#sorry folks I was just going off of my own fill-in-the-blanks for my initial impression and obsession w/ Caleb

[everythingseasoning]

Alright folks… uhhh

So I just had my first phone call with Caleb. He’s kind of suffocating.

While I yearn for a partner who will both 1. Guide me gently whenever I’m learning something new and 2. Take care of me when I need it (and tbh that’s going to be often…), I do not want somebody who makes me their sole, entire world, and stifles me, doesn’t let me branch out and grow.

I want to be my own person too, you know? And I want them to be their own person. I want us to meet each other with our own lovely interests and capabilities.

Might switch over to being a loyal Zayne girlie. Who knows!

And even with all this being said, I adore Caleb. Pretending I’m the mc, I’ve known him for so long. And I love him very much. He’s my guy. The one I could always turn to. I’ll never not love him. Even if he’s toxic. Even if he’s unhealthy and obsessive, and controlling. I still care so much about him. When you know somebody so well and so closely, you just… care. Even if they can be a turn off.

[porkchop-ao3]

A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 2)

New Girl

Settling into camp and meeting new faces! No warnings necessary for this chapter really, let me know what you think so far :) 

(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)

Enjoy!

-

The camp felt different in the morning. I hadn't moved from the spot I'd been put in the previous night but I could see better now, saw just how populated the place was. I heard music playing again, this time from a phonograph rather than a guitar. People were dotted around the place sipping on mugs of hot coffee, some people were still lounging where they slept. Mary-Beth had lent me one of her dresses to wear, considering the previous day's events had left me in a chemise. A feller smoking a cigar standing outside a tent not far from me kept looking over; he was dressed mighty finely, smart black vest with golden watch chains, a nice hat on his head. He didn't look like someone camping out in a tent, but he sure looked like he owned the place.

In the light of day I realised where I was, I hadn't been able to tell in the dark, but I recognised it. I planned on asking John when he came over to me with two mugs in his hands, offering one out to me. I greeted him as he asked; “how're you feeling this morning?”

“A little better. Still feel a little fuzzy but my head's not pounding no more,” my voice was all scratchy from the screaming I'd been doing. I held onto the mug of coffee he'd given me and inhaled, thanking him. It'd been a while since I'd had coffee, it smelled good.

“Good. I was worried about you last night, I don't know much about head injuries but… you know,” he was staring at me a little too intently. Well, not really me, my face and the state it was in.

“How ugly do I look?” I cut to the chase and he chuckled.

“Not half as ugly as me,” he gestured to the fresh looking scars on his own face. I could've disagreed about him being anything close to ugly now that I was seeing him in the daylight, but I kept that to myself. “You're just bruised and swollen, that'll fade.”

“I hope so. Though, 's not like I got anyone to impress anyway,” I shrugged, sipping my coffee. “Is this Horseshoe Overlook?”

“It is,” he nodded, moving to sit down beside me.

“I camped here a while ago, moved on though, felt too open with just my tent and my horse,” I told him.

“You have a horse?”

“Used to, she got stolen by a man in Valentine. Though I suppose it was my fault, I really pissed him off...”

“You know who took her?” he surmised.

I looked at him and considered for a moment how much I wanted to tell him. I decided there wasn't much harm in being open; you didn't get as good at shooting as him by living an honest life. “Not by name. I met him at a bar, thought he was drunker than he was and tried to lift his money. He got me arrested and when I got out – was barely in there ten minutes – she was gone. Feller smoking outside told me my friend took her.”

“I'd have gone after the bastard.”

“Yeah well, I hadn't slept in days and I… I was scared, if I'm honest. I kept telling myself I'd look for her the next day, and then the next day, and the next one, but I just never did. That was weeks ago now,” I sighed sadly, thinking of her and how I missed her. Guilt sat heavy in my stomach.

“I'm sorry. I spoke to Susan last night, I heard about your folks and your brother. Sounds like you ain't had an easy ride these last few years.”

“I'm alive, ain't I?” I shrugged and John offered a small, sad smile. “And partly thanks to you,” I added. John shook his head and went to speak, but was cut short.

“Strauss!” A yell had us both looking up; a gentleman was just riding into camp. He swung down off his horse without hitching it and marched into camp, looking around. He was pretty beefy, all power behind the swing of his arms as he walked, his strong brow was set low over his eyes and his stubbled jaw was tight. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit scared. “Strauss! Where is that slimy fool?”

“I’m coming, Herr Morgan, calm down,” a small, spectacled man came scurrying into view, clinging a ledger to his chest. “I trust the collection went well?” I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic.

“Why you gotta go ‘round lending to sick men?”

“Sick men are desperate, they need the money.”

“Well, that Mr. Downes you sent me to was dead before I got there.”

“His wife is still alive though, no?”

“You expect me to hassle a widow for money when her husband's still warm in his grave? Come on, Strauss. I ain't doing that.”

“You must! We need that money back, Arthur. We aren't a charity.”

“Send someone else!” Arthur, as he'd been named, turned his back on Strauss and started heading off.

“Who do you suppose I send? Tilly?” Strauss questioned, this time he was definitely being sarcastic. The girl in question looked up from where she was washing some clothes by the nearest wagon. “You're the only one who can handle it, Arthur. You must.”

Arthur turned back around, sighing in annoyance and taking a moment. He was staring at the ground, frustrated, unsure. With a final growl he muttered; “I ain't doing it now. I'll go back to Downes’ place when that poor woman's had some time.”

“We can't afford to go easy on people, not with so many new mouths to feed,” Strauss waved his book in my general direction before sweeping off, putting all of Arthur's attention on me.

His expression softened just a little, shifting to surprise. It felt odd, having him look me directly in the eye. Watching that whole thing felt almost like I wasn't really there, or like I was at the theatre, suddenly I was pulled back into the moment. I felt something when I looked at him, something in the far reaches of my mind, a nagging thought that I couldn't grasp.

His mouth opened and closed a couple of times but in the end he just walked away, shaking his head. I let out a puff of breath and looked at John. He was digging his finger in his coffee, wincing as he burned himself over and over.

“Damn bug landed in there,” he explained when he caught me staring. He didn't seem at all fazed by all the shouting.

“That Arthur; I think I recognise him.”

“Arthur? Probably. The guy's had his face plastered on that many bounty posters.”

“I ain't no bounty hunter,” I said as I sipped on my coffee again.

-

My first day staying at the camp saw me up on my feet again. I didn't seem to have any lasting difficulties resulting from my ordeal, the dizziness I'd experienced was fading enough that I could stand up and lend a hand with some chores; I felt that was the least I could do.

I'd met a few more people; Pearson, whom I found myself getting along with quite well as I helped him cut up some vegetables. Charles, a gentleman I spoke to only briefly and addressed me in a quiet, respectful manner as he welcomed me. Sadie, a lady who I learned had been initiated into the group in a fairly similar way to myself; being pulled from a bad situation with little to go back to. I'd stressed that I wasn't intending to stay to become a permanent feature, but when she questioned what I'd do instead, I drew a blank. I met Hosea, he was a kind man and offered to make me something to put on my bruises to help them fade quicker. I'd politely declined, thinking I looked enough of a mess without walking around with some mashed up herbs smeared on my face as well.

I felt achy and tired but I pushed myself to be useful. By mid afternoon I'd done a fair bit, and was in the process of brushing someone's horse for them when I was approached by the man who I had spotted earlier, in the fancy getup, John by his side.

“Good afternoon, Ms,” he waited until I filled in the blank with my surname. “Glad to finally make your acquaintance. I apologise for not doing so earlier, but I see you've had your hands full,” he gestured to the horse.

“I wanted to do my bit, just a little way of saying thank you for having me last night. I don't mean to intrude, I imagine I'll be leaving soon.”

“You're welcome to stay as long as you need to in order to get back on your feet; especially if you plan on continuing to help with those chores,” he chuckled, reaching to take my hand and give it a gentle squeeze and a shake. “Dutch Van Der Linde.”

The name hit me like a bullet, immediately flashing off images in my head, firing synapses. I took in a sharp breath, eyes widening slightly. The smile on Dutch's face fell.

“Dutch Van Der Linde,” I repeated, my lips moving for me without permission as I glanced past them into the camp, then up at John. “You're Dutch's Boys.”

The two men shared a look, and Dutch's hand moved to his hip, just above his holster. I realised my error immediately.

“Don't worry! I won't tell no one, I promise. You've all been so kind to me. I just… I read in the newspaper about you. The boat, in Blackwater. I was there not long before that happened.”

John looked between Dutch and I with a slight grimace, while Dutch's eyes were planted firmly on him, disapproval plastered all over his face.

“John,” Dutch started softly, taking his elbow in hand and pulling him away. He was still in earshot, and I could hear every word. “This is exactly what I was worried about when you brought her here last night. I told you it was a bad idea.”

“Come on Dutch, she's harmless,” they both looked at me and I panicked, turning back to the horse I'd been brushing and continuing with an unsteady hand.

I wasn't worried about being kicked out of the camp. I'd been trying very hard not to get comfortable as it was, I was accustomed to surviving on my own, getting involved with a group would no doubt chip away at the independence I'd had to build over the past year. Being kicked out of the camp would hardly be an issue. I was more concerned about them murdering me, silencing me for good before I had a chance to cash in on the bounty on the infamous Dutch Van Der Linde. Truthfully, I wasn't interested. Like I'd said to John, I was no bounty hunter; I'd have no idea of the territory I'd be stepping into, and I didn't fancy my chances against the whole lot of them.

Dutch turned his body away, urging John to do the same. I glanced at them occasionally, realising it was John doing most of the talking and Dutch was deep in thought. I could no longer hear their words but every second that passed had me feeling more and more eager to jump on the horse and go like the wind. Before I reached tipping point, they came back to me.

“Like I said, you're welcome to stay as long as you need to, my dear. That's if you don't mind living with a whole gang of outlaws, as you clearly seem to understand is the case,” Dutch said, surprising me to no end. I stared at him for a few moments.

“Well, I'm hardly innocent myself,” I shrugged my shoulders weakly. He smiled.

“Hmm, John mentioned you'd had a run in with the law,” Dutch nodded thoughtfully.

“Just the once. I don't make a habit out of robbing people… only when I have to. Sometimes it's nice to have a little extra cash to get a hotel room with, when it gets cold,” I admitted.

“That's certainly something I can sympathise with,” Dutch chuckled. “I understand you've lost all of your things, your weapons, your tent, your clothes…” he trailed off.

“That's right,” I confirmed.

“Your horse,” he added, his tone deepening. “And you have some idea of the whereabouts of the feller that took it, is that right?”

I lifted one shoulder awkwardly. “A vague idea. He mentioned Emerald Ranch, I don't know if he lives there or what, but that'd be the first place I'd look if I actually had the guts,” I admitted.

“Well then, I'd like to help you get your horse back.”

My brows jumped up in surprise. “Are you serious?”

“You've been extremely helpful today. I can see that you're a hardworking woman and we could always use an extra pair of hands to keep the camp running at its finest. If you stick around, I don't see why we can't give it a try,” he explained. John seemed about as surprised as I was.

“Well, I… how long do you want me for?” I questioned hesitantly.  

“Let's give it until those bruises of yours heal, and then see how you feel,” he flashed a smile that was both charming and intimidating before walking away. I couldn't tell whether Dutch actually liked me.

John awkwardly scratched at the back of his head, hanging around a few steps away from me.

“So am I… I'm staying with you guys, at least for now?” I murmured.

“I guess so,” he shrugged. “I told him you'd work. It was either that or…Well, I don't know what he'd do. He's been extra cautious lately.”

“Right, and by work you mean I'm just hanging around doing chores for y'all?” I quirked a brow and John chuckled.

“I'm sure Dutch'll find something else for you to do. Everyone has a job here, going off their strengths.”

“Well, I'm hardly a gunslinger,” I said almost apologetically.

“Of course not. Most of the girls generally don't get involved with anything too heavy, but they have their jobs.”

I looked over at where the ladies of the camp were sitting. Some were knitting, others were reading, the camp was winding down for the day.

“What do they do?”

“Don't worry about that for now, okay? Just keep doing what you're doing,” his vagueness worried me. My mind jumped to conclusions about the kind of work the women did if the men were all out shooting and robbing. I felt the need to address my concerns.   

“I don't mean to be rude, or presumptuous,” I dropped my volume, stepping into John's space.

“What?”

“There's certain work I'm not prepared to do, whether you'll help me get my horse or not,” I told him, hoping he'd work it out. The confusion plain as day on his face told me he didn't. “I ain't whoring myself out for nobody,” I bluntly rephrased.

Realisation washed his features but he didn't flinch at my words, he simply shook his head.

“Don't worry, that ain't gonna happen. Dutch; he ain't like that.”

I nodded firmly, relief flooding me. From the corner of my eye I saw someone staring; giving me a funny look. Abigail. I hadn't spoken much to her but I had learned enough to know that I was standing three inches away from her feller, and I immediately distanced myself.

“Well, good. Just so that's clear,” I mumbled, and walked away.

-

I'd spent the rest of the day doing menial tasks, helping out wherever I could, but by the evening time I was just getting in the way. I sat myself down around the back of a wagon, tucked out of sight near the horses, just watching them. Spending time caring for them, brushing them and making sure they had enough to eat, had made me miss Rayna, my own horse. She'd been the last living thing I'd spent any extended length of time with and when I sat down to think about it, it hurt. I hoped that we'd be able to find her whenever it was time to go looking for her.

I leaned my head back to the tree I was sat against and sighed loudly, closing my eyes. It was too early to sleep but I felt exhausted; though not much was new there. I was hungry but tried my best to ignore it, I'd felt too nervous grabbing some of the stew I'd helped prepare without a direct invitation to.

Someone close to me cleared their throat and I opened my eyes with a start. I was half expecting to see John, but instead it was Arthur. My pulse immediately quickened and I moved to stand up, feeling as though I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't, I wasn't sure why.

“Don't get up, you're alright,” he waved me down with his hand and shook his head. “So you're the new girl, huh?”

“I guess I am,” I shrugged, looking at his boots because it was easier than looking into his eyes. I just felt weird every time I did, and I couldn't wrap my head around it.

“I just wanted to say, uh, I'm sorry for the way I acted this morning. Coming in here, yellin’ like that, wasn't the best of impressions I'm sure. I know you ain't had it easy,” he took his hat off and held it with both hands behind his back, looking all proper and respectful. His tone was completely different to the one he'd used earlier, he sounded like a different person entirely. I couldn't escape the feeling that I recognised him, more than ever.

“There's no need for you to apologise, I'm the one intruding. And I'm not looking for pity, neither. I can't say I've ever really met anyone who has had it easy,”

“You're probably right about that,” he nodded and gave a quiet, humourless chuckle. “Well, I won't disturb you. There's some stew left, if you're hungry, Pearson said you hadn't eaten yet.”

“Thank you,” I said, finally getting the reassurance I needed to help myself. I stood up.

“I'm Arthur, though you already knew that.”

“I heard your name earlier,” I nodded, reaching out to shake his hand as I introduced myself. He nodded and gave me a knowing smile.

“I caught your name too,” he said, pausing a moment too long before he left.

[chantalkrcmar]

Our New Normal

Now that we’ve been in Mumbai for 3 1/2 months, I feel like I can say we are settled into into our new normal. Of course, the adjustment process will likely continue in fits and starts much longer, but it feels like we have turned a significant corner. When I was in Kerala for work last month, I would tell people there, “I’m going home on Wednesday.” By that, I meant back to Mumbai. There was absolutely no hesitation when I was saying the word “home.” It felt good.

Our new home no longer shocks me much anymore — a big sign that I have shifted. For instance, I still notice, but am no longer surprised, by the countless motorcyclists I see doing crazy dangerous stuff. A popular one: Daredevil drivers speeding through terrible traffic, their helmets hanging on their handlebars, their mobile phone clamped between their ear and shoulder. And another common one: a family of four, dad driving, mom holding two month old, three year old sandwiched between mom and dad. Dad is wearing a helmet but no one else is. Also recklessly speeding. Do I like almost being run down by them? Nope. Am I surprised by them anymore? Nope.

I wish I could get photos — or, better yet, videos — of these insane motorcyclists but I am always too focused on my own safety (or Anamika’s safety if she is out walking with me) to stop and take pics.

And who is the least surprised by anything anymore? Anamika, of course. Anamika actually adjusted long back. She talks about our friends in the US and about Somerville (For example, this morning when we were talking about getting some Christmas decorations, she said, “We can buy a Santa for Somerville and for India.”) but it’s matter-of-fact now. She no longer seems confused by her dual-country existence; in fact, it’s been a while since she’s hesitated when trying to figure out where we now live. And she is always proudly telling people: “I go to the American School of Bombay — Kurla Kohinoor Campus!” Man, do I wish for her unformed vocal cords. Anamika’s pronunciation of Hindi is impeccable. Still, when I ask a rickshaw driver to take us to Kurla Kohinoor, I am met with blank stares until I have said it four different ways (all of which sound totally the same to me). :-) She on the other hand says it like a pro.

We are connecting with other folks in our apartment compound. Especially Anamika. Our compound has the friendliest group of security guards and cleaning staff. Anamika enthusiastically greets them: “Good morning Arvind Sir!” “Good night, Felix Uncle!” She often hangs out with them and regales them with stories all in English. They understand none of it but politely nod and smile. And they really look out for her. We have a tiny playground space in our compound. When she fell off the swing there, Wilson Uncle, one of the men who cleans the buildings, came running to fetch her — and to tell off Rahul, who might have pushed her a bit too vigorously, for being a negligent parent. :-)

There’s also a doodh wallah (milk man) who delivers milk to the apartments in our compound every morning. Since it such a novelty, Anamika used to love opening the door and ceremoniously accepting the packets of milk before ferrying them off to the fridge. Sadly, the novelty is gone so she barely ever runs to the door to get the milk from him anymore. Poor guy use to be greeted by an adorable 3 1/2 year old brimming with excitement, and now all he gets is a middle aged or elderly person accepting the goods at the door. But Anamika’s enthusiasm has not entirely worn off. This past week, we were walking down the stairs in our building and she saw the doodh wallah on the ground floor waiting for the lift. She shrieked, “It’s the doodh man!” which sounds really funny to an American (that would be me) who thinks she’s saying, “It’s the DUDE man.” A bit redundant, no?

Our compound is gated but the gates are never locked. (thank goodness! A gated community is not mine or Rahul’s style.) So there’s a group of kids from the neighboring slum, mostly boys, who often come and play in the playground. Anamika loves them! Her favorite is ten year old Sushil. A very handsome and charming boy, he’s got a winning smile, a mischievous gleam in his eye, and a love of attention. So he and I chat a bit in Hindi and he mostly clowns around for Anamika. The genuine belly laughs he gets out of her are impressive!

Since Anamika goes to the American School, she had Thanksgiving break. We did not celebrate, but we had a fun stay-cation. One of the many things we did that long weekend was do a long day trip to Elephanta Island with another family we know. Elephanta is an hour ferry ride from the Gateway of India in South Mumbai. On the island are caves with fourteen hundred year old carvings and monkeys galore. It’s a fun place to marvel at the stone work, play hide and seek, and strategize how best to avoid the aggressive monkeys. Cows are ubiquitous in India, and typically vey docile. But Rahul encountered one that followed him and head butted him, in hopes he would drop Anamika’s roasted corn. Rahul emerged victorious from the stand-off — but barely! Since we could not stop laughing at the whole thing — and our pal Jessie was so busy recording the encounter — our friends and I were of no help. (Sorry, my Love.)

India is not one of the cleanest countries in the world (to put it mildly). Prime Minister Modi even started a public cleanliness campaign called “Swachh Bharat” which includes raising  public awareness and doing some public works projects such as toilet building. In my observations over the past many years of coming to India regularly, it seems to be working. People used to blithely throw trash on the roads and footpaths, and men would regularly drop their trousers and pee anywhere they felt the urge. This kind of behavior is not as common anymore, though it still happens more than it should. I find most of Modi’s policy initiatives abhorrent (Rahul and I often play the “Who’s a Worse Leader? Modi or Trump?” game.), but I will give him credit for Swachh Bharat. It’s not as successful as the Modi government claims (especially the Open Defecation Free India part of the campaign), but it seems to be working in many other ways.

One of my proudest moments since moving to India occurred on the ferry ride to Elephanta -- when I had my chance to do my Swachh Bharat bit. A ferry passenger had the audacity to throw a plastic bag into the sea from the ferry, and I thought it my civic duty to make it clear that what he had done was beyond the pale. I resorted to public shaming. In an intentionally loud voice I told him he was a disgrace because he was not honoring the Prime Minister’s   “Swachh Bharat” campaign. An unfortunate number of Indians fawn all over Modi, so basically telling someone who likely reveres the Prime Minister that he is disrespecting the Prime Minister, I thought, was a small stroke of genius. :-)

And we are now starting to prepare for Christmas. Anamika is one lucky kid (and we are lucky adults) since we celebrate Indian holidays, as well as the ones that have gone more global, such as Christmas. We do the endless fall festivals here, culminating in Diwali, and now we are heading into Christmas. Our neighborhood is adorned with a variety of secular (It seems everyone loves Santa Claus!) and non-secular (many Roman Catholic churches in Bandra, so Christ is everywhere) decorations. We have a medium sized fake Christmas tree in our livingroom, decorated with a combination of homemade ornaments (compliments of Rahul and Anamika), as well as ones bought on Hill Road. We recently went to a birthday party at the Taj Lands End Hotel where they have a gigantic, beautiful christmas tree in their lobby. As we walked past it, Anamika declared without a hint of envy or irony, “Oh. It’s just a bit bigger than our tree.” Given that it’s probably twenty feet taller than our tree, I cracked up.

You be the judge...

Christmas shopping on Hill Road, a street in our neighborhood chock full of shops of all kinds (You want glitter and glue? Go to Hill Road. You want cheap sandals? Go to Hill Road. You want  pain puri? Go to Hill Road. You want Christmas decorations in the month of December? Go to Hill Road.), is a total hoot. Normally, shopkeepers and hawkers fill the sidewalks with their wares; people even set up blankets with their goods piled high on top of them in the streets. During this season, it’s even more chaotic. Ad-hoc Christmas shops (nothing more than card tables set up in nooks and crannies all over Hill Road) pop up with colorful stars, Santas, reindeer, snow globes, you name it. Rahul, Anamika and I hit Hill Road to round out our Christmas tree decoration collection. It was quite the experience as we sweated bullets (I never associate heat and humidity with Christmas!) keeping Anamika safe from all the traffic as it whizzed by, as well as keeping her from breaking every snow globe on Hill Road. :-)

Since, unlike most shops that are directly on the street, this one had a safe stretch of sidewalk in front of it, I actually was able to get one photo of Anamika doing some Christmas shopping on Hill Road...

And we are starting our favorites (a sure sign of feeling at home)…

favorite bookstore: Trilogy (Amazingly curated by amazing bibliophiles — and just plain nice people — it’s the antidote to box book stores…Trilogy is down a cramped, smelly alley, so it’s almost impossible to find. Once you push through the front doors, and into their intimate, beautiful space, the world melts away. They have a feminist book section, too! Need I say more?!)

favorite cafe: The Bagel Shop (yes, that’s the name. The bagels are not NYC bagels, but they are not bad. Their homemade juices are amazing. Living in a tropical zone with a huge variety of fresh fruits has its perks! And their outdoor patio with fans whirring all over is a winner.)

Rahul and Anamika playing the Dot Game at The Bagel Shop...

(Because we get questions about our water bottles, let me explain: Anamika’s water bottle is a pink Peppa Pig one; Rahul’s is a pink Hello Kitty one; mine is boring old blue.)

favorite road to walk on: Veronica Road (Being narrow and twisty, traffic is at a minimum. It’s also cool since it’s flanked by old colonial era buildings and random Catholic statues and mini shrines.)

favorite chai: a cup at 17/31 MHB Colony (That would be our home. I swear Ambubhai makes the best cup of chai in all of Mumbai. Perhaps in all of India. Come try it and see for yourself!)

favorite place to go running: Bandra Reclamation Pathway (A five minute run past the slums near our apartment takes us to a sweet pathway along one of the bays of the Arabian Sea. When it’s not too smoggy from pollution, we see downtown Mumbai across the water, and I really enjoy all the palm trees they’ve planted along the pathway.)

favorite place for a date: The Saltwater Cafe (Rahul and I still don’t get out much, but we do get out more than when we were in Somerville and Dadi and Dada (Grandma and Grandpa) were close to 8000 miles away.)

favorite weekend activity: When we’re not busy with Anamika’s packed social calendar (This weekend, she had three birthday parties and a christmas event to attend. I’m not at all jealous of the fact that she has so many friends here. ;-) ), you can often find us swimming at the pool at Sun n Sand Hotel right on Juhu Beach, right on the Arabian Sea. We pay for day passes and swim to our hearts’ content.

A random thing about living in Mumbai that I love: the flowers. They are simply gorgeous. Mumbai is truly an urban jungle — emphasis on “urban.” And it is easy to despair the lack of green space here. But when the riot of flowers confronts my senses, I am reminded that nature does exist, and that beauty is all around. (Sorry for the corny Hallmark card quality of that phrase.) 

I took this pic one morning as I was walking to my yoga class…

One other thing I love about our neighborhood are the murals that surprise you on various walls. Of course, I particularly like this one...

Not to end on a sad note, but life ain’t all a bowl of cherries. One thing Rahul and I are not getting used to — nor should we — is seeing so many desperately poor children on the streets. Desensitization, which can happen so easily, is a soul killer, so we are trying to avoid it. Even worse, it maintains the status quo. On Friday night, we were driving to a little school christmas concert. On the left of our uber, we were approached by a man selling christmas accessories (street hawkers, selling everything from tissues to plums and everything in between, are so common here), including reindeer antler headbands, one of which Anamika just had to have. So as I was making that purchase out of the window on my side of the uber, Rahul was giving money to two poor little girls who had approached on his side of the uber. How’s that for a moment of glaring inequality?!

[porkchop-ao3]

Charlie Foxtrot: Part 1/7

I have been working on this for WEEKS, it was initially going to be a one shot smut fic, but Tailor Rick had other ideas and made it all about him, so. This is rather a long fic, I’ve split it into 7 parts, but I worked really hard on this and I poured so much into it, I really hope someone will read this and enjoy it. It’s quite angsty, but I think it reveals a lot about Tailor’s character, and I’m proud of it. This is probably my favourite thing I’ve written. 

This is a fic involving Tailor (obviously) and one of the SEAL team Ricks; the bald one with the beard. It contains sex, but it’s not wildly descriptive like my usual smut, the focus is more on how their relationship changes over time. Thank you to @hoodoo12 for reading this and helping me out at multiple stages through this story!

I enjoyed characterising the SEAL team Rick, I haven’t seen him written about much so I had fun with it. A few headcanons formed as I was writing him, one of them being a certain accent, hehe. This fic is linked in with my usual OC universe, and the ‘reader’ from those fics, i.e. Tailor’s assistant, makes an appearance. As does Hairstylist Rick, one of Tailor’s special friends. I sincerely hope you enjoy this! 

-

Queuing up at a coffee shop was not something Tailor did often. His assistant would normally do it for him, though she was spending a weekend with her boyfriend. This had already put him in a bad mood, but to make matters worse the coffee shop just happened to be at the Citadel, of all places. Though Tailor usually vowed never to consume anything produced at the Citadel, he was sure he would die without a coffee, and so there he was, standing with arms crossed as he waited to be served.

The hipster looking Rick working behind the counter finally turned to serve him. He wore his hair in a man-bun and had a rather impressive beard, and under the apron he was wearing Tailor could see one heck of a garishly patterned shirt. The barista stared at him for a moment expectantly, and Tailor tutted when he didn't get the polite greeting he had been waiting for.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a bite to his tone. “One black coffee please. W-with two shots of espresso and three sugars. Please.”

“Sugar's over there, you help yourself. What's your dimension code?” the barista replied, his expression not changing once. Tailor told him then the barista held his hand out to him. “Fifteen schmeckles.”

Tailor narrowed his eyes but handed him the money anyway. He was then ushered over to the side where other Ricks were waiting for their orders. Tailor put some distance between him and the others, not wanting to make eye contact and get stuck talking to one of them, heaven forbid. Not that Ricks were the most conversational of people, but there was a smiley looking guy with a lazy eye and a bowl cut looking his way and Tailor did not want to encourage him. He stood there with his eyes planted firmly on the Rick behind the counter preparing drinks. He liked to keep an eye on the people preparing his food, when given the chance.

It was a couple of minutes before he finally got his order and he marched over and took it from the barista. He shuffled over to where the sugar and napkins were and set to work stirring in three sachets of sugar one by one. He stared down into it and sighed as he watched the sugar dissolve. It'd been a long morning and he had been running on one cup of coffee. That was not good. He'd been at the Council of Ricks’ offices to discuss new robes. He'd been desperate to redesign their uniforms for years and was finally given the opportunity. It was bittersweet, however, the head of the Council, Riq IV, could be a bit of a dick and Tailor couldn't quite work out if they'd get along or not.

Tailor picked up his drink and turned around as he started closing the lid on it. He didn't even notice the body that was standing directly behind him, and walked straight into it. His instinct was to apologise and move on, he wasn't one for confrontation. That was until he registered the heat spreading across his chest, which he soon realised was his coffee. His fresh, black coffee. Black coffee. On his suit. His white shirt. His baby pink suit jacket. Baby pink. Black coffee. His jacket... Thousands of pounds worth of jacket... Black coffee.

“What on earth are you doing, you bloody idiot!? Don't you see me standing here? Why are you standing so fucking close? Get the fuck away from me, haven't you ever heard of personal space?! Look at me! Look at my fucking suit! Do you have any idea how much this costs you thick skulled, absolute bloody wanker!?” Words just erupted from him without control. He could sense everyone around him staring but all he could focus on was the dark stain all over his front. He was livid. It was beginning to hurt, the heat from the coffee, but he didn't care.

“Uhh–” the other Rick started.

“Look! Th-tha-that's never going to come out! I hope you have your fucking wallet with you because otherwise we're going to–” Tailor finally looked up at the man he was yelling at, and stalled. “We're going to- um, you'll- we'll have…” he mumbled, his eyes glazing over as he took in the solid wall of muscle at eye level, the dog tags hanging around his neck, then the stern expression of the bald headed Rick he'd just lost his shit at. He seemed to be a military Rick. Of course, who else would Tailor have just called a thick skulled, absolute bloody wanker?

The Rick quirked a brow at him, waiting patiently for him to continue. Tailor cleared his throat, turned and tossed the remainder of his coffee in the bin behind him, and then arranged his face into a more composed expression.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, his voice smaller than before. He forced the next words from his lips despite it going against every fiber of his being. “It's just a suit.”

The bald, ripped Rick gave Tailor an odd look, sizing him up and analysing him. He had a large yet well groomed beard – no moustache – and numerous piercings. There was a plug stretching each earlobe and a stud above his top lip; Tailor would've turned his nose up if he wasn't worried about pissing him off any more. He squirmed under the attention, wanting nothing else but to run away from the situation and hightail it back home. That wasn't going to happen, it seemed. The Rick wasn't moving out of his way.

Feeling a need to fill the silence, Tailor spoke. “I apologise for my language. I didn't mean to cause offense.”

The other Rick frowned for a few moments, and Tailor felt his pulse pounding in his skull, almost giving him a headache. Suddenly, however, Rick smiled, then chuckled.

“I've heard worse, and from more intimidating folk, too,” he finally spoke, his voice not at all like Tailor had expected. He had a southern drawl, softer around the edges than he'd come to expect from most Ricks. It was still deep and a little gravelly, but he sounded… friendly? Friendly and extremely kind on the ears. “I'm sorry about th-that suit of yours. What d’ I owe you?”

He was reaching into his pocket for his wallet, and Tailor could do no more than stare. He was half expecting a swift punch to the face considering how he'd yelled at him just moments ago, and he was just stunned he still had all his teeth. He was also stunned at how opening his mouth had made him about twice as attractive.

“Um, that's quite alright. N-not to worry. I know a lady who- maybe she can get the stain out.”

“I don't know, black coffee sure is a son of a bitch,” Rick frowned, looking down at the stain on Tailor's shirt.

He didn't seem to mind about the splatter up his own front, but he was just wearing an off white wife beater. One that showed off just how thick his arms were, how toned his muscles were. He saw the edges of tattoos peeking out from over his shoulders; they must've covered his back. Tailor swallowed hard and averted his eyes.

“I don't want your money. It's fine,” he murmured, adjusting his tie, as if that was going to do something to make him look better.

“At least let me take you back to mine, get you out of that suit.”

“I'm sorry?” Tailor balked, his face immediately heating up, his eyes watering at the sudden pressure of the blood rushing to his head.

Rick smirked, clearly amused.

“I've got some detergent back at my place, su-supposed to be real good. If we get that shirt and jacket washed fast we might be able to save it.”

“Oh! Oh right. Of course. Yes, that's probably for the best.” Tailor nodded, instantly regretting his reply. He'd been so relieved to have his lewd misunderstanding cleared up that he hadn't really been concentrating on his own response. But there was no going back now.

“It's just up the street from here. Two minute walk!” Rick smiled, a lopsided kind of smile that was incredibly endearing. Tailor winced.

“Actually, I–” his sentence fell short and he sighed. Rick had already turned and was heading for the door, Tailor had no choice but to just follow.

Rick's home really was just a short walk away in an apartment block. It was pretty average, Tailor thought, and he noticed quickly that the place was lived in. It wasn't a complete pigsty, but it was far from neat and tidy. Tailor started to wonder what he was getting himself into, but he found himself just rolling with it. He agreed when Rick offered to make him a cup of coffee, he wasn't a huge fan of that instant stuff but he wouldn't complain, he still needed some. He took a seat at the kitchen table as he waited, brushing away a collection of crumbs from in front of him.

“You wanna take off that shirt and jacket? I can- I'll toss it in the wash.”

“Oh, yes, b-but it must be a gentle cycle,” Tailor warned, slipping off his jacket. He cleared the pockets of their items, leaving them on the table.

“Gentle?”

“Yes. Perhaps you have a delicates setting?” Tailor questioned, handing the jacket off to him. He was looking back at him with a blank expression and Tailor held back a sigh. “Don't worry. Whatever you usually put it on will be fine, I suppose.”

“You wanna borrow a shirt or something?” Rick asked, looking down at Tailor's shirt again.

Tailor hadn't really thought about taking his shirt off in front of this guy until now, and he was suddenly very nervous. Why on earth had he accepted this damn invitation?

“Um… yes. I suppose I should. Thank you,” he finally replied after a pause that was far too long.

Rick nodded and left the room for a while. Tailor groaned quietly, brushing his hand backwards through his hair to tame non existent flyaways, then he loosened his floral tie. He unbuttoned his shirt and was shrugging it off just as Rick returned.

“I tried to find somethin’ that might be to your taste,” he said, holding out a button up shirt to him.

The thing was creased up to hell. It looked like it'd been sat at the bottom of a drawer for God knows how long, but Tailor appreciated the effort. He swapped with him, and dressed in the borrowed shirt. It swamped him, given Rick was a lot more bulky than Tailor, and he found himself heating up in the face again.

He felt like some chick dressing up in her boyfriend's dress shirts. He'd never worn anything so ill fitting.

After starting up the washing machine, Rick placed a cup of coffee down in front of Tailor as he finished up buttoning his shirt; he left the top few buttons open, his own tie hanging loose around his neck. It smelled musky and faintly of cigarettes, it didn't seem to have been worn for a while, and Tailor wondered if it’d even been washed since the last time Rick had worn it. Oddly enough, the thought stirred something in him and he crossed one leg over the other, clearing his throat as he took a sip of his drink to distract himself. He burned his tongue, but didn't react.

“How's the coffee?” Rick asked him, looking at the spot where Tailor was resting the mug against his lip, blowing into it to help cool it.

“It’s fine, thank you. Coffee's coffee,” he said. “It's perhaps the one thing I'm not particularly picky about.”

“Huh? Is that so?” he replied, and Tailor caught the beginnings of a smirk as he lifted his own cup.

Tailor raised a brow, ready to question him, but decided to change the subject.

“You're in the military,” he stated. He'd noticed a few things laying around the apartment, photographs of him in uniform, with other Ricks in matching clothes. The dog tags around his neck were a giveaway too.

“SEAL team.” Rick replied. There was nothing arrogant about the way he said it, Tailor was surprised at how matter-of-fact he was.

“Well, then I feel as though I owe you an apology,” Tailor forced himself to say, lifting his head, holding his chin high.

Rick frowned. “What for?”

“For lashing out at you, calling you a thick skulled wanker, and so on.”

“You already apologised for that,” Rick pointed out, cupping his hands around the mug of coffee.

“Yes, well, I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings.”

“Sir, I invited you into my home, washed your clothes and gave you some of my coffee. Does it look like there's hard feelings? Don't worry about it. Water off a duck’s back.”

“I meant no disrespect, if I'd have known who you were I'd never have dreamed about speaking to you in such a way,” Tailor admitted, avoiding eye contact. His face felt awfully hot.

“B-but if I was just some other Rick, some barista or store assistant, you'd have stood by it all?” Rick snorted, cocking a brow and smirking.

“Of course,” Tailor said, taking a sip of coffee. Rick chuckled, shaking his head.

“Fair enough. So what do you do with yourself? You look pretty fancy in that suit, must be doing well.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the washing machine.

“That suit is one of mine. I mean, I made it. I-I-I'm a tailor, a dressmaker, a designer.”

“Oh! I ain't seen you around the Citadel before.”

“That's because I don't work here. I was just meeting with the Council today, I'm working on some designs for them,” Tailor said nonchalantly, not even noticing the way the other Rick's eyes widened.

“You work for the damn Council? Holy shit, you are doing well.”

“The Council? I suppose it's a pretty high profile job. Though, I've worked for royalty back in my home dimension, so it's rather a step down.”

“You design the crown jewels or something?” Rick snorted. “I've never really heard of a British Rick. I know they're out there but you're the first I've met.”

“And you're the first Rick I've met with that lovely southern drawl,” Tailor replied, his tone lowering into a flirtatious one unintentionally. The other Rick blinked at him, his expression unchanging. Tailor quickly moved on, dropping his gaze to the mug. “I've made multiple dresses for her majesty the Queen, wonderful lady, absolute pleasure to work for. I've worked on suits for Prince Harry and William. Their wives have both worn dresses by me. Actually, I've been told to expect a call about a special commission for the Duchess of Cambridge.”

“Wow. You're a real hot shot, huh?”

“Well, I've worked hard to make a name for myself.”

“I believe that,” Rick nodded, his gaze lingering on Tailor for a few moments before he looked away. The two fell into silence for a while as they drank their coffee.

TBC...