christmas ambience for the house. Next it was a wicker reindeer that Jamie spotted on his way to a meeting. Then quickly followed the baskets of pine cones, wreaths of holly and berries and a carved wooden nativity scene. By the time Jamie arrived home with a large Norwegian spruce tied to the roof of his car, they both realised that they should give in and fully embrace the Christmas decorations. So, they spent the next weekend wandering the Christmas markets, drinking too much mulled wine and buying ornaments and lights for the tree.

And now, as Claire looked round the living room, she was thankful that they had ignored logic and dived right into Christmas. Feeling nicely full from Mrs. Crook’s beef stew, all she wanted to do was snuggle on the sofa with Jamie, watch a bit of festive television and maybe have a whisky mac or two. As it was she was sitting literally on the edge of her seat, listening out for the doorbell and Geneva.

Finally, the doorbell rang. Her stomach filled with butterflies as she heard Jamie’s footsteps in the hall and the door open.

Geneva strode into the room. Now in her seventh month of pregnancy, she still managed to exude an air of glamour, dressed in a simple black tube dress with a scarf draped across her shoulders and, as Claire had suspected, a very neat baby bump.

She seemed momentarily surprised by the sight of Claire, but quickly recovered. “Claire,” she drawled. “How lovely to see you.”

The look in her eyes said just the opposite.

Jamie hovered in the doorway unsure what to do before realising his duties as host. “Geneva, would ye like a drink? We have some soft drinks if ye’re interested.”

“No, thanks. I can’t stop.” She eyed Claire coldly. “Just wanted to give you your present and see what you were doing for the holidays. I suppose it’s a busy time of year for you, Claire, at the hospital. Too much alcohol and icy pavements will keep you occupied, I’m sure.”

Jamie moved to Claire’s side. She felt his reassuring warmth next to her. “Actually, Geneva, Claire’s no’ at the hospital fer two weeks. We’re headin’ up tae Lallybroch fer Christmas and Hogmanay.”

“Oh, well that answers my next question. I’m off to Mummy’s for Christmas, but was planning on having a New Year’s Eve party up here. Wondered if you wanted to come… er... both of you?”

Despite the invitation being extended to both of them, Claire recognised that in Geneva’s eyes, she was the unwelcome and unnecessary tag along. She smiled sweetly, her smile as insincere as Geneva’s words.

“Sorry Geneva, we canna come. Thanks for the offer, though… anyway, how are ye, and the bairn?”

“Yes, we’re fine… Merry Christmas, Jamie.” She handed him a large gift bag.

“Thanks. And jes’ a wee gift from us.” Jamie picked up the beautifully store-wrapped picture frame Claire had bought earlier and passed it to Geneva.

“Jamie, would you mind opening it now, please? Just need to check something.”

Jamie shrugged and dived into the bag, his hands delving through layers of tissue paper, and pulled out a midnight blue linen shirt.

“Ach, ‘tis verra fine. Thank ye.”

“No, hold it up against you. I need to see if I have the right size. It’s been a while…”

Reluctantly, Jamie unfolded the shirt and held it against his chest. “Aye, it fits fine.”

Geneva reached out to try to smooth a crease against Jamie's chest  as he quickly folded the shirt roughly and dropped it on the coffee table. Claire openly looked at Geneva in amazement. There was no point in faking sincerity or subtlety. Geneva was being as subtle as a sledgehammer, and was now seemingly oblivious to Claire’s presence.

It was as if, Claire thought, Geneva viewed this as a competition with Jamie as the prize. Well, Claire was not going to compete. She knew it was Jamie's decision and he had made it.

Suddenly, Geneva winced, placing her hand on her belly. She reached over to try to take Jamie’s hand. Claire felt her stomach lurch, seeds of self-doubt beginning to spring up in her mind. Jamie moved his hand abruptly away from Geneva’s and looked across at Claire. Geneva, ignoring Jamie’s snub, rubbed her bump.

Still trying to remain polite, Jamie edged towards the door. “Weel, er… Merry Christmas tae ye, Geneva.”

“Yes, Merry Christmas to you too, Jamie.” Geneva smiled warmly at Jamie, the smile cooling considerably as she turned to Claire.“... … Claire.”

Message apparently received, Geneva made her farewells and left. Claire settled on the sofa as Jamie pottered in the kitchen, returning with two Whisky Macs and a dish of peanuts.

He handed her a glass. “Reckon ye could do wi’ one, Sassenach. Ye’re thinkin’ sae hard I could hear ye in the kitchen. Talk tae me.”

“That shirt, Jamie, the one that’s currently in a heap on the table. That’s Turnbull and Asser… linen… that could easily have cost a couple of hundred pounds.”

“Am I no’ worth it? Is that what ye’re sayin’?” Jamie joked.

“I thought Geneva was treating this as a competition.” Claire ignored his interruption and continued. “Her against me with you as the prize. But then I just realised, that’s not her plan. She’s not trying to get you to leave me. I think it was me she was targeting tonight. She wants me to leave you. If she makes it as uncomfortable as possible for me in this relationship, she thinks I will go. And then perhaps you’ll fall into her comforting arms and that’s her goal. But she underestimates me.”

Claire paused and sipped her drink. “Now, I know there are uncomfortable bits in this relationship and things we need to adapt and get used to. But I’m not going anywhere, James Fraser!”

“And Sassenach, neither am I.”

Claire relaxed against Jamie, her head nestled against his chest. Kissing the top of her head, Jamie picked up the tv remote control and began to flick through the channels

“Enough tension tonight. Let’s have some Christmas entertainment and no’ think about that woman any more… Ah, Love Actually...”

“I love this film. But, I’m warning you, it makes me cry. I mean real, ugly cry.”

Jamie turned Claire’s face to his. “‘Then ‘tis jes’ as well I’m no’ wearing that fancy, expensive shirt, with all the snot there may be around.”

His lips lightly kissed her forehead and nose before reaching her lips. Gently, his index finger traced the same path. Suddenly serious, he continued “Claire, I ken, these last few months with me have no’ been the easiest fer ye and I’ve given ye cause to shed a fair few tears. And fer that I am truly sorry. I dinna ever want ever tae make ye cry… but I do. I love ye and I sometimes wonder how ye've stuck by me through all this. Ye're a rare woman… I’m no’ sure what I've done tae deserve ye.”

“Or,” he added with a wry smile. “What ye’ve done tae deserve me.”

Claire returned his smile. “I ask myself that all the time. My plans for a fling with no complications didn’t exactly work out, did they?”

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady pounding of his heart. Her fingers worked their way between his shirt buttons and idly played with the copper hairs. She thought for a moment, before speaking.  “Honestly, sometimes, you’re right it’s not easy. When I see the way she looks at you, or rubs her bump, it hurts. I don’t like to admit that, but it does... But that feeling, that hurt, isn’t there all the time, it passes. The feeling that stays with me all the time is how you make me feel. And I don’t want to not have that in my life. I know, even with all these complications, I would still make the same choice. And, I remind myself, it’s Geneva who looks at you that way, not you looking at Geneva… and it’s Geneva who, despite all her trying and games, still goes home alone... Just, please, no more complications.”

Jamie kissed the top of her head. “Aye, Sassenach, I promise. And now, let’s watch the film, and ye can ugly cry tae yer heart’s content.”

[spacexmagicxandxsheepxbleats]

Continued from here

The Titan’s obvious disgust was of no consequence to her and she was seemingly quick with a reply:

“...What better way to scare a Devil than to wear the skin of his fallen kin...?.....Yes, I’m ready......I carry all I need and if I’m missing something or find I need anything I make it.....”

Though she was quite a bit shorter than him she was able to keep pace rather well, considering Ulfar was nigh eye level with Sinner, perhaps a few inches shorter and Arlo not to far behind, the diminutive Warlock was used to keeping an easy trot in order to not fall behind....

His visor did draw her attention, as did his shortened gate, something she appreciated but didn’t find to necessary. She wouldn’t comment on ether however, not wanting disrupt the fact he was speaking, allowing the hollow eyes of her helm to bore through the vacant holes in the wolf hide...perhaps he’d notice her unspoken curiosity, perhaps he wouldn’t. 

The fact was, she rather liked it when he talked so when the matter of Outlaw burbled to the surface she didn’t answer him immediately, indicating she’d partly zoned out to the tone of his voice as well as making a mental check list concerning his statement that they’d be facing a Baron and an untold number of his underlings...

When his question and Outlaw’s name finally filtered through her prep thoughts she gave her head a slight shake, scattering some rain drops as she murmured sheepishly for the momentary laps in concentration. 

“...Er, sorry....I, was taking a mental inventory of what I’ve got...what we may need......”

The girl trailed a moment in her speaking as another thought filtered in, but she shelved it to finish his answer.

“He left out the Gate opposite this one, across the city...The Vanguard pulled Hunters from all teams on downtime for a mass scouting, most haven’t returned and Outlaw is one of them...So they sanctioned their respective teams to go searching.....”

A bitter disappointment crept into the thought of having to go find him, a not so subtle venom coating the other Exo’s name as it slipped from her lips as she spoke, showing that she’d rather the Hunter rot in the wilds than return.

“It was Arlo who spotted you first, not that your exactly hard to miss...for, you know, taller folk....”

Her strange humor seeped into the sentences, wanting to lighten things up a bit from discussing rank trash.

“So, knowing how much I love Outlaw he gave me a choice: Blitz across several city blocks and catch up with you to see if you’d accept my company or, go and likely pull his feet from the fire so to speak....”

The roll of her eyes was audible when the ‘L’ word gagged burbled from her throat, as was her gratitude for Arlo’s offered choice and Sinner’s consent for her to go with him. She wasn’t sure if the Titan noticed, but she seemed quite relieved, her elation at having escaped seeing the Hunter was scarcely kept in check but she managed as they drew closer to the gate, the arch way looming tall above even Sinner as they passed through, the brief cut in the rain and then its renewed fury lifted a weight from her... a weight she’d only ever identify as captivity with in the Cities Walls....

A soft string of words, archaic in nature whispered softly from her, as if she were greeting the wilds before them like an old friend or beloved family member as an obvious shudder rattled her frame, a bit of ‘dance’ skipping her steps, tinkling the hammered brass bells and other baubles that hung around her robes...looking a bit like a kid released to the park for some rough housing with friends and tussle with the yard bully....

Her gloved fingers brushed tree trunks and other plants alike as they wandered further from the City, her tension bled away with the wash of rain and her motions became even more relaxed and fluid...as if she were a different person, happier and more at peace somehow.

“.....Sometimes...I think about leaving, about slipping back into the trees and stones of the mountains....to be a shade among shadows again.......”

She had wound her way a head of him somehow, had wandered up the trunk of a fallen pine and stood on the tree to watch him approach at nearly eye level, considering him carefully as he drew closer.

“But...that would mean I’d never see you, or the others, again.....”

The gentle confession was made freely, a lightness to it that indicated she accepted what she was giving up in favor of what she’d gained. She had a relatively nice room to sleep in at Arlo’s home, the man’s wife was kind more than kind enough to her and Ulfar was the ‘big brother’ that evened the family out even if Outlaw was literally their black sheep.

But Sinner was something different. He was, really, the only other Guardian she’d interacted with other than in passing up until then.

Aside from the obvious ones, when ever she encountered another Risen before joining the City it was a death match, so one could imagine her isolation when she found herself in an entire C I T Y absolutely F U L L of other Risen who W E R E N T trying to kill or subjugate innocent civilians...Let alone that Sinner was an Exo, of all ‘races’.

After all, an Exo Warlord murdered her young charge.

An Exo Warlord nearly cost her her life.

And an Exo Hunter now threatens her every time he lays eyes on her.

No. Truth be told, she felt a certain fondness for his company. Something about the way he carried himself the first day they met and the way he continues to conduct himself in their interactions stood him out from the rest...

So when he drew closer to her impromptu perch she took a few more steps along the incline to bring herself to his level, practically eye to eye or skull to visor in this instance as she reached into the confines of her robes layers, drawing her hand back she held it out to him, her fingers closed in a fist around the glimmer of forged iron chain links.

“Þat kann ek it ellifta: ef ek skal til orrostu leiða langvini, und randir ek gel, en þeir með ríki fara heilir hildar til, heilir hildi frá, koma þeir heilir hvaðan...”

Ezra would wait, her hand still outstretched towards him, waiting for his own to be beneath her palm before dropping the necklace into his hand. The iron links were lightly oiled and clearly hand turned, from its center hung a rather well carved likeness of a large bear from bone, wreathing it on ether side were the claws of said animal...

“Þat kann ek it fimmta: ef ek sé af fári skotinn flein í folki vaða, fýgr-a hann svá stinnt, at ek stöðvig-a-k, ef ek hann sjónum of sék....”

She spoke softly but with purpose, if he asked she’d explain the meaning of the words, but for the time being she seemed satisfied with her obscure behavior in presenting the Titan with his gift, a gesture not made lightly, seeing as none of her teammates had received such things from her.

Translations ~ 

An eleventh I know, if needs I must lead To the fight my long-loved friends; I sing in the shields, and in strength they go Whole to the field of fight, Whole from the field of fight, And whole they come thence home.  A fifth I know, If I see from afar An arrow fly 'gainst the folk; It flies not so swift That I stop it not, If ever my eyes behold it. - Derived from the Havamal 156-160 and 146-150

@sinner-the-stoic-titan

[geekmama]

All Souls

I had this written, and Ellis_Hendricks very kindly betaed and Brit-picked it, over a week ago, and was waiting until this weekend before Halloween to post it for Sherlolly Halloween at 221B, but cactusnell beat me to the punch, posting her uncannily similar Things That Go Bump in the Night early yesterday morning. With apologies to her, I’m posting mine here, at least, since I don’t think she hangs out at tumblr, but I’m not putting it on AO3 or FF.net. Apparently it’ s an all-too-obvious plotline -- or great minds think alike?

~ All Souls ~

The rain had nearly stopped by the time they reached the village of Grendon and the house where Molly had grown up, and where her mother still lived. He’d been there once before, a few months ago, not long after the Sherrinford/Musgrave debacle, and the house hadn’t changed. Still quite undistinguished from the other residences in this thoroughly middle class neighborhood. For the second time, Sherlock found himself wondering that the unique creature beside him, his beloved, could have sprung from this thoroughly mundane environment. Of course, it had taken him an unconscionably long time to realize exactly how unique Molly was. It seemed irrefutable proof that, while he was very quick in most areas of perception, he could be slow to the point of idiocy in others – and some of them rather essential. It was always possible, Sherlock reflected, as he pulled the car into the drive, that there was more to Molly’s childhood home, too, than first contact had suggested.

However, as they walked in a minute later and Sherlock became immersed in this second contact -- ordinary furnishings, framed family photos and drab art reproductions; carpet and wallpaper well maintained but virtually screaming late 90’s -- he was once again struck by the banality of the place. Molly’s old room on the first floor was a little better, he knew, still featuring elements of her personality even after being purged of her belongings and made into a guest room. But all in all, it was… disappointing.

There being no sign of her mother, Molly called out, “Mum! We’re here!”

Her mother shouted from upstairs, “I’ll be down in… oh, good heavens. Molly dear, can you come up and help me for a moment? Tell Sherlock to have a seat, I’ll just be a few minutes, I’m sure… oh, good grief!”,

Sherlock couldn’t help rolling his eyes, and Molly chuckled and said, “Her zip’s probably stuck -- she always wears that dress to weddings. Make yourself at home and I’ll be right back.”

Home? Sherlock nearly exclaimed with distaste, but caught himself in the nick of time. Instead he said aloud, “I’ll go and take a look at your mother’s greenhouse, see what she’s been up to.”

“Good idea,” Molly said with approval, patting his arm, and then stood on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss. Her eyes twinkled, as though she knew exactly what he’d been about to say. Which she probably did.

As he watched her trot quickly up the stairs, caroling, “Coming Mum!” in reply to another bleat of motherly distress, Sherlock reflected that it had been a long time since he’d been able to put one over on Molly Elizabeth Hooper. In certain ways, she undoubtedly had the advantage now. He found it both intriguing and disconcerting, but could not but acknowledge the justice of it. Sauce for the gander, as it were.

A half smile on his lips (oh, that twinkle in her eye… not to mention the flash of those slim legs, and the delicious swirl of skirt against that pert backside...) , Sherlock turned and strode through the sitting room, the dining room, the kitchen, then out the back door, shutting it behind him and taking a deep breath of damp country air. His hand automatically went to the packet of Silk Cuts in his pocket, but then he discarded the idea -- she wanted him to quit, though she never said anything. If he had a smoke now, she’d know.

Instead, he started out across the wet lawn, toward the greenhouse.

The property had this one advantage: it had a very large back garden that bordered on open parkland, and at the back of the wide lawn was Mrs. Hooper’s greenhouse. It was a really magnificent structure, a red brick half-wall and porch surmounted by high framed glass, and fitted with Victorian finials and fleur de lys ridge cresting. It was, Sherlock knew, Mrs. Hooper’s pride and joy, and the first time he’d seen it, all those months ago, he’d been most impressed. She grew tropical plants, orchids and palms and the like, and the structure was big enough to serve as a sort of conservatory. Now, opening the door, Sherlock saw the small cafe table and several chairs where one could take afternoon tea, and slung across one verdant corner was a hammock.

There were also a couple of stools. One of them was beside Mrs. Hooper’s wide, well-equipped potting bench; the other, however, was in the corner opposite the hammock, and upon it, just at this particular moment, was seated a man, an older gentleman in a somewhat outdated suit, smoking a prettily carved meerschaum pipe that was coloured deep gold from much use.

Sherlock, halting just inside the door, stared in surprise.

But the old gentleman spoke first. “You’re Sherlock. Molly’s young man,” he stated with a kindly smile.

Sherlock approached, somewhat warily (and almost giving a ridiculous start at the sound of the door clicking shut behind him). But the stranger rose from the stool to extend a friendly hand, and Sherlock felt obliged to take it. Clearly the man was in familiar surroundings, and his grip was warm and firm.

“The name’s Bev,” the old gentleman said, taking his seat again and looking Sherlock over, head to toe. “I’ve been wondering if Molly would bring you by. She doesn’t come here as often as her mother would like, that’s certain. It seems you two have worked things out. I must say, I’m glad of it.”

“Are you… a neighbor?” Sherlock asked, feeling quite awkward.

“You might say so,” said Bev, with a jerk of his head to indicate the direction. “Just across the common, by the old church. But Amanda doesn’t mind me visiting when I like. It’s a pretty place, this.”

“It is,” Sherlock agreed, glancing around, but then fixing Bev with a frowning gaze again. “You’ve… known Molly and her mother a long time, I take it.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve known Molly all her life, bless her. Good job you’ve come to your senses and snapped her up. She was mighty unhappy at times when you couldn’t see her -- as it were.”

“See her,” Sherlock repeated. “Did she tell you that?”

“Didn’t have to. As I said, known her all her life. But that’s water under the bridge now, I take it.”

“Well… yes. We are engaged to be married. Sometime next year, in fact. We haven’t set a date but… we’ll send you an invitation.”

Bev grinned. “Oh, I’ll be there -- with bells on! Lord, it’ll do my heart good to see her so happy.” And then he shook his finger at Sherlock and said more seriously, “You just see that she stays that way, eh? Don’t forget what a treasure you’ve been given.”

“I… that’s my intention, certainly. To make her happy. As far as I am able, at least.”

Bev nodded. “Good. Best thing in life, you know. A good marriage. Children. All the little things that make a real home. True blessings from God.”

“Yeees. I… I expect so.”

“You’ll see,” Bev said, and winked at Sherlock. Then he got to his feet again. “You know Molly’s favorite flowers?”

Flowers. Sherlock glanced around, but then thought of Molly’s own well tended garden. “Er…. roses?”

“Well, she likes those, too, of course, but here, let me show you.” Bev walked past Sherlock, and rounded the potting bench, halting beside a rack of small pots, each filled with an array of lush, velvety leaves and bright blooms in shades from white to deep purple. “African violets!” the older man said, with a twinkle in his eye as he looked back at Sherlock. “Amanda’s always grown them out here, and Molly’s always loved them. She can’t grow them herself, though, not in that London flat. Not enough light, wrong exposure. A greenhouse window in that kitchen of hers might do the trick.”

Sherlock came over to look at the plants. “These seem excellent specimens.”

“Amanda always did have the knack of growing them.”

“So it seems.”

They stood in silence for a few moments before Bev said, “Well, I’ve got to be off. But you should take a look in that big notebook, on the bench there. Has all Amanda’s notes, and all the ribbons she’s won. She’s quite the star at the local garden shows.”

Sherlock took up the thick notebook from the collection of gardening tomes that sat between bookends at the back of the potting bench. Opening it, he glanced through some of its pages. Amanda’s careful records and observations were very precise, and her writing small and neat. And the collection of ribbons was indeed impressive.

After a minute or so, Sherlock looked up, intending to make a comment and say goodbye. But the old gentleman was gone, the greenhouse door still ajar.

Sherlock frowned. Closed the notebook and put it back among its companions, then quickly followed Bev from the greenhouse.

Or he thought he had.

But the man was nowhere to be seen.

Could he have reached the house so quickly? There was no evidence of it, only Sherlock’s own prints on the wet lawn, left when he’d walked out to the greenhouse. And glancing back beyond Amanda’s garden, there was no sign of an old gentleman crossing the common toward the distant steepled church.

Sherlock walked to the house and went swiftly in, only to encounter a scene of mild chaos.

“Oh, dear! Where can they be?” Amanda exclaimed, looking distractedly around the sitting room. “I know I left them down here somewhere!”

“She’s looking for her earrings,” Molly explained to Sherlock as she came to him.

“Molly, did you see--”

“I know!” Amanda exclaimed, suddenly straightening and raising an imperative finger. “They’re in the library!” She turned and headed in the direction of a closed door on the far side of the tiled foyer. “I took them off when I was in there on Sunday afternoon, making out a check for Martha Havisham’s daughter, she was selling tickets for a raffle that’s being held to raise funds for a new computer lab they want to install at her school -- though what they need with computers I have no idea, they should be reading books, not wasting time with games. But time marches on, I suppose. Yes! Here they are. Bear with me a moment while I put them on, and then we can be off.”

They had followed Amanda into the library, a room Sherlock was seeing for the first time.

“This was my father’s special room,” Molly said. “Mum had her greenhouse, and Dad his library.”

“Oh, yes,” said Amanda, peering in the mirror over the fireplace as she carefully put on her earrings. “It always gives me such a lovely feel to work in here, as though Daddy is watching over me.”

But Sherlock, who’d been taking in the oak desk with its comfortable chair, and the many books, suddenly felt a weird chill as he caught sight of an object displayed on one of the shelves.

In a stand that had been crafted to fit it was a meerschaum pipe. Prettily carved. Coloured a deep gold from much use.

Sherlock walked over to stare at it.

Molly joined him, saying, “That was Dad’s pipe, the only one I ever saw him use.”

Sherlock said, slowly, “Didn’t you tell me your father’s name was William?”

“Yes. William Beverly Hooper. His friends all called him Bill--”

“--but he was always Bev to me,” broke in Amanda. “And to all the family, really.” She gave a little sigh.

Sherlock straightened carefully and turned to Molly.

Her smile faded. “Why? Is there something wrong? Are you alright?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Do you have a picture of your father?”

“Of course. I’ll show you.”

She led the way out of the library and back into the sitting room, where that group of somewhat faded family photos hung in frames upon the wall. “Here,” she said, pointing to one of the largest. “It’s Mum and Dad’s wedding portrait. She was a beautiful bride, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed absently. But he only had eyes for the groom.

Younger. But… no, impossible!

Or only improbable?.

Sherlock swallowed hard, trying to dismiss his certainty and failing utterly.

His heart was thudding perceptibly beneath his Belstaff. Beneath his stylish, bespoke suit. Beneath the Dolce and Gabbana dress shirt that had cost upwards of three hundred quid.

All of them ashes.

Vanity of vanities.

He must think. The implications….

“Sherlock?”

Molly had placed a hand on his sleeve.

He looked down at her hand, and then up, into her brown eyes. Confusion was writ there. And concern.

He took a breath. Took her hand in his and swiftly bent and kissed it. Then forced himself to smile. “I’m fine,” he said, and feeling that his voice had been a little off, repeated, “Fine!”

“There, I’m all ready!” Amanda announced brightly, coming into the room. “So sorry to keep you both waiting. Molly, I have no idea what I would have done without you, the zip on this dress is just impossible, perhaps I can get it replaced, we have a very good tailor over in the village who might be able to do it for me at a very reasonable price. Are you two ready to go? We are running behind schedule, you know. You can always look at those old photographs later.”

“Yes, we’re ready,” said Molly, though she did not sound quite certain. “Sherlock?”

“Let’s go then,” he said, lightly.  And he took her arm.

It was odd. The implications…

And yet, absurdly, the thing uppermost in his mind as they walked out to the car was the prospective purchase of a greenhouse window for Molly’s kitchen -- and that Christmas was just around the corner…

 ~.~

[the-odeviant-machine-blog]

Change of Heart

Summary: All you wanted to do was escape the hopelessness and despair, even for just a moment. But you couldn’t possibly have known the impact it would have.

Takes place during Crossroads

Slight Connor x Android Reader

A/N: The song link in the story is a recommendation. Feel free to substitute what ever gets your groove going.

You were short on blue blood and biocomponents. Your wounded were shutting down and there was nothing you could do about it. President Warren had issued an official statement stating you were a threat to national security and needed to be exterminated. Humans were conducting raids in all the big cities and taking androids to camps to destroy them.

Needless to say, it was a very serious situation.

You could see the stress carved into Markus’ face. You could hear the strain in his voice. You’d watched the life fade from the eyes of too many androids to count. You’d hauled away so many biocomponents and mopped up so much thirium you swore your hands were stained blue beneath your skin. All around you, so much death, sorrow, hopelessness. So many newly awakened androids experiencing emotion for the first time only to feel despair.

Needless to say, it was not the kind of situation that called for music.

Or dancing.

Unfortunately for you, your model was designed for entertainment and musical theater. In these trying times, your programming defaulted to various showtunes and inappropriately timed slapstick humor to relieve the tension.

Fortunately for you, the only other androids present when you learned that about yourself were Simon and Markus.

The correction had been firm, but gentle.

You’d gotten very good at curbing your tendencies for showmanship very fast. You were quick, nimble. Built for grace, agility, and extravagant dance numbers. That made you an ideal candidate to lead Jericho’s very own squad of android coyotes. Even North had thought you were crazy when you proposed the idea. When you’d returned to the dilapidated ship less than 24 hours later with a dozen fugitives, nearly all of them changed their tune.

Josh was never any fun anyway.

The soles of your boots skidded on the frozen asphalt as you sprinted across the road, hot on the heels of the three stragglers you’d encountered on your last sweep of the city before Markus locked Jericho down. Good thing you’d found them, too. As hard as you fought to go out one last time, just in case, you didn’t think you could stand the insinuating eyebrow raise you knew you’d get if you turned up empty handed.

Cocky little shit.

“Keep going!” you hissed under your breath, eyes darting side to side for any hint of movement, any miniscule flash of light.

God damned soldiers were everywhere.

They obeyed without question, LEDs spinning red and eyes wide with fear. You felt a pang of regret for the sharpness in your voice. It wasn’t that long ago that you were in their position. But, you didn’t have time to dwell on that now. Jericho was nearly in sight.

“Hold up,” you whisper-shouted, skirting around their hunched figures to peer out of the dark alley the four of you were crouched in and out into the street.

You couldn’t detect any movement, save for the falling snow and the thick, industrial tarps that flapped freely in the wind. With a flex of your fingers and a set of your shoulders, you turned back to the three androids whom you had just met, but that trusted you with their lives.

“We’re almost there,” you said lowly, taking care to keep your voice calm and even. “The docks are at the end of the road. We stick to the shadows, and we stick together. Got it?”

Despite the blind panic written clearly across their faces, they all nodded with an inspiring sense of determination.

“Okay,” you huffed, turning back around and steeling yourself for the run. “Stay close.”

With that, you darted from the cover of the alley and out into the street, strafing along the side of the chain link fence on the opposite side and away from the high floodlights that lined the sides of the buildings. They were brave, you had to give them that. It was with a great sense of pride when you heard three separate, distinct footsteps directly behind you as you broke out onto the docks, the entrance to your refuge in sight.

You didn’t slow down until your feet found the rusted metal floor of the ancient freighter, finally slowing to a jog then brisk walk as you wound your way through the labyrinth of hatches and corridors to the hold. It was bustling with activity inside, androids strewn in every room, on every stairwell, on every walkway. You picked your way through the crowd with your charges in tow, peeking over your shoulder every now and then to make sure you hadn’t lost any of your little ducklings.

“The main group is in here,” you called, the hatch to the hold swinging open with a groan. “Medics are over there, go have yourselves checked out.”

You pointed off to the far corner where opaque white tarps were hung to create a makeshift ER.

“Once you get the green light, make yourselves at home.”

You smiled in response to their tearful thanks, squeezing each of their hands reassuringly before sending them on their way. You watched them go for a moment, allowing yourself a split second of victory before sending a message to Markus that you were back in one piece and with three new recruits. He was quick to respond, but you had already begun to make your way up to the captain’s hold. You knew he’d want a debrief on the situation currently playing out in the streets of Detroit.

You also knew he wouldn’t mind if you took a few much-needed minutes to yourself.

He may not have understood how you handled your stress, but he respected it nonetheless.

You tilted your face skyward as you stepped out onto the deck, eyes slipping closed as you allowed snowflakes to melt on your cheeks while you searched through your archive. Not that you really needed to. You already knew what you were looking for. It was old, a bit dated, probably hadn’t been played on any radio station in decades, but there was just something about it.

It was with great effort that you repressed the urge to sing along with the first harmonized line of vocals as the song began, rolling your head on your shoulders to get the thirium pumping. Eyes still closed, your hips began to move themselves to the beat of the thumping drumline, lips noiselessly moving along with the lyrics. You didn’t think about your movements, you simply let them happen. You let the rhythm of the familiar song carry you away. Away from the disintegrating ship you now called home. Away from the soldiers and the humans. Away from Cyberlife and their hypocrisy.

Your arms floated out to the side, your feet skipping along the slick metal panels that made up the deck. Hips swaying, head swinging, you were free.

“Well done, Connor. You succeeded in locating Jericho and finding their leader. Now, deal with Markus. We need it alive.”

Connor’s dark eyes slipped open, severing the link to Cyberlife. Without so much as a second thought, his fingers wound around the grip of his pistol, pulling the weapon from the waistband of his jeans as he stepped from the darkness. This was it. What he was designed for. What he was programmed for. Every moment of his existence had led up to this moment. He knew what he had to do, and he would not fail. As he stepped dutifully forward, jaw tight, shoulders set, the slightest flicker of moment out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

He couldn’t help his curiosity. He was programmed to be tenacious, to find the little details human investigators could not. It wasn’t his fault, it was his nature.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

But of all the things he had expected to see as he turned his head to investigate, a rogue deviant, a soldier, even Hank, an android dancing whimsically in the snow was not one of them. His Cyberlife instincts had him drawing his gun, had him advancing, had him opening his mouth to bark the order not to move, but that’s where it stopped. His lips parted, yet no sound came out.

It was as though he had fallen into a trance. It was as though all of his programming had been deleted, all of his instructions, his reasons for functioning, for existing, had been wiped clean. He was transfixed by the sight before him, as if it were not real life but he had stepped inside some kind of fantasy. Sharp lines blurred, colors swirled together, and at the center of it all, an android. One he had never seen before. It wasn’t Markus, he knew that. It was a hard, indisputable fact.

Yet, he still felt as if this was the android he had been sent to Jericho to find.

It was with clouded judgement that, in a moment of insatiable curiosity, he reached out and discreetly accessed their audio synthesizer. He still hadn’t had much of an opportunity to listen to music, except for the music Hank blasted at a volume that couldn’t be safe for human ears in the car. But in that moment, he was grateful. As the melody filled his head, he was grateful that this, here in the snow, pistol still gripped firmly in hand in front of him, was his first real musical experience. He was truly lost, now. Lost to the rhythm of the unfamiliar song, lost to the fluid, mystifying movements of this intriguing stranger.

They were drifting closer now, their carefree undulations carrying them across the deck of the large ship and towards the captain’s hold where he knew Markus waited. It was only a matter of time before they noticed him, before they sounded the alarm and he was swarmed with hundreds, possibly thousands of deviants.

But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to move. He couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the enchanting sight before him. Even as the stranger danced closer, and closer, until they were mere feet away, until he could reach out and take their hand in his. He froze at the thought, unsure of where it had come from.

What was happening to him?

The frightened gasp snapped him out of his head, eyes refocusing to stare down the barrel of his gun at the wide eyes of the dancing android.

You could feel the tension drain from your system, trickling down your arms and legs to leave your body as you twisted and spun gracefully across the open space. It had been so long since you’d had this opportunity, since you’d been alone and free to be yourself without the burden of purpose you had eagerly accepted and wouldn’t hesitate to accept again. You would never regret your choices, but you’d learned to take whatever time for yourself that you could find.

For those few minutes, the imminent possibility of extinction didn’t hang over your head like a dark, heavy cloud, sparking and crackling with the thunderstorm that threatened to devastate you all. For those few minutes, you had no other responsibility or obligation than to dance like an idiot. What was it the humans said…

To dance like nobody is watching.

You were nearing the captain’s hold, and the sad end of your few minutes of reprieve from the shit storm your life had become. For those last few bars, you didn’t hold back, skipping and floating across the deck as light as a feather and as carefree as a bird, giving it everything you right up until the end as the song faded away once again into silence. You allowed yourself just one, last moment of peace, a satisfied smile stretching across your face as your arms dropped to your side.

Right. Back to work.

You set your shoulders with a huff, snapping your eyes open and preparing to for the short trek to where Markus waited for you, but sight you were met with rooted you firmly in place. You couldn’t stop the surprised, panicked gasp that escaped your throat, eyes widening in shock as you found yourself face to face, or, rather, face to gun barrel, with the deviant hunter himself.

The seconds ticked by, each one slower than the last. You stared at him, and he stared back at you. Each, excruciating moment you waited for the click of the trigger, for the blast of gunpowder, for the inevitable moment that you would either cease to exist or be dragged away to a recycling camp. But as each moment passed, nothing happened. As your racing mind slowed and your jumbled thoughts disentangled themselves, you could see the conflict in his eyes, on his face. You could see the hesitation and slight tremor in the gun he pointed at your face.

He started as if he had suddenly realized you had spotted him, eyes following yours to drop to the pistol he gripped in his hand as if he suddenly realized he still held it. Another moment passed, and slowly the round barrel dropped away from your face, his eyes still staring at the weapon as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing. As it fell to his side, he turned his face back to you, still confused, conflicted, but with fresh purpose, fresh life blooming deep in his eyes. You weren’t expecting him to speak, so you nearly didn’t catch his words as they tumbled hesitantly from his lips.

“They’re going to attack Jericho.”

[silverslipstream]

november writing fest - day #2

Yeah, I know, it's nine minutes into November 3rd. I've been having internet issues all evening trying to upload this, and it's only just gotten back in order. Apologies for the difficult formatting - this was originally written in Microsoft Word. Delay Repay When the train judders to a stop, Nick’s first thought is irritation.

It’s a common reaction, and for a moment he feels slightly guilty. He has nothing to be irritated about. There’s no important meeting, sick relative, or desperate purchase motivating his journey; he’s simply returning home for the Christmas holidays. In fact, anything that delays his two weeks around family is probably a blessing in disguise.

His irritation is more pronounced in other passengers. The fifty-something, moustache-wearing man opposite Nick huffs with impatience: he’s wearing one of those retina-damaging knitted jumpers, dark green with alternating brown and golden triangles in stripes across the front. As he lowers his Clive Cussler hardback to the tabletop, the spine makes a muffled sort of thud on the laminated, easy-wipe surface.

“Just my luck, isn’t it? The one sodding train that I get on is the one that breaks down.” he grouses. The man’s accent is thick with West Country consonants; the o’s and r’s exit his mouth with a pronounced burr.

“Ah, it’s probably just a quick job. Cows on the line, or some idiot got their car stuck on a crossing.” Nick replies offhandedly, as much to himself as his companion.

“Farmers round here know better than to let cows near train tracks, m’lad. And there’s no crossing ahead, neither. All I saw when I went up a moment ago was a bridge and some coppers with yellow tape.”

“Copper—Police? The police are here?”

“Yeah, buzzin’ about like flies over shit.” The man glances at Nick, then grins sardonically. The corners of his mouth push toffee-coloured cheeks upward, revealing a row of teeth. They’re the exact same shade of yellow as Dijon mustard.

“Why d’you want to know? You in trouble with the law, mate? On the run?”

“No, no… just glad, that’s all. Means it’s not a mechanical issue with the train or something.”

The man’s moustache twitches in amusement and he nods briefly, as if pacified with a plausible answer.

“Well, if we’re gonna be stuck ‘ere a while, I may as well introduce myself. I’m Jim.”

He reaches over the table with a weathered hand. Wrinkled knuckles, a heavily lined palm and pale, scratched fingernails remind Nick of carved wood. He can’t help but notice the callus on the bottom of Jim’s hand, on the bulbous muscle where his thumb joins his palm.

“I’m Nick. Nice to meet you.” He grasps Jim’s hand and shakes it firmly. It’s warm, as if it’s just been pulled out of one of his pockets.

“So, what brings you out on a train journey then, Nick?”

From there, the conversation moves much like a train itself; stilted and gradual at first, but steadily gaining momentum. Jim’s on his way to Cornwall. His daughter and her wife live in Truro with their son: after retirement, his days are free for frequent trips down to visit. Besides, he adds with an amiable chuckle, he’ll never miss an opportunity to be a grandpop. Nick must admit Jim as a grandfather is a very vivid image: remarking about how tall his grandchild’s gotten, reading to a toddler nestled in his lap, or sneaking a cheeky ice-cream to the kid from a seaside kiosk.

For his part, Nick awkwardly explains the tangles of his life; living and working up north in Durham, coming down to Devon to visit family every now and then year, constantly fighting an uphill battle with his rowdy flatmates. It feels odd, espousing about his mundane life to a stranger. Jim, however, nods sagely enough, and even cuts in with an anecdote or advice occasionally that keeps the social awkwardness at bay.

As he’s telling Jim about the time two crackheads set fire to a newsagents near his block of flats, the train’s PA system gives off its signature bing-bong. The carriage quietens instinctively, passengers softening their conversations to a murmur, like schoolchildren chastised by a teacher.

“Attention, passengers of the Great Western Railway service to Exeter Central. We apologise for the delay of this train. The situation has been resolved and we will resume our service shortly. If this has affected your journey and you wish to claim compensation, please do so on the GWR website under Delay Repay. We apologise for the inconvenience and thank you for traveling with Great Western Railway.”

The train starts up a moment later. On the platform at Paddington, the cacophony of trains setting off and slowing down had been immense. Here, it’s a muted rumble of turbodiesel engines and hydraulics, the sound dulled and muted by the train’s windows and walls. The countryside around Nick seems to unsuspend itself as skeletal trees and frost-tipped grass creeps into view.

That’s when he sees the ambulance.

Just before they pass under a country bridge, a macabre scene dangles itself in front of him. Three police cars are parked in a narrow lane on the far side of the bridge, followed by the ambulance. The rear doors are half-open and facing the train: past two doctors and a police officer, there’s the unmistakable black plastic shape of a body bag.

“Poor bugger.” Jim says sympathetically as they shoot under the bridge and away, deeper into the Cotswolds. “That’s no way to go, no way at all.”

Bile rises in Nick’s throat, acidic and painful. Grimacing, he chokes it down, trying to avoid Jim’s gaze. They could’ve fallen, he reasoned with himself, or been pushed. It’s not even convincing enough to think about for long, though. His mind keeps flashing back to the bridge, and the trees devoid of leaves beside it. Did the person in the body bag see them? Were they thinking of how beautiful the English countryside looked, how desolate, in the late afternoon’s wintry sun? Or did they close their eyes, not wanting a reason to stay?

Whoever had done it had picked the only tall bridge for miles, with nobody around. There was a deliberate, horrible finality in that choice, and he was certain everyone on the train knew what it was, even if they didn’t want to say it out loud.

Again, he feels a prickle of guilt at his momentary irritation, when the train first stopped. What right did he have to feel annoyed? A little discomfort for him, an hour’s delay… and somewhere in the country, a little network of people were receiving police phone calls, holding the receivers away from their ears, breaking down in tears.

He looks at Jim, who caught his eye and managed a morose half-smile. The older man had seemingly shrunk into his jumper, crumpled like a paper cup in his seat. Nick wondered if he’d been thinking of his grandchild when he saw the body and felt a twinge of sympathy. Not enough to break the silence, but enough to hold his gaze.

The train continues onward, picking up speed and heading south.

[twistofpayne]

i used to be a baker - lirry

A tumblr prompt went by my dash and ate away at me until I wrote this :) Enjoy! Please let me know what you thought. xx

P.S. I wrote another Lirry fic for the big bang that’s coming out in a few weeks, so expect more from me in the near future.

“Not again,” Liam hisses, barely audible even to himself over the shrieking smoke alarm. He drops the skillet and it clangs loudly against the stovetop, flinging bits of remoulade and tarragon onto the backsplash, the other burner, and his exposed forearms. “Damn,” he groans, now thoroughly disgruntled by the cacophonous alarm, his singed armhair, and hazy kitchen fogged by burning zucchini.

This is his third attempt this month to recreate a dish from the Jamie Oliver cookbook that Niall had given him last Christmas, and the third time the alarm has humiliated him into his defeated routine: He cracks open the tiny window above the sink, props the door ajar with a loose shoe, and grabs a clean cutting board to begin fanning the smoke from his flat. Old-fashioned air-con. The building is ancient enough that the landlord had laughed in Liam’s face when he’d had asked about central air. Not that Liam really expected much; it was clear from the Craigslist posting that the landlord was desperate and looking for an equally desperate tenant. So two months ago Liam had squeezed all his belongings up two flights of stairs into 3B and attempted to carve out a home amongst the yellowed wallpaper, dingy florescent lights, a testy cooker and over-active smoke alarm.

Adding insult to injury was the serene voice drifting from the speakers of his laptop, instructing him how to identify the best zucchinis in supermarket bins for use in creamy sauces as opposed to oily ones. With his arms occupied by waving the cutting board, Liam squints across the kitchen to calculate the optimal moment to pause the video between his wild flaps of the cutting board, and it’s only then that he catches sight of the dark figure in his doorway that’s definitely not the right shade of ugly yellow wallpaper to belong there. He starts, nearly losing his grip on the cutting board but managing to cling quickly to it at the last second, enough to stop it from flying into the man’s face. Because it is definitely a man, but a strange one. Liam’s eyes sweep up the man’s frame - made longer by black skinny jeans, made leaner by an oversized hoodie - and rests on jade green eyes burning (visible from two meters away) with a luster of barely concealed impatience.

“Hey-o,” Liam stutters, more in surprise than in greeting.

“Cheers,” the man replies, catching Liam further off guard with the speed of the response. “Did you know your alarm’s going off?”

His voice is deep, deeper than Liam would have expected for his almost-slight build, but clipped with the same irritability of his narrowed gaze.

“Oh,” Liam stammers again, and feels himself flush with embarrassment. He hasn’t managed to meet any of his neighbors yet, but clearly this intruder is one of them. He lowers the cutting board to his waist, as if it’s a shield between them. He lifts his chin to speak over the blaring alarm. “Er, I suppose you can hear it when I prop open the door.”

The man nods and his chestnut curls flop forward into his eyes. It strikes Liam as an undignified motion by an otherwise pompous solicitor. “A bit,” he answers. “Oh, and the six times before that, too.”

Liam winces. He hates upsetting people, and even more so he hates knowing that he’s upset people unintentionally. Zayn calls it a personality flaw (even though Niall tries to shush him every time): Liam likes to be liked and takes great pains to accomplish that. And there’s the added annoyance that now that he’s over the shock of finding this stranger in his flat, he can’t take his eyes off of those angled cheekbones, or the twisted curl of his judgmental smirk, or most of all the wide-set green eyes that make Liam feel out of breath in his own home.

He nods once in reply, hoping his ears aren’t as visibly red as they feel. “Right, reckon I’m sorry about that.” He arranges his lips into what he hopes is a meek smile, conscious that he’s apologizing over the noise of the still-shrieking smoke alarm. “Won’t happen again, mate.”

Just his luck - the alarm ceases blaring while Liam is mid-sentence, but he isn’t quick enough on the reaction and so the last two words sound like they’re shouted over the newfound quiet. He knows his ears are scarlet now, and beneath his embarrassment he desperately hopes his apology is enough to excuse the disgruntled neighbor from his flat.

But the man doesn’t move, just stands in the entryway with one hand on the brass doorknob and the other on his hip.

Awkward silence falls--or it would, if not for the contrived voice of the earnest vlogger still emanating from Liam’s laptop, now lecturing on the proper way to slice zucchini halves.

“Grip the zucchini firmly,” the female voice commands, Irish accent audible from the few words. “I find it best to grip the head to minimize any slippage. Make sure you’ve got a sharp knife--”

Liam breaks in to interrupt the monologue’s mortifying entendre (because with a face like that, how can Liam not let his mind wander at the mention of firm gripping?). “I’m a bit too novice to be amateur,” he says quickly as he turns to the opposite counter to pause the video. Before he can, the man takes two long strides into the room and beats him to the laptop.

Liam is so jarred by the boldness of his neighbor that he barely hears the words coming from his mouth. “Er, what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“I said, is that Kelly Parker?” The man bends forward at the shoulder to lean closer to the screen.

“Er...” Liam begins. “Y-yes, it is.”

“My mum used to watch her on the telly all the time growing up,” the neighbor says conversationally, his irritated tone dissolving into one of reminiscence. “I’d no idea she was on YouTube.”

“Yeah?” Liam says, clinging to the man’s change in mood. “My friend Niall put me on to her. He’s Irish, too. Reckon that’s how he found her.”

The man tilts his face a half-inch to the left to survey Liam out of the corner of his eye. He says nothing, so Liam rushes to fill the silence. “Do you cook too, then?”

“I dabble.” He turns back to the video and reaches up with one long-fingered hand to pause the video before Kelly Parker can finish dicing her remaining zucchini. He pivots on one heel to scrutinize the battle-weary stovetop. Picking up a serving spoon, he pokes at Liam’s remoulade, which has turned the color and texture of day-old mud. “What have we here, Shep?”

Abashed, Liam rotates the slightly sodden Jamie Oliver cookbook and points to the recipe. The man pokes at Liam’s sauce again and clucks his tongue. “Too much cornstarch, I think.”

“It’s supposed to be thick,” Liam gives a halfhearted defense.

“Right, well, we’ll just have to start from scratch, won’t we?”

Liam’s mind screeches to a halt - ‘start from scratch?’

And then - ‘We?’

“Yes, we,” the man replies. Liam clamps his mouth shut, realizing he had voiced that last thought aloud. “I’m Harry, by the way.” He -- Harry -- doesn’t turn to face Liam, doesn’t offer a hand to shake, and so it takes Liam a second to realized it was supposed to be an introduction.

“...Hi, I’m Liam.” Liam says, trying his best to adapt to the notion of introducing himself to someone after they’ve made themselves at home in his kitchen.

“I rather like my quiet, so I’m going to teach a you a bit. Let’s set off that alarm a bit less, mm?” Harry reaches up to rifle through the cabinets over the cooker.

Liam nods, resolving to hide his bewilderment by the appearance and authority of his new neighbor. “... Right. Uh, thanks loads, I guess. Are you right next door, then?”

Still shifting aside bottles of olive oil and curry, Harry shakes his head. “Downstairs, in 1D.”

Liam grimaces. “You can hear the alarm all the way down there?”

“Like I said, I like my quiet. D’you have any apple cider vinegar?”

“Ehm, no,” Liam replies, scanning the closed cabinets as if a bottle might materialize out of thin air. Not that he’s entirely sure what apple cider vinegar is.

Harry stops rummaging through Liam’s supplies and rocks back onto his heels. “Not a problem, we can just nip down to mine. Grab the terragon, will you, Shep? And the recipe.”

Before Liam has time to argue, Harry scoops up the defrosted salmon and the remaining stick of butter and disappears down the hall, leaving Liam standing mutely in the kitchen. It’s like a hurricane had descended on his flat in one second and disappeared the next.

He briefly considers staying here, hiding away behind a more carefully locked door from now on, but as if on cue, there’s a thump and a muffled yell from his upstairs neighbor. He cranes his neck and looks upward at the ceiling. There’s no way to hide from any of his neighbors, not with walls and floors this thin. And besides... Harry may be a hurricane, but he was a rather fit one. Liam chuckles to himself at the last image of Harry’s curls flopping forward as he whirled out the door.

And, more practically, he thinks as he gathers up the herbs to stack on top of the Jamie Oliver book, Harry is now holding his dinner hostage. He stifles a grin as he locks his door and descends the stairs to Harry’s flat.

Whatever he was expecting Harry’s flat to be decorated, this isn’t it. Almost every surface is covered in Persian rugs, crocheted doilies, hand-stitched throw pillows on the velvet couch. There’s a light smell of incense and... something sweeter that Liam doesn’t recognize but is what he imagines lavender smells like. The walls and ceiling are draped with LED lights, but soft ones that give off the dim aura of twilight.

“In here, Shep” Harry’s tenor floats out from the room to Liam’s left. He ducks his head through a bead curtain and finds himself pressed up against Harry in the kitchen. It would have been larger than Liam’s but for the extra counter space Harry has added in the form of wheeled carts and fold-out boards that descend from the walls. It’s cramped, hot, and smells delicious.

Harry is already working at the same busied pace that he was in Liam’s apartment. Something liquid sizzles in the cast iron skillet and Harry’s elbow pumps rhythmically up and down while he slices the heads off of a stand of asparagus. Liam watches, mesmerized, as Harry nimbly tosses the heads into the frying pan before turning back to Liam. “Got to start with an oil base, because asparagus carries the oil better than a cream or tomato sauce,” he explains. He wipes his hands on a houndstooth-patterned rag. “Now, I’m out of Merlot, but I do have a nice Riesling if you’d rather.”

“Er,” Liam starts, but Harry is already lifting a bottle down from the rack on the wall and digging for a corkscrew in a drawer that rattles with silverware. “Thanks.” While Harry pours, Liam lifts his gaze to the walls - all cupboards are bursting with tins, spices, wall-mounted herbs, the occasional stick of Toblerone. “You’ve got so much,” he marvels.

Harry grins down at the bottle now burbling its contents into a stemless wine glass. “I used to be a baker.”

Unsure how to respond, Liam gestures ambiguously to the ingredients stacked on Harry’s countertop. “Thanks for this. When I saw you in the doorway, I expected you to box my ears. I didn’t quite expect you to be kind enough to give me a cooking lesson.”

“I didn’t either, to be honest,” Harry responds and hands Liam the wine glass. “I couldn’t help but fall for those confused puppy dog eyes.”

Liam chokes on the Riesling slipping down his throat. Eyes burning, he wipes his lips and stares at Harry. “My what?”

Harry’s put on what Liam can only describe as a simper. “Please, Shep. I can only handle so much innocence in one evening.” His eyes seem to dance in the dim kitchen.

Shep. Liam just now realizes that Harry’s been affectionately been referring to him with a canine nickname this whole time. He blinks again, and Harry’s tone softens. “Am I reading this wrong? I thought that zucchini video was such a blatant come-on.”

“I--” Liam’s voice falters, halved by the distance that Harry closes between them. He lifts one long, ringed finger and runs it over Liam’s bottom lip where the wine has left a syrupy stain. Liam’s throat is tight and he doesn’t think it’s the Riesling.

Harry’s so close that Liam can see flecks of hazel in the green. His ears feel as scarlet as they did in his own flat, once again flustered by the rangy neighbor with the hungry look. It’s not unwanted, but it’s surprising. Liam’s always fallen for the old-fashioned types, the brooding gentlemen who open car doors for him, not beaded curtains.

“Yeah?” Harry intones, goading Liam to speak.

His eyes rake up Liam’s face and Liam’s lips separate, almost unconsciously. “Yes,” Liam says. One word, issuing from his throat as easy and effortless as a breath. It doesn’t even make sense as an answer, but it doesn’t matter. They both know what it means.

“Yeah?” Harry drawls again, the smirk audible in his voice. His hot breath is on Liam’s neck, and Liam’s entire body feels as if it’s a pillar of fire, a pillar of uncontrolled, sudden, and befuddling want. Harry’s hair tickles his nose. Liam sucks in breath sharply, inhaling the warm scent of butter, tarragon, Riesling, and a hint of smoke.

Above their heads, the fire alarm goes off.

[jestbee]

Ships that pass in the night (Chapter Sixteen)

Title: Ships that Pass in the Night (Chapter Sixteen)

Tags:  Alternate Timeline, AU, Slow burn, strangers to friends, friends to lovers Words: 3.5k Summary: Dan and Phil are YouTubers. The catch? They’ve never met, and Phil doesn’t want them to Author’s Note: I blame @ineverhadmyinternetphase for the fact that this got started because I said if she posted her fic Missent Text that I would write some of this in return. Then @charlottekath made vegan cheese from scratch and put it in a pie with whiskers on it and well… how could I help but be inspired?

Also I'll level with you, I wanted to finish all of Ships and post it all on Xmas day but the next chapter is proving really difficult so I couldn't get it done. So… you can have this one.

Merry Christmas!!!

(also this is completely unbeta’d becuase I didn’t want to disturb my beta at the holidays) [AO3 Link]   [Tumblr Masterpost]  

The glass is still there the next morning. He shouldn't have expected it to be gone but there it is. Freaking out tends to do funny things to his brain, like he's viewing them all from a distance or it happened to someone else.

He doesn't know whether he's grateful for the potentially dangerous reminder that Dan had turned up at his flat, or not.

He keeps his promise early morning, setting the phone to ring on loudspeaker while he tries to clear up shards of glass from a mildly wet floor using the smallest dustpan and brush ever created.

He narrowly avoids cutting himself, but he does avoid it.

When PJ answers he's reminded that not everyone has taken to bed for a week and are consequently up really early. He's reminded that some people have normal sleep patterns where their thoughts don't keep them up late and wake them early, filled with a jumble of everything, everything, everything and how much of a mess it all is. The world has continued outside of his bubble and that feels unwelcome, somehow.

"Hello?" PJ's voice croaks.

"Peej," he says, jostling the plastic bag and the brush and the dustpan and all of it threatening to end up back all over the floor anyway.

"What the hell, Phil? It's eight in the morning."

"I'm er…" He ties the top of the bag and sits fully down on the floor, facing the phone, legs crossed, still talking into the loudspeaker because it's nice to have noise in his flat. Sort of. "Calling."

"I know that."

"No I mean… you know. Calling. I need…"

He hears the rustle of bedsheets and he feels, for a moment, that sinking sensation of guilt that always comes when he's burdening someone with all of his mess. When he's this close to letting it spill over he feels the urge to build that wall back up, to keep everyone at arm's length for their own good. But this will never be solved if he does, and he needs to somehow sort out the jumble of thoughts and confusion and mistakes he's made over the past few days. Besides, he'd made a promise. And on this occasion that's enough to make him take action. Once upon a time it might not have been.

He's acutely aware that may mean he's gotten better, that he's somehow stronger than last time but he doesn't exactly want to test that theory.

What is it they said? There's strength in asking for help, too.

"I'm here," PJ says, louder, clearer, like he's stepped into a different room. Gotten out of bed probably.

Phil sighs, picks up the phone. He's still on the floor, legs crossed in the middle of his hallway but he turns off the loudspeaker and presses the phone to his ear.

"I don't know how to… ugh. This is so stupid honestly."

"What happened?"

Phil doesn't know where to start, the words spin away from him. How does he explain the horrible sinking feeling he'd felt when Cat and Tyler said what they said, the drag of fear when Dan had turned up at his door. How does he describe the suspended hope of something. Something. It's carved out of the solid weight of his uncertainty. He wants to believe, can feel where the belief would fit in his chest, but it hurts. It lays heavy, thick, weighted and uncomfortable. He doesn't know how to carry hope, it's nothing like he's used to.

He can't even find the words to confess that he's been hiding for a week.

"I haven't been in touch lately," PJ says, his voice is kind of muffled as if from behind his fingers and Phil can imagine the guilty expression on his face, like him texting could have at all prevented whatever the hell it is Phil is going through.

"I… it wouldn't have… mattered. If you had. I'm--"

He stops, because he's so lost in it all he couldn't even define what he was. What word exists for this? Sad? Confused? Hopeless? Nothing feels right, maybe it's all of that, or none of it. Explaining it has always been the hard part. Feeling it… feeling this way has never been difficult. He manages that with ease.

"Coffee," PJ decides for him, not waiting anywhere near long enough for Phil to come up with right words. "I can come there."

"I need to go outside," Phil says, staring forlornly at the tied up bag of glass, hazard now contained but not yet disposed of.

He doesn't want to go outside. He wants to stay where it's safe and familiar but, coping mechanisms aren't always productive.

"We can do that, Starbucks?"

Phil thinks of Dan pressed up close to him on a couch, thigh pressed to thigh in a steam cloud of caramel-flavoured caffeine. "No, um, the other place? The one with the crappy sandwiches?"

"I know which one you mean," PJ says, "I can be there in an hour?"

"Yes. Please."

Something on his voice must sound desperate because PJ is quick to follow it up with a, "Everything will be okay. I'll be there soon."

Phil is the one to hang up once they've said goodbye, like PJ is afraid to terminate the call if Phil still needs him. Phil suspects PJ would stay on the phone with him the full hour it takes them to get ready to meet in person if needs be. He's a good friend like that.

-

He doesn't get his usual order when he gets there. He picks a plain coffee and adds a little milk and sugar and huddles in a corner seat until PJ gets there. He's flushed a little red when he does get here, like he's run all the way and Phil is mildly guilty that he's messed up his day already.

"Hey," PJ says, coming straight to the table before ordering his drink.

"Hey."

PJ is hovering. He's doing that thing where he really wants to ask if Phil is okay but he knows that might be the worst question in the world to ask right now. Phil knows it isn't fair, he hates doing this to people because he can't expect them to act in all the right ways. But PJ has always tried so hard, and everything he does is with the best intentions but all the expression on his face is doing is making Phil's stomach twist up more and more with the overwhelming shame of having to go through this time and time again.

"I'm okay," Phil says, answering before PJ asks because he can at least offer him that, "Go get coffee."

PJ looks a little uncertain for a second but he does drop his bag, turn around and go to get coffee.

Phil busies himself with his phone but he can feel PJ staring him out of the corner of his eye, tracking him even as he waits for his coffee to be made.

Once he's back in the seat opposite him, Phil has to put down his phone and look at him directly.

"What happened this morning?" PJ asks.

"Not this morning," Phil says, clearing his throat. "It was… ah… a few days ago."

PJ nods curtly but his eyes narrow. "You didn't call a few days ago."

"No."

"Have you spoken to anyone since then?"

Phil shakes his head.

PJ sighs, like he wants to say something more. Admonish Phil maybe, insist that he should have called? He knows it isn't that easy.

"So what happened a few days ago?"

"Um…"

Phil takes a sip of his coffee and is surprised to find his hands are shaking slightly.

"It's okay," PJ says, "Take your time."

Take his time. Phil is always taking his time and stumbling over everything and he really needs to get out of the habit of running away all the time. He'd called PJ, hadn't he? He'd been the one to ask for this meeting, because he knows he needs help sometimes. He needs to learn how to ask for it better, and how to accept it when it's being offered.

"I went to a party with Dan."

"What did he do?"

PJ looks mad. He's put his mug back down on the table and he's sat straight up, poised for action, as though he would spring right over to Dan's flat and give him hell if Phil so much as implied he'd done anything wrong.

"He didn't… well, I'm not sure if he… it might all be in my head. Or it might not. It might all be completely true."

"Okay… what might?"

Phil shuffles down in his seat, his shoulders shrugged almost up to his ears, trying to make himself smaller. He wants to block all of this out but it isn't helping, hasn't helped so far, so he might as well give this a try.

"Some people at the party implied that Dan… that he was only... f-friends with me to boost his YouTube career."

"Friends?"

Phil looks down into his coffee and watches the light glint off the still top of it. It ripples as PJ leans forward in his seat and bangs the table.

"Phil… did you… are you and Dan…"

Phil nods his head, still not looking at him. "We… after the Google thing. I... "

PJ doesn't say anything. Maybe he has no words for how stupid Phil has been, or maybe he's just letting Phil find his own way around all of this. Either way, Phil has to look up at him finally to try and navigate the conversation.

"It was… Peej it wasn't like, well it wasn't like anything else. I know, I know, I don't want to go into detail, I know you don't want to hear it but… it had me believing it. It was different. It was… good."

It was good. The rarity of it, how special it had felt, like it wasn't something thrown away, not just a singular moment in time they'd both forget afterwards. It was something else. But then it wasn't.

"But then afterwards?"

"Then there was the party and people saying things and… I just don't know what to believe. How can I trust anything he says?"

"You just have to look at everything, Phil. You can't judge it based on this one tiny incident… I know I was cautious too. I didn't want to see you get hurt."

Phil remembers. He remembers how unsure PJ had been when they'd played games at his house, how he'd looked scared and unsure on Phil's behalf when they'd left Google.

"But it wasn't because I thought Dan wasn't serious." he continues, "It was only because I thought… well, I didn't know if you'd want to be in another… situation with a YouTuber."

Phil bites down on his bottom lip hard, leaving teeth prints in it.

"I thought so too… I mean, I don't want to be. I don't." Phil shakes his head, "at least I don't think so."

"Phil."

"Yeah?"

"Do you… honestly now… do you really think Dan is faking all of that? Could he have? After everything you've told me…And well, after everything he's been out there doing… doesn't that prove something to you?"

Phil doesn't know. Nothing makes sense any more. He wants PJ to tell him want to do, to give him the answer to every question that he has but he knows that's not how it works.

"He came to my house yesterday."

PJ nods, "He did? What did he want?"

"Mostly to tell me off, maybe. But I also accused him of everything. He denied it of course. He said the reason he tweets and stuff so much is because… well, not for the reason I thought."

"You were mad at him about the tweeting?"

Phil nods, "Yeah. I think… well it's one of the main reasons why I'm inclined to believe he's full of shit."

PJ frowns. He looks so confused, lines appears on his forehead, but Phil really doesn't understand why.

"You know," he clarifies, "He tweets whenever we do anything and he's always replying to people and… did you know there's a ship name now? It's ridiculous. It's just Phan. It doesn't even work out loud, like you have to write it down."

"But…"

"No, I know." Phil says, "That doesn't prove anything. But I guess I just thought that he was showing off, using my name for views."

"For views?" PJ says, that perplexed look still on his face, skin between his brows all bunched up. "But… Phil, what he's been doing on Twitter isn't helping him any. If anything, there are some people who think responding to all of Charlie's drama actually makes him look really petty."

Phil's coffee sloshes over the side of his cup as he sits up quickly, shuffling to the edge of his seat and bumping the table in the process. There is a small creeping puddle of coffee on the wooden table top, seeping towards the edge of it, threatening to drip onto his jeans.

"What Charlie drama?"

PJ brushes his hair out of his face. It's a little wild this morning, a huge mass of waves sitting fluffy and huge around his face. It's always a little crazy but he's been in a rush this morning, Phil knows, so it is quite untamed.

"You… oh God."

"What?"

"You really don't know."

"Peej… what the hell are you talking about?"

The coffee puddle has spread and Phil has to lean over, pluck the haphazard pile of napkins from this coffee tray and swipe the edge of the table. All the while, PJ is sat with his mouth parted, tongue rolled forward to his front teeth as if trying to find the words to say.

"Jesus Phil, I mean I don't know if I should be the one to… if you don't know."

"Tell me!" Phil says, his voice a little louder than he intends so that the people at the next table look up at him. He shoots them an apologetic look and lowers his voice, "please. Look… just tell me what's going on. I'm so confused. I need to make sense of it all and if you know something--"

"Ok, ok." PJ rubs the back of his neck with one hand, "Let me just… I need to figure out where to start."

"Okay."

Phil sits back in his chair, takes his mug with him so that it is cradled between his hands.

"Do you have Charlie blocked on Twitter?"

That comes out of nowhere. Phil hasn't thought about that in a while but he remembers sitting on his hospital bed, bag packed and finally back in his own clothes. He remembers staring at his phone as he waited for his parents to get there and deciding to finally put an end to it, resolving to start over.

"Yes."

"Okay. Good. I mean… That'll be why you haven't…" he sighs, "I guess I just thought Dan might have mentioned it."

Phil feels his palms go sweaty around the cup. He isn't sure if it's the heat of the ceramic or the mention of Charlie's name and the inference that he's back in his life, causing trouble.

"Mentioned what?"

He feels sick. The bottom of his stomach drops out and it's like he's dangling over a precipice, seconds away from disaster.

"Right." PJ picks up his cup, blows out over the top of it to cool it slightly, but he doesn't take a sip. "Charlie has been on Twitter. I guess he saw interactions between you and Dan and… well, he's been…"

PJ trails off and instead digs his phone out of this pocket. He taps around on it for a while before passing it over to Phil. Phil puts down his cup, wraps his fingers around PJ's phone and brings it close to his face.

He can barely look at first. Just a glimpse of that familiar username and a slightly updated profile picture is enough to make his chest feel tight and his breathing snag in his chest. He has to do this, he needs to see.

danisnotonfire: OMG senpai noticed me?!?!

Charlieskies: @danisnotonfire don't waste your time

Right from the beginning. It's all the way back to the beginning, to the point where Phil first engaged with Dan on Twitter.

He can't breathe, it's too much. But he can't stop, his thumb moves up the screen, scrolling down to see more and more, every time they've interacted, every time they mentioned each other, he's there.

danisnotonfire: #phanimalfacts is trending @AmazingPhil what have we done?

Charlieskies: @danisnotonfire good luck, we all know he likes to hide everything, don't be surprised if it doesn't last long

Charlie is still up to his old lies, still touting that old story out. How long has this been going on? Is it just Dan, or does he still drag it all out at regular intervals? Phil can't escape it. He's tried.

He wanted to start over, to put all of this behind him, to stop it all in its tracks. That's why he'd blocked Charlie in the first place.

But it hasn't had any effect at all. Charlie is still out there, never letting it die, never letting him be free of it.

danisnotonfire: your fave nerdy british boys met irl finally are you hyped? @AmazingPhil

Charlieskies: @danisnotonfire seriously, get out while you still can, he's not a nice person

He'd warned him off. Phil closes his eyes for a second before reading onwards, he can't do this. He doesn't want to see it.

But his thumb moves up anyway, and soon, it isn't just Charlie tweeting at Dan.

danisnotonfire: @AmazingPhil tweeting is not resting dont make me confiscate your phone

Charlieskies: @danisnotonfire did he tell you how I used to take care of him when he was ill?

danisnotonfire: what is it you are getting out of this exactly?

He hadn't sent it while he was with Phil. It was afterwards, when he went home.

Charlieskies: just looking out for you mate, you should learn from my experience. I know what he's like

danisnotonfire: jealousy doesn't become you

danisnotonfire: and I'm not your mate

Charlieskies: no need to be hostile

danisnotonfire: you haven't seen hostility yet i care about him so if you carry on i'll show you hostile

Phil lets the phone fall to the table. It clatters on the wood and he drops his forehead into his palms. They are warm, slightly clammy, he sucks in a breath and tries to steady himself.

There's more, Dan fighting his corner, telling Charlie to stop. Phil can't look at any more

"He's been…"

"Yeah."

"And Dan…"

"Hm."

"Shit."

If PJ is surprised by the language he doesn't let on. Phil drags his fingers down his face and looks up.

"Why?"

PJ shrugs. "I don't know. But… Well, he wouldn't be doing all of this if… if any of what you're so scared of was true."

Phil looks at it from that angle. It's true. Dan going off on Twitter isn't doing him any favours so why is he doing it? What would be the point? Unless…

"You think he's being genuine."

"I've only met the guy a few times, so I'm not going to sit here and tell you that he definitely is. But Phil… the way he looks at you. The way you are with each other. That's not fake."

Phil looks down at the phone again, screen faded to black. He slides it back over the table. He's seen enough.

"And he knows about... " he swallows. "Charlie."

PJ cocks his head. "He's been there since the beginning Phil. He's watched your channel and commented on everything you've ever done. Did you think he missed it?"

"No… just… he's never said anything. About… well like everyone had an opinion on it didn't they? Whether they believed him. Dan has never said…"

"Do you think he would? If you didn't bring it up?"

"I don't know."

He thinks about them sharing secrets. He think about Dan coming out and Phil telling him about his anxiety. He hasn't shared everything. Not even close. But Dan has never pushed him to, not once.

PJ picks up the phone and slides it back in to his pocket. "I think he cares about you Phil. I think he saw it all and he cares about you anyway. But maybe you owe him the bigger story… the bits everyone didn't see."

Phil shakes his head automatically because part of his whole starting over routine was vowing never to talk about it. He's made that final pact with himself to stay closed off from it all, to shove it all down and try and pretend it didn't happen. It was the only way he could move on.

But that isn't working any more. Still, the idea of telling Dan everything… it's scary.

"I need to talk to him, huh?"

"Yeah… I think you do."

[leaves-of-three]

Could you write about Connor dating a vegetarian reader and the Murphy's having them over for Thanksgiving for the first time?

Connor pulled his car into the long driveway leading up to his large house. He made no motion to get out. You simply followed his lead and quietly sat in the passenger seat, waiting. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

Finally you cleared your throat, “Are we going inside or does your family spend Thanksgiving in the car? A bit unusual but if that’s the way you do things…”

Connor grumbled. He shot you a look of annoyance, “Shut up. I’m stalling. You don’t know what you’re about to walk into. This will be the day we break up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, drama queen. I’ve met your family before. It’s just a dinner. I think I’ll manage it.”

“No, it’s not just a dinner,” he replied. “It’s a holiday dinner. There’s a difference. It’s like I’m willing letting you walk into a lion’s den.”

You leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. He scrunched up his nose in feign disgust of the affection you were giving him. It only made you leave more little kisses along his cheek until he cracked a smile. “Okay okay, fine! Are you sure you don’t want to run? I can pull this car out of here right now. We can flee to Canada. You just say the word.”

“Connor, my god. Let’s go. I’ll protect you from your big, bad family.” You gave him a playful smile and finally left his car.

A gust of wind caught under your maroon skirt causing the fabric to loosely dance around your legs. You had wanted to look extra nice today. Despite the confidence you were displaying to Connor, you were secretly very nervous. This would be the first time you’d meet some of his extended family. Larry’s brother was supposed to be eating with you as well. Connor had loudly expressed his animosity for his uncle on the ride over here. It was hard to know exactly what to expect when you met him. Your boyfriend was an expert at making people sound much more awful than they actually were. When you first met his mom, you were honestly expecting a witch of a woman. It turned out she was actually really sweet and caring. You couldn’t always trust Connor’s word when it came to his opinions of others. He was a half glass empty kind of guy.

You straightened up your skirt and reached into the back seat for the cookies you had made and a bouquet of autumn flowers for Cynthia. Never show up to someone’s home empty handed. Your mother had taught you that long ago. Connor jogged around to your side of the car to help you carry the plate of cookies. He slipped his hand under the clear wrap covering the plate and stole a cookie, popping it into his mouth. You gently swatted his hand, “Those are for dessert!”

“‘ere ‘eally ‘ood,” he tried to speak with his mouthful of cookie.

“You’re awful. Let’s go get this over with.” You both unconsciously reached for the other’s free hand as you walked up the path to the house.

Cynthia opened the door before you had even reached it. She beamed down at you, “You made it! Happy Thanksgiving, sweetie. It’s so wonderful to have you.”

You handed her the bouquet of flowers after she smothered you into a tight hug. The smell of cooking food wafted out the door. It smelled amazing. Your stomach growled in response to the delightful scents. Cynthia seemed truly in awe that you had brought her flowers, “These are beautiful. I’m going to make them the table centerpiece. Thank you so much. You didn’t have bring anything.” She looked over at Connor and frowned. “You’ve got crumbs all over you face, Connor. Clean yourself up before you come inside, please.” An alarm started beeping from inside. “Oh the turkey is ready! Excuse me,” she turned and ran off.

Connor side glanced at you, “Welcome to hell.”

You pulled your sleeve over your hand and brushed the crumbs off his mouth, “Hell doesn’t seem that bad if you’re there with me. I think we’ll manage. Come on.” You tried to tug him inside. His feet stayed rooted on the top step. “Jesus, Connor!” You had to laugh. He was just being ridiculous now. “If you come inside I’ll make it worth your while later tonight…” You gave him a quick wink.

His brows raised while he pretended to think over the offer, “Alright deal.”

“You’re so predictable. That literally gets you every time.” You walked inside. A warm fire was crackling in the fire place. The warmth pulled you deeper into the Murphy house. It was a nice contrast to the chilly November air outside. Larry was leaning against the mantle with a glass of whisky in hand. He let out a boisterous laugh at something the man sitting across from him said. He looked over when you walked in and smiled, “And this is who I was telling you about, Paul!” He gestured to you and walked over. “This is Y/N. Connor’s girlfriend. We were trying to figure out how he could have ever managed to trick someone like you into dating him.” His large hand clamped onto your shoulder as he laughed. “Y/N, this is my older brother, Paul.”

A middle aged man with grey peppered through his dark hair stood up to shake your hand. The smile on his thin lips didn’t quite reach his eyes. Something about him seemed a little off. The moment he released your hand, you pulled it back to your side. You tried to give him a polite smile regardless. You didn’t like the way Mr. Murphy was speaking about Connor. While Cynthia was always lovely, you were never fond of Larry. His ways were too old fashioned for your liking. “It’s nice to you, Paul, and it’s nice to see you again Mr. Murphy.”

Paul looked past your shoulder and gave Connor a harsh look. “Take the girl’s coat, will ya? My father would have belted you for just uselessly standing there. I would have thought my brother would have taught you how to be a proper gentlemen by now.”

Larry shook his head, “I’ve tried. He doesn’t listen. Trust me. Here I’ll take your jacket for you.” He placed his whiskey on a near by table and took your coat from you, going to hang it up in the closet. “Connor go see if your mother needs help in the kitchen.”

You turned to look at your boyfriend. You were well versed in his micro expressions by now. You could tell he was fuming over what Paul had said. His hand gripped tighter onto the plate of cookies. He was doing his best to hold his tongue. You stepped forward and took the plate from his hand, giving him an apologetic look. “Come on,” you whispered him. You gently nudged him towards the kitchen and away from the men.

The Murphy’s kitchen was about twice the size of your own. They’re home was truly very beautiful. It looked like it could be something out a magazine. Cynthia was throwing the final touches of food onto plates and bringing them into the dinning room. Zoe was carrying whatever her mom left behind. You placed the cookie plate by the other desserts on the counter. Zoe looked over her shoulder as she carried food to the next room and gave you a welcoming smile. You liked Zoe. You didn’t know her very well. Anytime you were actually over, you were always with Connor and he never spent much time with her. But you could tell she had a good heart. You gave her a little wave.

“Dinner is ready!” Cynthia called from the dinning room. “Everyone come take your seats!”

You turned to Connor. He was still pissed off. His jaw was tight and his eyes glared angrily out a kitchen window. You sighed quietly, moving to wrap your arms around his waist and hide your face in his chest. “Just think about tonight,” you whispered into his shirt. “Make a mental list of everything you want to do later. Whenever they start to piss you off…think about me naked.” You smiled and stood on your tippy toes to kiss him. You could see his broody exterior melt a little. A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. “See? It works, right?” You took his hand in yours. “Let’s go sit down.”

Larry sat at the head of the table. Cynthia sat to his right with Zoe beside her. While you and Connor sat across from them. Paul took up the opposite end of where Larry was seated. Cynthia said a long, drawn out grace while you all bowed your head…minus Connor. He kept staring at the wall across from him until she was finished. You didn’t want to be rude so you just tried to mimic whatever Zoe was doing. Your family never said a prayer before you ate.

Once grace was said, Larry took charge of carving the turkey while the side dishes were passed around the table. You loaded your plate with mashed potatoes, cooked vegetables, a bit of squash, some salad, and a buttery roll. It all looked amazing. Larry held out his hand for your plate to served you a hardy piece of the turkey he had cut. You smiled politely and shook your head, “Oh no thank you. I’ll pass. Everything here already looks so good.”

Larry look at you, baffled that you would turn down his turkey offering. “What’s the matter? It’s Thanksgiving. You’ve got to eat turkey on Thanksgiving! Connor, hand me her plate.”

He shot his father a rude look, “She’s vegetarian. She doesn’t eat meat. I’ll take her piece.”

Paul snorted from the other side of the table, “What’d you mean she doesn’t eat meat? Kid’s these days are so self righteous. When we were growing up you’d eat what was put in front of ya’ and you’d be damn thankful for it. Some people would kill to have this kind of meal.”

You shrunk into the back of your seat. You hated people like Paul. Why did he care so much about what you put into your own body? It was none of his business what you did or didn’t eat. “I’m very thankful for this meal. I don’t eat that much anyway. These side dishes are more than enough. They look wonderful, Mrs. Murphy. You must have worked really hard on them.” You tried your best to divert the conversation onto someone else, giving her a small smile.

She smiled warmly back at you. “Thank you, honey. Zoe and I spent the morning cooking together. You’ll have to bring some left overs home to your mother. I’m sure we’ll have plenty to share.”

“Yeah, since she isn’t eating the main course,” Paul muttered under his breath.

Larry waved off his comment and handed your slice of the turkey off onto Connor’s plate. “You know, Zoe wanted to be a vegetarian once back when she as in middle school.” He laughed. “She lasted about a day and then we made bacon for breakfast. She couldn’t resist.”

Zoe swallowed a mouthful of food before speaking, “It’s a noble cause. It takes effort to stick to it. I think it’s cool.” She smiled at you.

Paul snorted again as he downed a glass of red whine. “Noble. Ha. Bunch of hippies. Do you also skip out on showering to to save water?”

“Paul, please.” Cynthia gave him a warning look. “She’s our guest.”

You were starting to lose your appetite. You didn’t like being the center of attention and you didn’t appreciate being berated by someone you just met. Connor had been right earlier. No wonder he hated his uncle. He was an asshole of a man. You pushed some mashed potatoes around your plate with a fork.

Connor’s foot tapped against yours under the table. You turned to look at him. He had remained quiet so far but he was giving you a sympathetic look. His foot stayed pushed against yours. You knew it was his little way of giving you strength without actually speaking. He leaned in closer to you and whispered, “Think about tonight.” It got you to smile.

If he was willing to suffer through this meal than so were you, as long as, you both agreed to make it up to each later in the privacy of his bedroom.