#settee chronicles

[anneangel]

The way Watson in Victorian-era canon says "oh, god, yes! Take me to one of your dangerous cases!" goes like this:

“Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose it must be,” said I. “When do we start?”

“You are not coming.” (Said Sherlock).

“Then you are not going,” said I. “I give you my word of honour, and I never broke it in my life, that I will take a cab straight to the police-station and give you away, unless you let me share this adventure with you".

The way Sherlock in Victorian era canon says "I need a partner!" and like this:

"I think that I had better go, Holmes." Said Watson.

"Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it."

"But your client --"

"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention." (...)

"If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone." Said the client.

I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

And other:

With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially.

"I was afraid that you were busy."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also." [explains Holmes to the client].

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes to Watson, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures."

[paralleljulieverse]

FROM THE ARCHIVES: STRIKE A POSE Julie Andrews photographed by Henry Clarke for 'Vogue France', December 1958

By 1958, the world was firmly in the grip of "My Fair Lady-mania". The smash-hit Broadway musical had become a global cultural phenomenon, influencing not only theatre and music, but also travel, lifestyle — and, most notably, fashion

As explored in previous PJV posts, My Fair Lady helped define late-1950s style, inspiring designers, shaping seasonal collections, and generating a flood of editorial spreads, lifestyle features, and advertising campaigns. Its cultural impact was so pronounced that the international press dubbed it “The Show That Changed America’s Fashions” (Garland, pp. 10–11), while others hailed a full-blown “fashion revolution” that had “influenced designers in Italy, Paris, New York and London” (New Fair Ladies, p. 101).

Amid this wave of sartorial enthusiasm, Julie Andrews quickly became a sought-after subject for fashion magazines eager to leverage her rising star power. One striking example is this editorial from the December 1958 issue of Vogue France — arguably the era’s definitive "fashion bible" (Sweet, 2023). While Andrews had already graced the pages of American Vogue, this shoot marked her debut in the French edition.

The star appeared as part of a six-page celebrity fashion feature titled Chez Elles: une histoire en six pages qui va de Versailles à Paris en passant par Londres (“At Home with Her: A Story in Six Pages from Versailles to Paris via London”). Alongside Julie were other notables of the day — including Princess Maria-Pia of Yugoslavia and dancers Claude Bessy and Noëlle Adam — each modelling the latest haute couture in the intimacy of her own home.

In Julie's case, she was photographed in the front sitting room of her London flat in Eaton Square. Bedecked in designer finery as she lounges on a chintz-covered settee, the image distils the article’s central theme: the interplay between public glamour and private domesticity. The accompanying copy reads:

Cinderella-Princess of legend, come to enchant Pygmalion, Julie Andrews performs every evening in London in My Fair Lady, the musical comedy adapted from Bernard Shaw’s famous play. In it, she takes on the role of Eliza, a part she had already made a triumph during a long and celebrated run in New York. Like all actresses mindful of maintaining their form, the demands of this hectic professional life must be balanced by periods of calm—long hours of restorative time at home. These moments of repose are so essential that they shape the rhythm of an actress’s life—which is, in truth, much calmer than those outside the theatre world often imagine. That is why, in private, elegant stage costumes give way to refined, comfortable loungewear. At home, Julie Andrews wears a luxurious Lanvin Castillo robe in pale blue silk taffeta by Guillemin, with an Empire waist and wide puffed sleeves. This delicate shade harmonises particularly well with the freshness of her face and the blue of her eyes (Charles-Roux, 1958, p. 56, trans.).

The editorial images are by Henry Clarke, an influential force in postwar fashion photography. The celebrated photographer launched his career in 1940s New York, bringing the spontaneity of photojournalism into the artificial conventions of studio fashion shoots. Favouring compact, adaptable cameras like the twin-lens Rolleiflex, Clarke developed a signature style that was both dynamic and meticulously crafted — balancing elegance with a sense of immediacy (Join-Diéterle, 2002).

Relocating to France in 1949, Clarke quickly secured work with leading publications such as Femina, L’Album de Figaro, and Harper’s Bazaar. By the mid-1950s, he was working exclusively for Vogue, creating many of the magazine’s most iconic and lavish editorials. His lens chronicled the postwar renaissance of French fashion, from Dior’s “New Look” to the mod passions of the 1960s (Schönauer, 2003, p. 52).

Within this orbit, Clarke photographed not only fashion models but also many of the era’s most celebrated women, including Coco Chanel, Maria Callas, the Duchess of Windsor, and the Queen of Thailand. In December 1958, that illustrious company was joined by the Fair Lady herself: Julie Andrews.

Though others may exist, this remains the only published image from Clarke’s shoot with Julie — and it bears all the hallmarks of the photographer's late-1950s style. In full-page splendour, the photograph stages Julie in a moment of poised repose — half-prepared for society, half-surrendered to private ease. Reclining gently, she casually toys with a pearl-crested bijou between her fingers, her gaze softly direct. The sheen of the silk robe, draped in generous folds, catches the light with theatrical elegance, while the plush cushions behind envelop her in a tableau of domestic comfort.

Yet the scene is steeped in intentional artifice: not a candid glimpse of domestic life, but a carefully composed fantasy of modern femininity. Paired with the smaller inset image of Julie as Eliza the flower seller, the composition underscores the Cinderella arc at the heart of My Fair Lady — and, indeed, of fashion itself — a transformation not merely of costume, but of social identity. Clarke’s lens captures both illusion and paradox: a performance of self at once intimate and staged, presenting Julie Andrews as star and subject, actress and icon.

Sources:

Charles-Roux, E. (Ed.). (1958, December). Chez elles: Une histoire en six pages qui va de Versailles à Paris en passant par Londres. Vogue français, 52-58.

Garland, A. (1956, October 6). The show that changed America’s fashions. Daily Mirror, pp. 10–11.

Join-Diéterle, C. (2002). Henry Clarke: Photographe de mode. Somogy & Paris Musées.

The New Fair ladies. (1958, May 11). The Sun-Herald, p. 101.

Schönauer, D. (2003, November–December). Henry Clarke. American Photo, 14(6), 50–52.

Sweet, H. (2023, September 27). “The fashion bible”: A history of Vogue magazine. Bbys Magazine. https://www.barnebys.com/blog/the-fashion-bible-a-history-of-vogue-magazine

© 2025, Brett Farmer. All Rights Reserved.

[levinson-mannion]

Robert: We need a new settee for Cora’s bedroom.

Rosamund: *disgusted* Not in front of my salad!

[bella-caecilia]

This new Cobert (smut) fic was inspired by a discussion with the @ Downton squad about Cobert certainly breaking some settees in the course of getting Robert ‘more active’ after his health scare. I hope you guys like this take on it. 

Summary: Settees tend to be witnesses of Cora's and Robert's intimate moments of terrific fun quite often. And this doesn't stop after Robert's health scare shows the two that they're not getting younger. Basically a shameless excuse for more Cobert smut. Set somewhere at the end of season 6/after the series. 

Note: No settees were harmed in the portrayed lovemaking (yet).

You can also read it on AO3

[cobertaddict]

[decino]

*an actual conversation of me and my elder brother during dinner a few hours ago*

Bro: So DA 2...is like...a vacation mode for the entire fam?

Me: Yeah

B: So...are Cora and Robert going to break a settee in Violet's villa, too?

M: *almost chokes* How the fudge did you know about that?!

B: Remember when you showed me the 'settee chronicles' on Tumblr?

M: *remembered that moment* *realizes* *instant regret*

B:

M:

B:

M:...I told you to forget that

[bella-caecilia]

I take this as solid evidence. Definitely. Their settee breaking is CANON!!

In my recent rewatch it struck me again just how odd I have always found this sofa:

I mean it looks like it could be comfortable, but it’s just so square and has ridiculously high sides, plus the weird things on the back with the cords that hold it together.  I had never seen anything resembling it before, so I decided to look it up and see if there were others like it or if it was just a one off.  It is an Edwardian Knole Sofa (or Settee) so would have been made somewhere between 1901-1910.  Therefore it is not a Crawley family heirloom nor was it there when Cora and Robert married.  Which makes me wonder…

Did the library originally have matching couches?  But after being apart for so long during the Boer War, Cobert couldn’t help themselves and they got up to some terrific fun in the library where there was an unfortunate incident, resulting in the settee being broken beyond repair? So they got this much sturdier one.  Which incidentally has adjustable sides allowing for more room for terrific fun.

Like…is this evidence of Cobert actually breaking settees???

[myshadowsandmybones]

TO KNOW YOU’RE NOT ALONE

PROLOGUE

Moans, weeps and cries could be heard for miles around. Supplicants, friends and soldiers were crying for the short life of a martyred Saint while fire and sickly-sweet smoke carried their prayers to the Heavens. “Sankta Alina. Sankta Alina! Sankta…”

In the middle of everyone, the girl breathed a lone whisper. A name. A boy’s name, given up. Almost forgotten.

“Aleksander.”

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

There is a newly built playground in Keramzin.

One in the shape of a mansion. There are sitting rooms and drawing rooms where the floors are scattered with pillows and throws for the nights when stories are spun by the light of the fireplace. Settees and armchairs pushed to the side, nothing that could break in sight.

There are kitchens where during cold falls and winters, hearty stews are bubbling in pots and during springs and summers, the ovens are blooming fruity pastries and juicy pies. In those kitchens there are also shadowed corners where little hands find hidden bowls full of sweets and chocolate. The little ones think a Sugar Fairy keeps leaving gifts for them.

There are bedrooms with little beds and walls adorned with paintings of forests and meadows, stags made of light and birds with plumes of fire. Sculpted horses and soldiers made of wood, colorful fabric dolls and sets of marbles are neatly arranged on each bed, by the pillows of their owners.

There is a Room of Tales at the heart of the playground. The walls of the room are covered with rows upon rows of fairytales, legends and adventures in written form. Fantastical chronicles of heroic acts, tragic stories and love conquests, that enchant ever soul, young or old. Between them sit pieces of science, big or small, history, languages, treaties on ethics, art, geography, wisdom on the body and mind, all bound with thread. All these magical tales and bits of science become portals for those who only know the playground of Keramzin and not the world. There are also tables and chairs, of all sizes, covered in notebooks, paper, pencils and charcoal that wait to be used to etch numbers, letters and answers to questions. Then, in a corner, in front of the large windows that let powder gold cast itself over the room, there is a smaller table, of russet wood just like the others. Next to it a rocking chair, cushioned with pillows. It is known the Sun is its only claimant.

There are no adornments on the hallways. For this is a playground and in such a place there is no space for anything that can fall and shatter. A playground is for children to enjoy and to delight in. Such was the newly built orphanage in Keramzin. Younger children running around the house chasing each other, filling the air with laughter and the foyer with shoes. Older children joining them perhaps, had they finished their chores for the day and the readings for their lessons. The minders and the cooks scolding them whenever they would play Hide and Seek and use the kitchen cupboards or the wardrobe for winter clothes. And when a ball game or a round of Charades would get too rambunctious, the field in front of the house would become an adequate setting for running. But not too close to the clothesline, as dust on fresh sheets would be most unpleasant.

The constant laughter and joy of the children is what makes a playground out of the Keramzin Orphanage. That was the intention of the matron and of her husband when they opened it again, as they themselves were raised in Keramzin, along with many others whom were too young to be dealt the life lived during a war. The orphanage is an oasis where lost, alone, young souls can stop and heal their wounds and find solace. And what can bring more healing than a gentle hand, a warm smile, a vigorous embrace and advice spoken from the heart?

But that is not what the people of Keramzin thought. All they knew was that a young couple settled there after the Fold was taken down, had the orphanage built and started gathering all the children orphaned by war or by choice. Everyone was welcomed. The two were a peculiar pair, too eccentric and rich for a small village so close to the southern border. The woman was almost a child herself, in her demeanor and behavior, playing and spoiling the children, turning a blind eye when apples and pastries disappeared from the kitchen and admonishing them with a kind and tender voice when they did wrong. And her hair white as bone was most curious for a lass her age. Her husband, tall and handsome, was chief of the group when the older orphans wanted to learn the trade of tracking in the little forest behind the orphanage. He patiently taught them and took care of each in part. Once returned, often with a child on his back, too exhausted to walk on their own, the man kissed his wife with no delay and whispered secrets in her ear. She smiled. No one knew what those secrets were. His smile was open and enticing however.

Few knew their names. Those who did forgot them fast.

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

Chapter 1 -  Our start of forever

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

Few things to consider:

-This is my first time writing. I cannot promise quality writing or totally original ideas, as I AM doing this for myself.

-I am new to the world of fanfiction so I might make all kinds of mistakes. Should you see something like that, please let me know. I am more than happy to educate myself and right my wrongs.

Thank you!

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Thursday, January 5th

ANGEL: Nothing happened! Except your - boyfriend here was - very brave, and - saved the day. CORDELIA: You did? You big hero! GROO: No. I was reckless! I put everyone in grave peril. - *Angel* is the true champion. He saved us all. CORDELIA: Did you hear that? ANGEL: Yeah, but... CORDELIA: How many guys would just give away the credit like that? That is just *so* noble. (she holds out her hand out to Angel) CORDELIA: The potion. (Angel puts the flask into her outstretched hand. Cordy takes it then grabs Groo by his shirt and pulls him up off the settee.) CORDELIA: Let's get our of here! See ya! (Cordy hurries Groo towards the exit doors of the Hyperion.)

~~Couplet~~

The Sunnydale Herald is looking for at least one new editor. Contributing to the Herald is a great way to get your Buffy on! Find out more here.

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Redemption Redux by slaymesoftly (Buffy/Angel, Spike, T)

The Vamp's Wolf by skargasm (Wesley, Spike/Oz, M)

Trading Questions by corvidyus (Buffy/Riley, G)

It's Okay (I Just Wanna Fuck Your Friend) by Hecate (Faith/multiple characters, T)

Bloody Christmas Shopping by Gabriel_Is_My_Guardian_Angel89 (Fred & Spike, T)

Redemption Redux by Slaymesoftly (Buffy/Angel, Spike, T)

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Lost Angels, Chapter 15 by StillRose (Xander/Spike, Supernatural crossover, E)

All That Is And All That Seems, Chapter 70 by MalkMcJorma (Faith/OC, M)

Initiation, Chapter 23 by Jaspergirl (old_fashioned_gal) (Willow/Tara, Giles/Ethan, T)

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You Can't Fight Fate - But You Can Probably Piss Him Off, Chapter 55 by Hermione2be (Faith/Bruce Wayne, Batman crossover, T)

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Complicated Destiny, Chapter 14 by RavenclawSlayer (Buffy/Faith, T)

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Who Shat on the Floor at My Sister's Wedding? Chapter 5 by thoughtsofahouseplant (Buffy/Spike, T)

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Supporting the Iron Man, Chapter 4 by SomeMeaninglessName (Buffy & Willow, Iron Man crossover, T)

From the Hellmouth, Chapter 1 by Rutkowski (Ensemble, T)

who could ever leave me, darling—but who could stay? (you could stay), Chapter 10 by MillennialCryBaby (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

The Thing About Being on the Road, Chapter 20 by scratchmeout (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

take me home, Chapter 7 by HappyWhenItRains (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

The Odd Couple, Chapter 5 by honeygirl51885 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

Break Even, Chapter 5 by violettathepiratequeen (Buffy/Spike, PG)

The 12 Days of Christmas, Chapter 5 by RavenLove12, Geliot99 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17)

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[bella-caecilia]

Robert: *gives Cora a naughty look*

Robert: *points his eyes to the settee she sits on*

Robert: *reminds her it is that settee and that it will be used today just the way it was yesterday*

Cora: *blushes heavily*

Cora: *smiles to herself because she is VERY excited*

Rose: *stares open-mouthed*

Rose: *turns away because the interaction she just witnessed better not be about what she thought it was*

[bella-caecilia]

Cobert: *reminiscing the settee that had to bite the dust during last night's escapade*

[cobertaddict]

Meanwhile Robert’s like:

[kindness-ricochets]

For the mini fic meme, how about Wesper with G?

Gesper? Jesperg?Just kiddin’, here’s your fic!

---------

“Somebody’s been naughty,” Jesper singsonged.

Wylan sat on the couch, writing out a story that had been growing in his mind. It began with long, slow, soft notes, so soft and patterned with rests that they sounded almost like practice. Then it rose in an understated crescendo with an abrupt interruption for quicker, shorter notes. He had just reached a point at which he would add staccato piano accompaniment when Jesper arrived.

Wylan looked up from his work. Whatever Jesper had done… it would be okay. They would take care of the inevitable outcome of Jesper’s sometimes unfortunate sense of humor.

Setting aside his manuscript paper, Wylan asked, “Am I going to have to pay bribes?”

“Maybe.” Jesper was enjoying himself far too much.

“Make a public apology?”

“Most certainly.” He rocked on his heels, a newspaper held like a trophy in his hands.

Sensing this game wouldn’t end easily, Wylan asked, “Should I skip to the finale and take away your desserts now?”

Jesper’s grin was so wide it almost looked painful. “Oh, my sweet merchling. You are losing your desserts today.”

“What?”

Jesper brandished his paper. Then he hopped onto the settee and began reading aloud: “Chaos erupted in the Council chambers today—this is from the Ketterdam Chronicle, by the way—chaos erupted in the Council chambers today when young Councilman Wylan Van Eck, a proven naughty boy, rose from his seat to assault Councilman Schenck.”

“The Chronicle does not call me a naughty boy,” Wylan objected, blushing hotly because he knew what the article was about—and he had indeed gotten into a fistfight with Hiram Schenck. That didn’t stop him settling against Jesper.

Jesper wrapped an arm around Wylan, resettled, and continued to read: “Blah, blah, no lasting damage, blah, blah, blah, reasons unknown, blah, blah, how will this impact the important work of our Merchant Council?” The Chronicle wouldn’t have outright demeaned the Council. They too easily could have the paper shut down. Qualifying that Wylan was “young” was daring by their standards!

Wylan’s blush only heated as Jesper read through the article. He had rather hoped not to have to revisit yesterday’s events. He had been so stupid, so impulsive, so easily manipulated! And he had deserved the crack on the head Schenck delivered. None of which was to say it wasn’t deserved, because…

“He had it coming,” Wylan muttered, “the rotten podge.”

“Oooh, violence and bad language!” Jesper teased. After a moment’s quiet, more seriously, he asked, “Did he hurt you, love?”

“I started it.”

Wylan truly had; the Chronicle had that piece correct. Wylan threw the first punch. In another sense, though, it was entirely Schenck’s fault. He goaded Wylan—and although he knew punching was wrong, Wylan didn’t regret it.

Hiram Schenck was still a rotten podge.

Jesper tilted Wylan’s face up and kissed him. “Whatever Schenck said, he deserved it.”

“He did,” Wylan agreed, grateful for Jesper. For so many reasons, he was grateful for Jesper.

“Aw, I knew it! You were fighting to defend my honor!”

Wylan mumbled, “So are you going to share your dessert with me?” Since he would be missing his, of course!

Jesper only laughed and gave him a cuddle to encourage this entirely wrong behavior. “I would hate to encourage such untoward behavior,” he added.

Wylan scoffed. “You love it.”

[bibliocratic]

future, jonmartin (some dark themes, cw / tws in tags)

The house is dawn-quiet when they arrive. The day has dragged on long for them to get here; the house is out of the way, far from London and deliberately so, a nondescript little housing estate in an unexceptionable seaside town that is famous for nothing, that draws few tourists and where life generally unfolds as unmemorably as linen. 

As they get the door open, easing it back on its lock silently so as not to stress the hinges before closing again with a tut of the mechanism, the early strain of the hour has shrouded the hallway in dimness – a street-lamp a little further down the  row of identical standing houses provides dull silvery accents to the photo-frames displayed along the wall of the corridor. They admire the frozen memories. A weekend trip to Bournemouth, the sky pocked with clouds and overcast, gloved hands holding packets of sea-side chips eaten with wooden forks. A surprise holiday on the continent, with the man on the left looking aggressively sun-burnt and the man on the right looking obviously touristy, and both looking happy and sweaty on some Mediterranean veranda. A trio of snaps chronicling a  private wedding service with few in attendance; a formal photo, both complimentary and suited, another of those witnessing, dressed up smart and  flanking the wedded pair; another evidencing  a tender moment clearly caught fortuitously by an unprofessional photographer.  

They touch the photo, observing the glassy joy  of the taller man, bow-tie wonky and messy from dancing, the unrestrained smile of the shorter, hair that had been clearly combed into a rare state of attention now shaken out, the shy and tipsy delight on his face as he is caught in a surprised and giddy kiss.

There is the expected paraphernalia of a home lining the corridor like domestic pageantry – a key bowl, a pinboard with scattered notices for  bin collection days or prescription refill dates or pre-bought tickets for some performances or another. Moving along the hallway, off to the left, the kitchen sedately sits in the almost-dark. Dishes have been left to drip-dry by the sink, the tap is leaking irregularly with a broken patter. Further along, the living room. They thought they might find someone napping on the couch, fallen asleep on the settee, a TV turned down low on some late night channel,  but the room is also coddled into stillness by the late hour. A throw blanket is haphazardly nearly slipping off the sofa, a carriage clock on the mantel rhyming gently – on the patterned armchair, the coiled full-stop of a cat is undisturbed by their entrance. 

Up the stairs, the wallpaper is marked every few feet by the  outlines of framed posters or little artworks; on the landing directly at the top, a bookcase. They admire the obvious concessions made to variant tastes; half the shelves dedicated to dry, academic tomes on non-fiction topics spanning from Ancient Sumeria to a Beginners Guide to Wood Carving, and squashed in the other half, a scramble of slim poetry collections sandwiched by a tumble of genre fiction. Decorating the shelves, small trinkets from random destinations or quiet adventures; a miniature dragon holding a Welsh flag; a snow-globe from Munich; a number of souvenir spoons with their shields proudly polished to a shine. They step carefully across the thick shag carpet, off to the right where the bedroom is. Turning the handle delicately, putting every effort not to disturb the quiet, they steal inside with barely a creak.

The light is gloomy as in the rest of the house, effused with a hint of morning without making much concession, but there is enough slipping through the curtain gaps to see by.

On the left side of the bed, the side-table ill-used by dog-eared books and what appears to be the  upturned contents of someone's pockets – cough-sweets, nicotine gum, stray coppers and odd change – is Jon.  Curled half-in and half-out of the covers, his face shoved against the pillow like he's trying to bury himself, his right leg is kicked out and exposed to the morning, goose-pimpling in the chill. They find themselves smirking again to see him like this, all his hard brash sides sanded down by age and wear, gracefully having embraced middle age, an influx of grey crowning his hair. He looks soft. Content. All his guards down as he sleeps without the dreams the Eye would have bestowed on him.

They lean over, indulgently running a hand lightly through the hair straggling over his face, and he shifts blearily, mumbling a questioning Martin?

His right hand, fisting loosely against the pillowcase in sleep, still bears the ravaging marks they put there.

He's a light sleeper, and they knew he would be. Didn't want him to wake too soon, to be denied a proper welcome. Jon shifts and stretches and burrows as he slips dazedly into consciousness, nestling tighter against the body next to him still fast-asleep before the thick weight of sleep is dropped and they jolt up, a punched out breath of shock escaping them. And finally they are witnessed.

They watch his expressions free-fall from understanding to despair. His eyes, even now too sharp for his face, a little too hungry, they're shiny in the low light. Flooded with fear. Blown-out with the intensity of it. Exactly what they were hoping for.

“Don't,” he pleads in a sleep-ruined voice, croaking with dryness. He is already moving his body, positioned like a lanky pillar to be between them and their companion, and it's sweet they think, it really is, it's exactly what they hoped to find, two people living in a hard-won happiness. Nice for some, they suppose, while it lasts.

The sound wakes the man on the other side of the bed, and he turns over, ruffled, slower to stir and a groan of complaint almost on their lips. They must catch the tone of Jon's voice though, because they're sitting up, preparing to solve the problem – wos it? they ask, wos wrong?

Before they see them too, and stiffen into a bright terror that's obvious as a firework, and it is such a beautiful thing to see. They must be Martin,  they think, giving them the once over; their hair is shorter than in their wedding photographs, and since then they've settled into that comfortable rounding that can come in middle age. They weren't really sure what they expected, when they finally found out where the former Archivist had been hiding out all these years, married and playing domestic, thinking that the crimes of the past might let him alone to be happy.

Oh but this is good. Better than good. It's going to be fun.

The frizzy-haired husband jolts when they reach down into their pocket. He's set his jaw like he's going to do something brave, something foolhardy.

She hopes he will. She likes it when they put up a struggle.

“Don't what, Archivist?” Jude Perry asks, grinning as she lights a match.