#technically officially done with the old guard prompts! a year later! it was way too much fun!! i love the immortal wives so so much!!!

[lesbianlotties]

Andy and Quynh One Shots - #101

Chapters: 101/101 Fandom: The Old Guard (Movie 2020), The Old Guard (Comics) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Andy | Andromache the Scythian/Quynh | Noriko Characters: Andy | Andromache of Scythia, Quynh | Noriko, Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Additional Tags: Immortal Wives Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Immortality, One Shot Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Tumblr Prompt, Originally Posted on Tumblr, just... A LOT of Andy and Quynh, it's what they deserve, it's what we deserve Words: 63518

"Just you and me." "Until the end."

Three thousand years of love, and more. All the little moments of joy, pain, adoration, and yearning. Andy and Quynh, all through history, all over the world, always in love.

Chapter 101: I'm here, at the beginning of the end, the end of infinity with you (teasing Andy for being old)

At first, Andy didn’t even think twice about it. She could be in the middle of a training session with Quynh and after landing a particularly good punch, Quynh smirked and said, “You’re getting too old, my heart” or “Age has made you slow, Andromache.” It was fine. In fact, it was good, and meant to be affectionate. She had been saying things like that in every language known to man for almost as long as the two of them had known each other. Which, really, was an eternity in itself. It was a little detail that Andy was glad to experience again after such a long separation. Their love was something capable of always growing and never changing at its core. However, little changes were unavoidable. And now that their family was bigger, it was just a matter of time before some harmless, affectionate teasing would get out of hand.

The three of them were sitting on the couch watching a movie and almost as soon as it ended Andy was out of her seat and stretching.

“Where are you going?” Quynh wondered with a slight pout.

Nile added, “We can still watch another!”

Andy scoffed, “I’m exhausted, I’m going to bed.” Without waiting for further approval she started walking toward the room she shared with Quynh.

Quynh, who wasn’t exactly happy to lose the shoulder she was comfortably leaning against during the movies. “I get it, you’re too old for this,” she called after her lover’s retreating figure. Andy shook her head fondly, and smiled because the others couldn’t see her. But there was just something about how loudly Nile laughed at that joke that just sparked a hint of worry in the older woman’s mind. She tried to ignore it, as long as she could.

--

A few days later, after a couple of minutes of lying awake in bed, Andy turned to her side and happily devoted herself to trailing feather-light kisses on Quynh’s bare shoulders to get her to wake up. Her fingertips were starting to dance in secret patterns on the soft skin of the other woman’s back, when Andy’s ministrations were interrupted by Quynh, who quickly moved so she could capture Andy’s lips with her own and give her a real good morning kiss. Though, after pulling back, she went back to lying on her stomach and said, “I know you’re old, my heart, but do you have to wake up this early?”

“Excuse me?” Andy laughed, not at the joke, precisely. But there was just something too sweet about the sight of Quynh, unable to hold back a smile, even if trying to hide her face in the pillow, but stubbornly keeping her eyes closed.

“Let me sleep!” Quynh mumbled against her pillow, and she had to bravely accept a kiss on the cheek, but she was finally granted extra time to sleep.

Still wearing a content smile on her face, Andy walked to the kitchen. She was half-way through her first cup of coffee, which she almost dropped, when Nile walked into the kitchen and without even looking Andy in the eyes said, “My grandma used to wake up before everyone else too.”

--

Soon enough, their teasing became a constant in their lives.

“I don’t get it,” Nile complained, dropping her head in a book written in Russian and groaning loudly. 

“It’s not that difficult!” Andy insisted, in perfect Russian.

Nile, assuming what she’d just said, protested, “You only say that because you’re older than the entire language.”

“That’s complicated,” Andy grumbled, still in Russian.

“No, she’s right, darling, you’re that old,” Quynh blurted out in matching Russian, with a few struggles, from her place reading a different book a few feet away on the couch.

After Nile burst out laughing, Andy looked at her with a frown, “Oh so that you understand?!”

--

Even during moments that could have been emotionally difficult, Andy was caught off guard by the ruthlessness of the women around her.

“We can’t do it, it’s too risky,” Andy insisted, about a new sketchy mission offered to them that the youngest member of the family was determined to take, “Listen, Nile…”

“What? I’ll get it when I’m older… than civilization?” Nile crossed her arms defensively, as if that could hide the hint of a smile showing in her lips.

Quynh absolutely failed to stifle a laugh. And when she received a pointed look from her wife, she returned the expression in kind and said, “Was that not the point of whatever you were about to say?”

“We are not taking this job,” Andy stated through clenched teeth, right before learning a valuable piece of information about the mission that they would, in the end, take and successfully complete.

--

“Nile!” Andy yelled, kicking open the door of their latest safe house and storming into the living room. “Nile!”

“What did she do now, and why didn’t she include me?” Quynh walked out of the kitchen with a proud grin already in place.

“Our fake identities just arrived,” Andy grumbled. “Take a look.”

Quynh hummed as she took in her hands the handful of passports Andy passed her. She glanced at them, but found nothing out of the ordinary. “What's the problem, my love? You look frighteninly pretty, as always.”

Although she was still frowning profusely, during a second, a smile broke out on Andy’s face. But then, “She did it on purpose! Look at my age!”

This time, Quynh bit her lip to hold back her smile. After taking a closer look at the passport, she looked up with a small smirk and a playfully raised eyebrow, “Fifty?”

“Fifty!” Andy exclaimed, outraged. “I’ve never been fifty! Fucking fifty! How does she dare-”

“Andromache!” Quynh was openly laughing then. “You are thousands of years old!” When her lover attempted to turn away from her in a rage, Quynh dropped the passports and quickly wrapped her arms around Andy’s waist and hugged her close. “Come on, it’s not a big deal! You don’t look a day over forty eight.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Andy scoffed, but when she turned around to kiss Quynh, there was a small smile on her face.

--

“Quynh! Please tell this crazy old woman to give me back my phone!” Nile stormed into the safe house.

She was quickly followed by Andy saying “We have rules about social media, Nile! To keep us safe.”

Quynh strolled into the living room with a smile on her face that everyone else might have assumed was patient or gentle, but Andy knew it was the kind of smile that brought trouble for her specifically. “Nile, you have to understand,” Quynh said slowly, “She’s too old for this kind of thing.”

As she finished talking, Quynh reached out to take Nile’s phone, Andy quickly blocked her attempt and laughed, “Are you serious?” It started an impressive duel where they fought for the cellphone, with Quynh coming out as the winner for being just slightly quicker, something she would probably remind Andy of for years.

“It’s just a different generation,” Quynh continued to laugh, tossing the phone over to the younger woman a second before Andy threw her arms around her.

“You’re literally older than everyone else in our family combined!” Andy protested as the two of them playfully wrestled in the middle of the living room.

“And you are twice as old as me!” Quynh replied, followed by a yelp of surprise as the love of her life lifted her up from the floor.

The two of them only stopped fighting when they noticed a flash coming from the camera of Nile’s phone. “Hm, you’re both right,” Nile smirked, quickly sending the hilarious picture to their family’s groupchat, “The two of you are ancient.”

Nile walked away from them, leaving behind two women wearing shocked expressions, though Andy was delighted, and Quynh appeared deeply betrayed. “Hey!” Quynh tried to protest, but she was happily interrupted by a kiss from Andy, who a moment later started tickling her, just to start their loving battle all over again.

[lineffability]

for whatever we lose

[In-Canon ‘Human’!A/C] based on this post words: 3.3k  setting: post tv show ending summary: With the Apocalypse averted and their respective sides tricked, Aziraphale and Crowley can finally be left to their own (de)vices--only, you can’t trick God, and she always has the last word. So they forget who they were. And they forget each other. It’s all ineffable from here on out. 

; For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)   it's always ourselves we find in the sea - e.e. cummings

PROLOGUE

Aziraphale was dreaming. This was odd, as he was not asleep.

Aziraphale. What have you done?

Had he possessed a body, in this dream, Aziraphale would have licked his lips and cleared his dry throat. Instead A Million Eyes were wide open, and he couldn’t tell if they were his or Hers, and he couldn’t Think either, because it was all drowned out. It had been a long, long time since She had spoken to him. Six thousand years to be exact, that day in Eden when she had inquired about his Sword and he had lied to Her face. Which, in retrospect, she had known. And forgiven.

But he had betrayed Her again. And this time, oh, he wasn’t sure--

You have to make it up to me, Aziraphale. You have to pay a price.

“Oh I-- I will! I will! I promise, I--”

Remember.

Then he woke up.

__________________________________________________

PART I // for whatever we lose

He woke up in his bed. It was half past eight, and he had to open the bookstore at nine (well, technically, anyways) which gave him just under half an hour to get up and ready and have breakfast. That did not leave him enough time for scrambled eggs and fresh orange juice, a realization that very much displeased him. Aziraphale whined and rolled out of bed.

Fading memories of a rather odd dream haunted him, but as he slipped out from under the covers they slid off him as water slides off ducks.

Barefoot, he trod into his kitchen, put on the kettle and got dressed as he waited for the water to boil. As he always did. He made scrambled eggs anyways, and fixed his bow tie and brushed his teeth and took the flight of stairs down into his shop half an hour late, opened the store half an hour later still, and sat and hoped no one would enter through the doors. He read a book, and started another one, made himself a cup of cocoa in the afternoon and glowered at the rare occasional customers until, unnerved, they left.

As he always did.

Until one day, an hour before (official) closing time, a tall, dark man entered his store.

“Oh, I am afraid that we will be closing in half an hour,” Aziraphale started, but did not continue as the man came towards him in big strides. He had a slightly odd way of walking, Aziraphale decided, as if he might slide off the face of the earth sideways if he wasn’t careful. Sashaying, one might call it.

“Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale did not immediately respond, as he was deep in thought, staring at the stranger’s face. His eyes were concealed behind sunglasses despite the cloudy weather, but the rest of his features were sharp: a thin nose, a pointy chin, pronounced cheekbones and spiky ginger hair. He was sure the man was a stranger, was sure he’d never seen him before in his life (because he would have remembered him, if he had), but there was something about his face and posture that reminded him of someone, nonetheless.

Who? He could not remember. It must have been a long time ago.

“Mr. A. Z. Fell?”

“Oh! Yes, that would be me.” Aziraphale smiled a welcoming smile, which even surprised himself. Of course, he was warm and welcoming to everybody in general, but in the bookshop, somehow, he more closely resembled a dragon guarding his hoard.

The stranger slightly cocked his hand to one side. “What’s the A. Z. stand for?”

“Pardon? Oh, the sign, right. That’s my name. I mean, of course, the sign has been there for generations. It just happens to also fit my initials. Er.”

The man raised a brow, behind dark sunglasses that he still had not taken off, until he continued.

“Aziraphale Zachariah Fell. That’s my name.”

Right. That was his name. For a moment there, he had confused even himself. He wondered if he was getting old. Because for just a second, it truly had felt as if he had not known. Not known about the sign that his ancestors had fixed to the outside of the store, not known what the initials of his own name stood for. This weird feeling, the feeling he had not been able to shake off all week, took a hold of him yet again. He touched the bridge of his nose, but remembered he was not wearing his reading glasses. He must have misplaced them.

For a moment Aziraphale feared that the stranger would burst into laughter. But he contained himself, asking instead, not without mirth: “Aziraphale?”

“Oh, my parents were…very religious.” He gave him a crooked, apologetic grin.

A look spread across the lanky man’s face that Aziraphale could only describe as surprised delight; wrinkles appeared around his eyes and it almost made Aziraphale blush, though he wondered what had prompted this reaction--surely not his old-fashioned name. (It had been that, but much more so it had been the look on his face, a helpless sort of amusement that Crowley couldn’t help but find endearing.)

“I mostly go by Raphael, though. To friends, I mean,” he added after a moment, feeling awfully stupid. (Aziraphale, he’d decided a long time ago, didn’t quite suit him.)

“I see,” Crowley replied, a smile still playing around his lips. “Mr. Fell.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to reply, but for the life of him could not think of any adequate reply. Who was this man, anyways? He had sauntered right into his shop and right up to him and somehow Aziraphale had told him about his parents’ religious beliefs without even knowing his name. Or anything else, really.

“So, you are…?”

“Ah.” As if he had been waiting for this moment, the man straightened and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. He might as well have been presenting to an entire audience. “Anthony J. Crowley, merchant of various goods, at your service.”

So this was what was going on, was it? Merchant. Aziraphale squinted imperceptibly. A book buyer. Nasty lot. Always after his pristine first editions, his life’s work--well, really, not just his. Most were inherited, though he had acquired the one or other treasure, in his lifetime… Feeling rather emboldened, Aziraphale decided to pay back what had been dealt to him. “So, what does the J stand for?”

“I’d rather hoped you’d ask about the ‘merchant of various goods’ part, honestly.” The man paused, but received no reaction. “No? Oh, alright. It’s really just ‘J’. Anthony Jay Crowley.”

“Well, now we’ve got that sorted out,” Aziraphale said with an amount of delight that seemed just a little too angelic to be entirely nice, “I am very afraid to inform you, my dear Mr. Crowley, that I don’t sell any books. If that is why you are here.”

Crowley stared at him behind his sunglasses, perplexed. “You own a bookstore.”

“Well. Yes. I mean--” He paused. I don’t like selling my books, he wanted to say. I love them too much. It feels like selling a part of myself. I’d much prefer to keep them all, if that were possible. Instead he said, “I prefer to sell them to individual buyers.” Because they only buy individual books. Singular.

“Why?”

“I just do.” He clasped his hands in front of his belly and sealed his lips tightly shut. Determined, he stood there, like a mother bear ready to protect her children.

Crowley, apparently, sensed that he was about to jog headfirst into a stone wall. His shoulders slumped. But he was not yet a man defeated. Aziraphale stayed on his toes. “Alright, alright. Cool stuff. No worries. But then, I assume...you buy them?”

Aziraphale’s face brightened. “Indeed!”

“You collect them?”

“You could say that.” Aziraphale’s chest grew various sizes, his aura positively shining. “I consider myself to be somewhat of an expert. My interest particularly lies with books of prophecy and, uh, Bibles with printing errors…oh, and Oscar Wilde!”

“Oscar Wilde,” Crowley repeated, pensively, before cocking his head. “Printing errors?”

“Oh, yes! For instance, there is the Adultery Bible, in which--”

Suddenly Crowley moved in closer, cutting him short. He lowered his voice as he spoke again, his face close enough that Aziraphale could make out the contours of his eyes through the shades. (Really, there was no need for that, they were alone in the store.)

“I might happen to be… in possession of one of those books you take such an interest in.”

“What? But, how-- Might I ask, who do you work for?”

“Oh, I work for myself.” Crowley straightened. “And if you want to ask where I get my goods from, you’d do better not to. Let’s call them Of Unknown Origin. Capiche?”

A moment of silence.

“So… are you interested?”

Another beat, during which Aziraphale tried to convince himself that he was not actually considering his offer. Of course he wasn’t. He gasped.

“Absolutely not! How-- Why-- I’m, I’m shocked!”

Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale was sure that, behind his sunglasses, he was rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine. I get it. You’re boring. Should’ve known the moment I walked in here. One of the Good Ones.” His tone turned mocking at the last words, upper lip curling.

“Now that’s just awfully rude; there is no need for such behaviour.”

“Whatever.” The man called Crowley lifted a hand, already turning. Then he stopped in his tracks, shoulders slumping, and a groan escaped his lips. For a second Aziraphale was confused, but then he registered the source of his newest discontentment: It was raining.

It had started to rain heavily, and water was splashing off the streets and running into the gutters. One step outside and you’d be soaking wet. Crowley cursed under his breath even as he began walking towards the door.

“Ciao.” He gave a little wave.

“Wait!”

“Oh?” Crowley turned, but was unprepared for what awaited him. There he stood, the round little man with hair as white as a cloud, and was extending his arm towards him--holding an umbrella. Crowley gaped at the thing.

“Take it. It’s raining.”

“I-- Yes, I can see that, it’s raining, yeah, wet stuff, seen it before,” he brambled, still incredulous. Haltingly, he took it. Wedged it under his arm. Opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it. Closed it. Opened it again. “Well, thanks, see you around,” he mumbled, just above a whisper, and then he was out the door, under the umbrella, making for his car as if the devil was on his heels.

He drove through the pouring rain as Queen blasted from his speakers. Really, he wasn’t in the mood. Should’ve checked the CD beforehand. This strange encounter did not quite leave him alone, and he replayed it in his head countless times. The white umbrella lay discarded on the front seat. He took it with him, up into his flat, where he immediately turned on the TV and failed to pay even a minute of attention to the things happening on the screen.

Books weren’t even his usual trade. It had been a spontaneous thing, a thought he’d had ever since he’d found that book in his flat a few days ago. The Nice And Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. He could for the life of him not remember how he had come into its possession. It must have happened ages ago, some collateral damage from one job or the other, and he’d misplaced it, and only now stumbled upon it again. Either way, it looked like it was worth a good sum of money, so asking questions about its provenance seemed unwise, as long as he could sell it.

Just his luck that the bookshop he’d happened upon and decided to enter on a whim--it had looked promising, all antique and, well, booky--had turned out to be bad luck. And yet…

And yet, he couldn’t get that stupid face out of his mind. Those piercing blue eyes that had went from Soft to Fierce in a heartbeat, the hand that had offered up protection against the rain when he had done nothing to deserve it, nothing at all. Well--he’d have to return the umbrella, at least.

After all, the shop was promising. It was stuffed to the top with books that smelled of Age and Money, the kind of books without cover but with gold lettering. Sometimes a little temptation was all Good People needed to turn into Not Quite As Good People, after all.

With this thought in mind Crowley fell asleep, on his couch, with the TV still blaring in the background.

  He woke up where he had fallen asleep. Grimacing, he straightened his neck and stretched out his limbs. A glance at his phone told him he had fifteen minutes to get ready, which was all he needed. He got up, turned on his stereo (one clap), changed into fresh clothes while somehow simultaneously brushing his teeth, and was out the door--but not without mindfully turning off the music (two claps). As he always did.

Crowley had dreamt again, and he was sure it was a dream that he’d had before, just recently, but the only thing he could remember from it was the word Demon, and now that gave him no clue whatsoever.

By the time he got into his Bentley he was holding a steaming cup of coffee, which he managed to drink without spilling a drop while speeding through busy London streets. He’d forgotten the umbrella, so he could not go back to the bookshop. That’s what he told himself, anyways. He also ‘forgot’ it the day after. And on Friday. On Saturday, after having thoroughly watered and terrorized his plants, he finally grabbed the white umbrella and stormed out the door.

He almost kicked a lamp post when he arrived at the shop and saw the Closed sign on the door. He drew his head back and glared at the sky. Then he looked at the door again, at the handwritten sign with the office hours, and the sound that escaped him almost sounded like a hiss.

“You’re supposed to be open, bastard,” he growled to himself, wondering why he was so upset, and then the door suddenly opened and he found himself face to face with the enigmatic Mr. Fell.

“Mr. Crowley?” Surprise was written all over his face. He pointed to the sign on the door. “We’re closed.”

Crowley glowered. “You’re supposed to be open. Look.” Frantically, he pointed at the door, as if it was not the man’s very own shop door, with his very own sign in his very own handwriting.

“I do take my liberties,” Aziraphale simply said, lifting his chin. “I was just on my way to get scones.”

“Scones?”

“I was feeling awfully peckish. So I thought, what is one more hour of opening the shop against the promise of fresh scones?” He beamed, and his eyes dropped to the umbrella that Crowley was clenching so hard his knuckles were turning red. “Oh! My umbrella!”

“Came here to return it,” Crowley pressed out between his teeth.

“That is awfully kind of you, Mr. Crowley. Thank you.”

“It is yours, so…” Crowley shrugged. “You’re really closing the shop for scones? I’ve never gotten their appeal.”

“You must not have tried the scones of the nice little bakery down the street, then! They just opened, but I must say they really make the most lovely, buttery-- why, let me tempt you to one, then!”

Crowley almost fell backwards into the pavement. This man had to be the most trusting, naive and genuinely nice person he had ever met, and it was almost driving him insane. He stared at him, and couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I mean, well, not tempt, exactly.” Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh. “Invite?”

So they had scones, and coffee, and a glass of Chardonnay. It came so natural that they both wondered why they felt as if they had known each other for a long time, when in fact it had only been a few days since their first meeting.

Only when he was back home in his empty flat, feeding his pet snake, did he remember that his objective had been to tempt the shop owner with his shady book selling deal. Instead, he had somehow ended up being the tempted one. Crowley huffed. Well--he guessed he’d have to go back.

  There was no bell above Aziraphale’s door. This was because a bell alerted you to entering customers, and Aziraphale did not want to be alerted. In his best case scenario, the would-be-customers had already left the shop by the time he came round to the front. So as he rounded the corner to the front of his shop with a cup of tea in his hand he was not prepared for the person lounging (really, there was no better word for it) on his desk.

“Hi, A.Z. Fell.” Crowley grinned, hopping off the desk and circling round to him. “Fine morning to acquire some books, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Crowley, I’ve told you before, I am not--”

“Not even…” He produced a book, nicely bound in protective cloth. “The Nice And Accurate-- oi!”

Aziraphale had taken the book right out of Crowley’s hand, staring at it as if he’d discovered the Holy Grail. “I’ve seen this before,” he whispered to himself as he retrieved the book and lay a shaking hand on its cover. Then, “No, no, I haven’t. I can’t have. I must have…” His head shot up. “Where did you get this?!”

“I told you, I don’t disclose--”

“Crowley!” Surprised, Crowley lifted his hands. Aziraphale looked exasperated, and then, as he realized how he’d addressed him, scandalized. “Oh, I’m sorry! It’s just, this book, it’s... It’s rare.”

“I imagined.”

“No. You really don’t. When I say it’s rare, I mean it is… unique, possibly.”

“Shouldn’t tell me that, if I’m the one selling it, should you?”

Aziraphale froze. His eyes grew wide, and he was on the verge of swearing.

“Tell you what.” Crowley leaned in, voice soft. “The price stays the same--if I can interest you in acquiring more interesting books in the future. And in not asking too many questions. Trust me, don’t. That’s never worked out well for anyone.”

“I…” Aziraphale hesitated. “No, I can’t. You’re.. you’re a criminal! Aren’t you?”

“Ehhh, definitions. It’s just a hobby, let’s say. Besides, what are you, an angel?” Crowley lifted his hands to his sides, waving them through the air as if mimicking a wing beat.

Aziraphale felt very torn, because, yes, a part of him did feel--well not like an angel, certainly, but still like a Good Person. On the other hand, this was not hurting anyone, was it? And this book--as well as any other rare books--they would be in good hands, with him. If he thought about it like that...

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.

“What, yes? You are an angel?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, I will buy the book. I will agree to your condition.”

“What.” It sounded more like a squeezy little wot, the sound he made. Then Crowley smiled, widely, incredulously, almost thrilled. “I knew there was a spark in you, angel!” He took off his sunglasses, revealing startlingly bright eyes. (Like honey, Aziraphale briefly thought, averting his thoughts from the morally ambiguous deal he was about to strike. I like honey.) Crowley offered up a hand, and Aziraphale took it. They shook on their unspoken arrangement with a firm grip--lingering just a moment too long, averting their gaze just a second too late.

The wheels of fate, expertly jammed, began to grind down on the crow bar holding them in place.

[to be continued]

[jugandbettsdetectiveagency]

22 (spy) for the prompts!

Spies AU (from a fic idea I’ve always wanted to write but don’t know if I ever will)

“I don’t want to hear it, Agent Jones. This is your assignment and I expect you to follow orders as they’ve been given to you,” General Tate’s voice echoes over the speakers, deep and warm despite the firmness of his tone. Jughead can feel his features rearranging themselves into a slightly less-severe version of the scowl he is wearing as he resists the urge to scuff his shoe against the floor like a chastised child. He can feel the General’s eyes boring into his forehead from the screen, looking down as he is to hide the hurt he knows will be floating to the surface. Hurt that his superior will see straight away.

General Terrance Tate, codename ‘Pop’, had (very fittingly) been something of a paternal figure for Jughead ever since he’d been recruited by the CIA at only seventeen. Well, he supposes that the General that arrested your ganglord father and saved you from a path you were looking for a way off anyway is better than no one. And while he hadn’t exactly been entirely warm to the idea of working for the government at the time, even he has to admit that this job—this life—has saved him in more ways than can be counted. Not the least of which is the man currently shaking his head on screen despairingly.

“Look, son…” Pop begins, steepling his fingers on top of his desk. “I know it’s a little close to home—”

Wrong, Jughead wants to interrupt. It is home. It is almost exactly home. Although, if he were being honest, nothing about it ever felt particularly homey during his youth. Nevertheless, there was something close to sentiment attached to that place that no amount of training could ever get him to shake. But even that still didn’t change the fact that out of all the impossible situations he’d been placed in as an agent, this was the first time he’d wanted to flat out refuse orders.

“—but there’s no denying you’re the best man for the job. You’re familiar with the area, you know the people there.”

“Exactly! I know them, and they know me. The risk of being comprised for this mission surely outweighs the knowledge that I could easily pass onto another agent in a single afternoon,” Jughead half-pleads. He can hear how desperate he sounds, losing his cool in front of his superior and making himself sound like an idiot. He can hear it, but that doesn’t stop him.

“Nevertheless, the higher-ups believe it to be an asset and have chosen you. Therefore, it is you who will be on the plane to Riverdale by six o’clock this evening.” Pop has switched to his official, General voice, and Jughead knows anymore arguing is a lost cause. He has too much respect for the man before him—almost to his detriment.

“Yes, General,” he replies robotically, looking past Pop’s eyes into the pixels of the screen instead.

Pop sighs, a weary exhale, but continues on. “Your partner will meet you once you land at JFK and she’ll give you your brief then.”

That startles him out of his sulk. “Partner?”

“You didn’t think you’d be going in alone, did you? There’s evidence that the Fizzle Rocks supplier for the entire eastern half of the country is operating out of Riverdale. We’d hardly be likely to send you in by yourself.” Jughead feels his face heat. “No, you’ll be working together, and acting as each other’s cover while you’re in town.”

A distant beep sounds from Pop’s end of the line. “That’ll be all.” He pauses, dark eyes searching. “Good luck, Jughead.”

.

.

.

Jughead stumbles through arrivals with the kind of brain fog unique to being on a long flight. Bleary eyes search the gate for any sign of his greeter.

It doesn’t take long to spot JONES, written in neat, bold, block letters, but when he does all remnants of sleep clear immediately.

His eyes follow the hands clutching the poster board, along the arms clad in a powder blue sweater, up towards a prominent chin, appled cheeks, a slick blonde ponytail and— “Betty?”

Time turns itself back a decade in the space of ten seconds. Green eyes blink, once, twice. “Jughead.” Ten years since he’d last heard his name in that voice. “It’s good to see you.” His stomach flips and he’s seventeen again.

Betty Cooper looks exactly as she used to—exactly as she does, in every memory Jughead’s kept of her. Of which there are many. Her hair is a golden blonde, secured tightly in a prim ponytail. Her lips are full, her body slender. She’s wearing a sweater and jeans he could’ve sworn she owned in high school, and her shoulders are pulled back in the way he used to see her do whenever she was approaching a situation with full force. He’s not sure whether the fact that he now appears to be the situation should make him laugh or frown.

The only difference, that Jughead can see, is the smile she’s giving him in greeting. Where once before there was the easy warmth that came with a whole youth of friendship there’s now the guarded, sterile quirk of the mouth that eerily reminds him of Betty’s mother.

With that final thought he’s catapulted back to the present, something cold and uncomfortable in his stomach, and the reminder that a lot has changed since he was seventeen.

“Yeah, you too,” he manages to get out finally, a little crease between her brows alerting him to the fact he’s been quiet too long. “Are you…” He’s not quite sure if coming straight out and asking your old high school crush if she’s a secret agent in the middle of a busy airport follows protocol but, in fairness, the CIA never equipped him for this situation. Jughead swallows thickly. “Are you, um—”

“Your ride?” Betty finishes for him, something else hidden in the look she sends him. “Yes. Follow me.” With that she reaches for the handle of his suitcase and pulls it behind her as she heads for the exit, leaving Jughead to trail dazedly behind.

.

.

.

“Here’s your brief on the mission.” Betty hands him a thick manila folder seconds after he’s slid into the leather interior of her car. He’s not sure what kind it is, but then again engines were always her thing, not his.

(He’d zoned out most times his dad tried to teach him how to tune an engine or salvage parts from Steve’s junkyard. The promises they’d build a car from scratch faded to nothing by the time Jughead hit puberty and they were distant echoes when everything turned to shit some years later.)

“They’ve really been building their case, huh?” Jughead resists the urge to let out a low whistle as he thumbs through the wedge of documents in his hands. His torso slams back against the seat as Betty hits the gas and merges back onto the road. Quickly his hands have new business, discreetly gripping the shiny black upholstery beneath him, hoping he doesn’t leave nail marks as he watches the speedometer climb higher and higher.

He’s distracted from immanent doom by the quiet snort that comes from his left. “That’s putting it lightly. How much has your General told you about this case?” Jughead thinks she looks away from the road a beat too long to send an arched eyebrow his way, but Betty looks as relaxed as ever behind the wheel.

“Not a lot. It was kind of a last minute assignment.” He shifts uncomfortably. She picks up on it immediately.

“Can’t imagine you were jazzed to be assigned back home?” For a split second Jughead hears something, a softness, around the edges of her words that merges the past with the present in a dizzying cocktail—he resists the urge to physically shake himself out of it. “It might be a lot different than you remember. Have you been back? Since,” she adds.

“No,” Jughead sighs, turning to watch the greenery fly past the window. “Not since.” He stops suddenly, a small laugh escaping him. “And who the hell says ‘jazzed’ anymore?”

If he’s not mistaken, Betty’s smile grows an inch before she stifles it. “All the coolest intelligence agents.” Jughead lets out a proper laugh at that, rewarded with a flash of teeth in return.

“How exactly did that happen?” The question has been burning on the tip of his tongue since he saw her standing at the gate.

“What?”

“This, you, here. The last time we spoke…” Jughead takes a breath. “The last time we spoke you were applying to the Ivy Leagues.”

Betty starts nodding before he’s even finished. “I was. A lot… changed in that year you were gone from Riverdale High.” The silence is deafening in her brief pause, but then it’s gone. “Including my choice of school, and my major. Recruited out of M.I.T my junior year—Engineering.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice, and Jughead can’t blame her.

For the entirety of their high school careers Betty was set on Journalism at somewhere like Brown, Colombia, or Yale. Her parents ran the best (the only) newspaper in town—The Riverdale Register—and it was always assumed that Betty would get her degree and carry on the Cooper legacy.

A thousand more questions threaten to spill from his lips, but Jughead swallows them down. He’s not sure where he would start, or if he even should. It’s not really his place to pry anymore. They haven’t spoken in the better part of a decade, which he supposed negates all friendship privileges from here on out. Technically, they are two agents, thrown together on an assignment, expected to get the job done—nothing more, case close, thank you ma’am.

Jughead blinks rapidly, pulling a hand through his hair. “Impressive.” In the silence that follows Jughead expects Betty to ask her questions: what happened to you? Where did you go? What have you been doing all this time?

Why didn’t you say goodbye?

A part of him believes that she should have the answers—vague, though they might be—now that he knows she’s an agent herself. But the part of him that still thinks to tuck his old grey beanie into the back pocket of his suitcase wonders if Betty’s given as much thought to him as he has to her these past years they’ve spent apart.

He thinks she’s about to begin the interrogation, hearing a deep intake of breath, so he steels his nerve and tries to take the five seconds he has to decide how he’s going to answer. But instead all Betty says is, “You really should get a start on that. There’s a lot you’re going to want to know before we get to Riverdale.”

Jughead glances down at the brief again quickly. It feels like it’s developed a heartbeat while resting on his lap, thumping dully with everything he’s ignored about his hometown in the time he’s been gone. It’s both enticing and repulsing in equal measure, inciting a low hum of nausea in the back of his throat. He tips his head back against the headrest and lets his eyes fall shut.

“I’ll get carsick if I read,” he lies. He knows Betty must see right through him—he’d never make it past basic training if that were the case—but surprisingly she doesn’t push it.

“Okay,” she says quietly. There’s a click and then the muted tones of the radio fill the car. That, along with the drone of the engine and the tiredness from the plane, lulls Jughead into an easy sleep. Right before he passes out, he thinks he hears her singing.

.

.

.

“Jughead… Juggie, wake up we’re here.” His sleep addled brain can’t quite register the apprehension in her voice when she uses his old nickname, but his stomach does all the work for him, waking dormant butterflies in a flurry.

He inhales sharply, reaching up to rub his eyes. “‘m not asleep.” When Betty blinks into focus she’s smirking disbelievingly.

“Sure you’re not. You know, it was very rookie of you to fall asleep in the presence of an agent you’ve only just met. Who knows what I could have extracted from you in the past hour.”

Jughead’s almost entirely certain that sentence wasn’t supposed to be a turn on, but his body is defying him in all sorts of ways right now. “Nah, I trust you,” he says through a yawn, still dozy. “Known you forever.”

Betty stiffens minutely and it’s enough to catch himself, awake and alert in the next breath. “Right. Well.” She fidgets with something in the backseat, leaning close enough that he can smell the wafts of coconut from her hair. “You better put this on.”

Jughead isn’t entirely listening. He’s looked out the window and realised— “Betty why are we at your old house?” A creeping dread begins to set in. Maybe he should have read the brief on the way after all.

Betty sighs, settling back into her seat. She meets his eyes unwaveringly as she says, “This is our base of operations while we’re here. The CIA bought it after my parents divorced”—that shocks him, and Jughead thinks he should cut in with a condolence or something but she’s powering on—“and modified it for ease and security while we’re here. It seems… more believable to small town people that I’d come back to my family home with my husband.”

To her credit, she looks sheepish.

“Your what?” Jughead splutters, completely forgetting himself. His heart hammers in his chest. Betty holds up the thing she was searching for in the back, silver and glinting between her fingers.

“You should put this on before we get out. Our cover is Mr and Mrs Jones, married three months ago, come to start our family life in Riverdale.” She smiles with some strain.

Fuck.

[takingcourage]

A Prickly Diversion

Pairing: Jaime x MC 

Word Count: 3,600

Summary: Arden gets roped into yet another animal-related news story -- this time with Jaime along for the ride. 

Note: This piece is heavily inspired by a throwaway line from Jaime’s diamond scene in Chapter 6. In case you missed it, one tidbit to come out of the conversation is that Jaime “openly weeps” at pictures of baby hedgehogs. I’ve spent the better part of the past three weeks trying to work out how to turn that admission into a fic. Here’s hoping the result is enjoyable!  Even if it’s not, here’s some hedgehog cuteness for your viewing pleasure... 

“You’re such a lazy girl, Jinx,” Arden chastened as she returned to the living room. Kneeling down beside the couch, she smothered her face against the cat’s plush fur. Her short, polished nails made contact with Jinx’s chin, and soon the fluffy mass began to rumble in a satisfied purr. Arden settled her cheek onto the sound, sighing her own contentment.

No sooner had her eyes closed than the purring came to an abrupt stop, replaced by another noise altogether.

You’re using me as a pillow? How pathetic! Uprooting herself, the cat became little more than a blur as she dashed behind the couch.

“You and your mood swings,” Arden laughed, brushing a strand of fur from her cheek. She looked up to see Opie ambling toward her. 

Strange grumpy dog ran from nice lady. I help!

Lips cracking into a smile, Arden leaned down to scoop the puppy into her lap. “I should have started with you anyway. Your sister isn’t so great at providing affection."  

Opie propped his large paws on her shoulders before a broad tongue emerged to lick her cheeks. I help! I help!

With a laugh, she pushed the enthusiastic creature away. “Let’s stick to petting for now. I’ll take my bath later.”

The puppy hopped to the floor, returning to her side moments later with a chew toy dangling from his teeth. He dropped it into her feet before eyeing her for approval.

“Thanks, Opie.” Her smile prompted an enthusiastic wag of his tail. “I’ll treasure it.”

Arden was just getting to her knees to search for his toy squirrel when her phone vibrated across the end table. She caught it just before it fell off the edge. “If that’s anyone from work, I’m going to throw something,” she threatened while flipping the device right-side up.

Damn.

She flung Opie’s toy into the kitchen with a little more vigor than intended.  

“Hey, Aubrey. What’s up?”

The senior manager's greeting carried over the line. “Morning, Arden. I’m so sorry to bother you, but we’ve got a story coming out of Northbridge Zoo and Alec is convinced that you’re the only person who can handle it. The van is on its way to your apartment to pick you up -- it’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so.”

Knowing there was little use in arguing, Arden stood and made her way to the closet to find something that was both work appropriate and not too wrinkled --a tall order, even on days when she was anticipating going into the studio. “I’m sending him a glitter bomb. This is actually ridiculous.”

Aubrey’s deep breath implied agreement. “I tried to take it, but after the emu incident, he’s not letting anyone else cover anything to do with animals. Not that you don’t have a way them -- you’re great at dealing with animals -- but I don’t know why he thought he needed to bring you in on your day off to go look at baby hedgehogs.”

Her hand froze on the hanger, green sheath dress swaying wildly beneath the force of her surprise. 

“I can try talking with him again. It really isn’t fair for him to do this to you, especially when it’s just a routine visit and not an actual emergency.”

“No, it’s all good,” she answered quickly, tossing the dress onto her bed. “But if anyone asks, I need to make one quick stop on the way to the zoo.”

_______________________________________________________________________

Using one hand to corral the objects in her lap, Arden wrenched herself forward to prop open the front passenger door. Jaime was still occupied in the task of locking his front door, but she wasn’t in the mood to waste any time. The appearance of the very recognizable Northbridge News van was likely to cause a stir, especially among the handful of retirees in the community. If they made it out of this pick up without her father and half of the neighborhood coming out to investigate, she would count it a success.

“Hurry up!” she chided good naturedly as she warmed a fingerful of sculpting gel between her palms.

“Good morning to you too! Unusual ride.” If Alec has forced you into anything, he’s going to answer to me. “How ya doing, Tony?” he greeted as he climbed into the passenger seat.

Tony muttered something incomprehensible before backing out of the driveway. 

“So you got roped into this too, huh?” 

Arden combed both hands through her hair several times to add body, hoping that the resulting style looked something like her signature coiffure. This was about the level of effort she was used to putting in, but she didn’t typically have to factor bedhead into the equation. 

“It ended up being a kind of last-minute assignment,” she explained, adding to Tony’s curt nod. Her tone was casual, but guarded. She was aware that she’d be treading thin ice. “And I promise it’s going to be SO much better than the brunch plans we had to cancel to take it. You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right.” But, Arden? I’m still not happy about Alec treating you like this. 

“Always,” she promised, leaning up to slide her fingers through his hair. “Here you go.” His thick locks were still somewhat damp from his morning shower, and the mingled smell of shampoo and styling product wafted into her nose. When did he start smelling so good? She dismissed the question as quickly as it came. 

“What’s that for?”

“Just getting rid of my extra gel. Had to get my fingers clean.” Jaime allowed his hair to remain mussed, though he brushed aside the loose strands from his forehead. Returning the tube of gel to her backpack, Arden withdrew a pair of shiny packages. “And this is why! I can’t go eating Pop-Tarts with oily hands.” Keeping one pack for herself, she extended the other to the front seat. “Trade you for a coffee.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” A full tumbler appeared in the space moments later, and she accepted it gratefully. “I’m guessing it’s not your first cup.”

“Just my second. I tried to sleep in this morning, but Opie came and woke me up at, like, 7:00. He was all worked up because --” she caught her tongue, glimpsing Tony listening from the driver’s seat. “He needed food and a walk.”

I take it Jinx was hiding from him again?

“And Jinx climbed into the back of the recliner,” she confirmed. “Refused to come out until she heard me pouring food.”

“It sounds like an eventful morning.” And we should probably stop talking like this. Tony is going to get suspicious.

“Yep.” She let the word serve as answer to both points, turning her attention to the makeshift breakfast in her lap. 

They arrived at the zoo shortly after Arden had finished eating. She brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth, then set about applying a quick coat of lipstick. Her day’s look was verging on the simple side of what was acceptable, but Alec would need to be happy with whatever footage he got. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the quality of her work, but as soon as Aubrey had mentioned the specifics of the job, another priority had shifted into prominence.

“How do I look?” she asked Jaime as he exited the vehicle behind him.

Like half the city of Northbridge is about to fall in love with you. "Newsworthy," he responded noncommittally. "Still refusing to tell me what this is for? I'm going to find out either way."

"You know I like a little pizzaz." She threw him some jazz hands and checked her appearance in the side mirror a final time. Upon moving to the back of the truck, she tossed him a bag of equipment. "Here, take this. It'll be better if they think you're part of the crew."

He received the duffle without complaint and they made their way across the sidewalk, Tony taking up the rear.

"I'll go along with this on one condition,” Jaime agreed, hiking the bag over his shoulder. 

"Name it and we'll see."

His eyes rolled upward, as if consulting the sky for patience. "Since I'm technically "helping” you with a job, would you come help me out with something once we're done? I was going to ask you to come with me anyway, but this gives a nice chance for some reciprocity." 

"You've got yourself a deal."

"I think someone named Lisa is our contact person?" Tony provided, squinting into the canopied entrance. "That's probably her right there."

A tall brunette emerged from the shadows, hand outstretched toward Arden. "Ms. Gale! I'd recognize you anywhere. You look just like you do on television," the woman's smile revealed dimpled cheeks and Arden couldn't help feeding off her positive energy.

"You must be Lisa." She eyed the name badge and extended her hand for a firm shake.

"My four-year-old loves you."

See? I told you.

Arden resisted the urge to glare in Jaime's general direction.

"She's going to flip when I tell her I met you."

"It's always a pleasure to hear I have fans. What's her name?" Arden asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear to distract from the overt delight in her grin. How long will it be before I’m used to this kind of thing?

"It's Evie," Lisa answered with obvious pride. “She’s a wildlife fanatic, so that story a few weeks ago -- the one with the emus -- it really won her over. Hasn’t stopped talking about you since.” 

"Well, I’ll see if I can give her a shoutout while we're on air."

"You're officially the sweetest celebrity I've ever met! Let's head on in." She waved them through, propping open the gate so they could follow her inside. "Animal lover too?"

Arden held the gate for Tony, dodging the duffle as Jaime walked in past her. "I do have a soft spot for them. I've got a dog and a cat at home to keep me company. Haven't been to the zoo in ages though -- honestly, it's been too long."

"Well, we're happy to have you here any time. Just say the word and I'll get you right in. Now, the hedgehogs are housed in our...."

Lisa's explanation continued, but Arden failed to hear it over the high-pitched screech coming from her right.

She snuck a glance at Jaime. Definitely worth keeping it a secret. 

Arden, you're the absolute light of my life. I’m still mad at Alec, but I may just let you off the hook about earlier.

"They have a full prickle of baby hedgehogs," she whispered to him as they passed through a corridor. 

“Is that what a group of them is called?”

“Uh-huh!” Her smile widened at his incredulous look. “I had to google it on the way so I’d know what I was talking about.”

“Let’s be real, Arden. You just wanted to think of puns in advance.”

She flashed him a sly smile as they followed Lisa into the learning center. That woman directed them toward the enclosure of African Pygmy Hedgehogs. Six bristly critters climbed around the habitat, spiky backs providing an adorable contrast to the soft curls of the wood shavings that surrounded them.  

“Aside from Evie, these are my pride and joy. Here’s Laurel,” Lisa pointed out the adult hedgehog, “and her babies, Tony, Steve, Natasha, Thor, and Hulk.” 

Great, I’m sharing names with a hedgehog now. Tony’s voice came from behind. 

Arden resisted the urge to address his complaint, instead asking,“Hulk? Not Bruce?” 

Lisa gave an airy laugh. “He’s always been the biggest, so it seemed more appropriate.”

“Well, they’re all adorable. Our viewers are going to love them.” Arden cocked her head toward Jaime. “What do you think?”

“Pictures don’t do them justice,” he answered simply, attention never wavering from the creatures before him. I'm not even going to hold you to that earlier agreement. We're even. More than even. 

Giggling, Arden turned back to Lisa. “This is amazing. No wonder Evie is wild about animals.” 

“Do you want to get to know them a little bit before you start filming? They’re going to be used with kids in our educational programs, so we’re trying to get them used to interacting with strangers.” 

Arden nodded, Jaime’s shriek ringing through her ears. I’m really going to have to tell him to stop thinking in sound effects. 

After a very entertaining half hour, Arden wrapped the segment. “Back to you in the studio. Stay sharp, Northbridge." She could feel Tony’s groan even before it became audible. 

"Evie's going to be saying that for weeks! Do you mind if I get a picture with you before you go?" Arden was only too happy to oblige. 

_______________________________________________________________________

Jaime was bursting with questions by the time Tony dropped both of them off at his house. “Be straight with me,” he began as the van pulled away. “What do hedgehogs think about?”

Arden followed Jaime into his truck, yanking the seatbelt over her shoulder as she rattled off the various things she’d overheard. “Laurel spent most of the time being worried about how their spikes looked. Hulk basically just wanted the green pepper you were feeding him. He was really into that pepper. And you remember when Thor rolled into the ball?”

“Yeah.” Shifting out of reverse provided him with the opportunity to meet her laughing eyes. 

“He just kept thinking, my feet are stuck! My feet are stuck! over and over. I almost died.” 

Jaime shook his head, lifting his hand from the gearshift to run it through his still-tousled hair. “That was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

His free hand fell between them on the bench seat, and Arden’s eyes followed the motion keenly. Does he want me to hold his hand? She couldn’t deny that the prospect intrigued her, but what if she was misreading the situation? Aware of his gaze, she scratched her cheek to diffuse the tension. 

Jaime cleared his throat. “Anyway, It’s a good thing we’re about to go mix things up with some manual labor.”

“I’m not about to do manual labor, am I?”

“Nah, you should be fine. I’m just bringing you along as a second pair of eyes. I’ll be doing the heavy lifting myself.” 

“That’s a relief,” she said, gesturing toward the skirt of her dress. “What’s the job?” 

"Remember that wedding that I helped with a few weeks ago? The couple asked me to install a mantelpiece in their new house and it's a lot easier with someone else there to make sure it’s straight. I might have you hold something in place for a minute, but it’s nothing too strenuous."

"You probably just want me to come along and drool over your muscles," she accused only half jokingly. Somehow the laugh stuck in her throat as she thought about the sight of his toned body. His v-neck wasn’t going to do much to conceal how ripped he was if there was actually any heavy lifting involved. 

"Please keep the drooling to a minimum, at least as long as we're in their house. I don't want them coming home from visiting family to find that I've left a trail of slime in their living room."

"Of course not. I'll just have to bottle up all of my awe, I suppose."

“It’s probably for the best.” They fell into easy banter for the remainder of the short drive, though Arden’s attention was divided once they pulled into the sprawling subdivision on the west side of town. The wedding venue had been enough to convince her that the couple had great taste, but somehow she hadn’t expected their neighborhood to be quite so upscale. 

“Wow,” she whispered, unable to keep her eyes from traveling up to the shutters of the second-floor windows. They pulled into the driveway of a brick house that could have easily held twenty copies of her apartment. 

“Nice, huh?” 

“I don’t think a place this big could ever feel like home,” she admitted, removing the seatbelt. 

“They’re planning to do a lot of entertaining,” he told her by way of explanation. “Receptions, fundraisers, stuff like that. A lot of this is just for show.” Jaime slid a spare key into the deadbolt. 

“I mean, it’s gorgeous, but a little much for me.” 

“Me too. You’ve seen my house,” he joked wryly.

With the click of the lock, Arden suddenly felt like they were trespassing into something sacred. This was the couple's home. Their home together. 

Even as they crossed the threshold, her overactive mind was running wild, picturing what it would be like to be entering a home she shared with Jaime. She’d come home from work to find him sketching out project designs in the dining room. He’d smile up at her and -- 

STOP! She snapped down on her inner cheek to halt the progression of that particular train of thought. You can't just go in and pretend that this is your house. You certainly can't go in pretending that Jaime is your... anything -- other than a friend.

Looking for any possible excuse for a distraction, she cast an appreciative eye over the decor and wandered ahead so that Jaime couldn't see the war that was happening on her face. "Jaime! Have you seen the kitchen? They have shiplap on this wall! I think I'm in love." Oh. Poor choice of words.

Jaime didn’t seem to notice the slip. "You wanna take a quick tour before we go to the living room? The Sanbornes won't mind. I've been in and out of here for a lot of projects to get things ready for them to move in. I could show you some of my handiwork."

"If every room is as good as the kitchen, it's going to knock my socks off."

"You're not wearing socks."

"Then you'd better hope it's impressive enough to knock my shoes off."

"It is," he uttered with confidence. Arden followed him through the lower level of the house, wondering just when his assured cockiness had crossed the line from slightly annoying to devastatingly attractive. 

Arden, get a grip. This is Jaime. You need to calm down. But the mental pep talk wasn’t enough to quiet the pounding of her heart. 

"What do you think of the crown molding in here?" Jaime inquired, flicking on the lights to the study. 

"It's too much."

"Really? I think it's pretty classy, myself."

"Sure, it's classy, but can you imagine what it's like to clean that much decorative wood? You'd spend a full day of the week just going around with a ladder and a duster."

"So you don’t dislike the look, you're just too lazy for that kind of upkeep." It was a statement rather than a question. Arden showed him the tip of her tongue.

 I'll have to remember that.

"Why would you want to remember that?"she wondered aloud.

His cheeks heated under her curious eyes. "It just seems like a good thing to keep in mind." If we ever have a house together, I’d want to make sure you liked any changes I made. 

Why is he thinking that way too? The desire to bolt from the room coursed fire through her blood. Her only option was to pretend she hadn't heard the thought, but the state of her face was likely to have already given her away. "It's nice though," she choked out finally, uncertain whether the words would prove convincing. 

Jaime worked his jaw, but moved on to the hallway. "Being in other people's houses just always reminds me of the projects waiting for me at home. I need to refinish the hardwood floors in the living room."

"You've been talking about doing that for years. That and getting rid of that  wallpaper you hate in the dining room. And refinishing the entire guest bathroom. And tearing out that wall to open up the downstairs."

"What can I say?” The boyish charm in his brown eyes was enough to stutter her pulse. “I've got a lot of plans for improvement.”

"I don’t need much.” The words were out of her mouth before she’d had a chance to think them through. Mortified, took a gulp of air and added, “My apartment is all the home I need for now, especially with Jinx and Opie.” There was no way she was ceding that kind of ground to him this afternoon. Not when her mind was already set on betraying her into thinking that there was something more than friendship behind his every action.  

What do you want, Arden? How long are we going to keep playing these games?

Mouth dry, she stumbled over her question. “Should we get going with that mantlepiece? I don’t want to take up your whole day.”

Jaime’s gaze was pensive. “Sure,” he tried, “let’s head back to the living room.” She could have sworn she heard disappointment in his tone. 

That's just the emotions talking, she told herself. Those hedgehogs broke you with their cuteness.

But the hoglets, cute as they were, couldn’t explain why so many of their recent interactions had left her with uncertainty. No, Arden thought with a pinprick of realization, this is something WAY beyond hedgehogs. 

She wasn’t sure exactly what that something was yet, but she intended to figure it out. 

[merigreenleaf]

World Building June 2018 - Day 22, Work & Education

I wasn't sure how to answer this one because I've already mentioned the economy and trade in earlier prompts. A friend suggested talking about education and how apprenticeships work in Concordia, so I'll answer this that way. The world- or at least the main continent I'm writing-- doesn't really have mass-production. It's not that this wouldn't be an option because I'm sure they have the technology, but so much emphasis is put on crafting and creating things by hand that this is cornerstone of pretty much every culture/country. I'm going to focus on my main country of Concordia where trades are divided into nine different categories: the Artisans, The Tradespeople, the Merchants, the Healers, the Performers, the Protectorates, the Docents, the Growers, and the Laborers. I talked a little about each of these in the government prompt. Everyone's education starts with Concordia's schools; classes are taught either by docents or by people taught by the docents, and there's a standard curriculum that's taught throughout the country. Many people stay in these schools until they graduate at 17, but some of the trades involve apprenticeships or additional education.

Artisans: The Artisans are the people who have art magic. When their magic develops, usually between the ages of 11 and 14, they're picked by a master who has the same kind of magic. They stop going to the regular school so that they can focus on training their magic and art, and they move in with their master and the master's family for about seven years until they reach the end of their apprenticeship. Usually a master only has one apprentice at a time (although their spouse will usually have an apprentice at the same time), but a master could take on two if there weren't enough free masters to go around at that particular time in that particular field. When the master has judged the apprentice done with their studies, they'll gift the apprentice with enough money to last a year, assuming the apprentice is frugal. This is so the now-amateur can go wherever they need to go and devote all their time to working on their graduation project. When the year's up, the amateur goes to the guildhall in the capital city and presents this to the grand masters. Generally the GMs approve of this because the young artist was trained well enough to pass. If not, an extension is given-- all do eventually pass and become masters, some just take a little longer.

More info about the Artisans and the rest under the read more link!

At this point the artist is promoted to novice, which is full adult artist status that lasts a few years until they're ready to become masters. (Adair starts the series as an amateur and becomes a novice in book 2.) In the years of being a novice, the artist is expected to experiment with their magic and try new things, as well as find the two people who will become their muses (spouses); one is usually another artist and the other is always a sentinel-intended. At some point in here the trio is thrown into a test by the docents. The trio doesn't know when it's coming, just that it is, so that this way the three respond the way they would if it was an actual risk. The test-- called the Criterion-- is the thing that causes the triad link to form. Way back in the day a test wasn't needed because life being more dangerous was enough to attach a sentinel to two artists, but now they need that boost. The test mimics something dangerous or something with a choice, but in a controlled way. Most of the time the trio passes. Once in a while they just aren't as compatible as they thought they were, in which case they'd have to find someone else or work out any problems they have, then try again. Artists are really* good at following their hearts and picking right, though, so they pass far more often than needing a do-over; it also helps that an artist's magic calls out for the balance a triad grants, so this could possible also influence them towards finding people who are compatible. At this point they have their link and are masters, which means they can start taking on apprentices; this usually happens in their mid-to-late 20s and because of that need for balance and arcane stability, it tends to happen sooner rather than later. (Fun fact: the link doesn't always need a test to form. Sometimes life is dangerous enough and the choice big enough to make it spring up on its own. Adair has this happen.) Almost all masters stay masters. The only other rank is grand master, which are people selected by members of their particular kind of art/magic to represent them and take care of any technical things that the guild might have to do.

Tradespeople: I promise the rest of these blurbs are much shorter! Tradespeople are the crafters who don't have magic, but they do apprentice similarly to the Artisans. In their case, though, they continue with the regular schooling alongside the apprenticeship. This lasts until their teacher (master? I'm not sure if “master” is a term I'm using culture-wide or not) thinks that they're ready to work entirely on their own. They have their own graduation project thing going on, too, but it's not nearly as convoluted as the whole Artisan process because they finish it, it gets approved, they're done and can work as a master.

Merchants: Also go to school, although if anyone in this culture was going to home-school out of sheer pickiness, it would be someone in this group. They take special classes after school to learn about art and trade and things. These aren't taught one-on-one and is another classroom setting, but not standard across the board, so what they learn is going to be hit-or-miss based on their teacher.

Healers and Medics: Healers are the ones with magic, medics are the healers who don't have magic. These also have an outside-school extra school, but this is also the group where you're most likely to have adults learning because people sometimes come into being medics later in life. As they progress and stick with it, they'll get tutored under a licensed healer or medic, usually spending at least some time learning under the other. (Like a healer will learn a bit from a medic, and vice a versa.) Medics tend to be all-purpose while healers often specialize, so they'll learn the more advanced stuff under someone in the same field. Some healers do skip the school step, though, because their magic may already be obvious and strong or something they've been fiddling with on their own. In this case they'll get that personal tutor immediately. (This happened to Blythe who had been living outside of Concordia and playing around with the healing magic before learning how to use it.)

Performers: You join the carnival performers by showing up and auditioning so they know you're serious, but to be honest, they'll let anyone join even if they're not very good. They figure you can always learn from other carnies on the road and all they're really looking for is enthusiasm and a willingness to cooperate. Being a carny is a lot of sharing and working as a team: setting up stages, playing music for others, prepping meals, clean-up. It's one big family and if you're willing to be a part of this, you're welcome in there. They prefer people to join who are adults and generally the only people who are under age who would join a troupe would be in Silveridge because the troupe in the capital city doesn't travel. This way the kid can still go to school and live with their family or whatnot. For the traveling troupes, education to the kids of members is going to be done by other members of the troupe or their parents. They'd be following the same curriculum as the schools, but depending on if the parents like this idea or not, sometimes troupe members with kids will live in a city or town for at least part of the kid's education.

Protectorates: They're taught in the regular schools in Silveridge. Protectorate families will live in the city until their children are a certain age, then one of the parents will be on duty again. There's almost too much education here! The kids grow up learning the regular stuff in the city school, then learning about weapons and plants from the other Protectorates, then going to some of the same classes about art as the merchants do because the Protectorates guard art and artists and this makes them have to know what it is they're trading and selling. Once a Protectorate kid is old enough, they can join the Protectorates officially. Anyone is free to join, though, and they don't have to come from a family in here-- all that's required is the training and education.

Docents: Docents are the judges, the historians, the researchers, and they're picked, not a career choice. When they're near the end of their schooling, somewhere in their mid-teens, they're approached by a docent and asked if they want to become one. This is a huge honor and most would say yes, but they don't have to if they don't want to. Docents train for about a decade in their particular field. Some non-docents study alongside them once they age out of regular school-- these don't become docents, but tend to also become historians or research scholars, just at kind of a different level. Docents are a little... strange. (Fun fact that's probably a spoiler: it isn't actually a docent that selects new ones, but the Creator ghosts who have been observing the potential new-docent and in this case are using the docent's eyes and mouth to make their choice known. Docents know this and willingly serve as these eyes. They learn how to share their body without being overwhelmed, as well as learning telepathy, which they largely use to help with law because they can see the truth.

Growers/Farmers & Laborers: The growers are often retired Protectorates. There aren't a ton of people needed for this job because technology males it easier for less to do more. This was always the case and how Concordia was able to do so well even back in the beginning of their history. Like with trades or the medics, you can go into this because you're interested, and any education on this would run alongside the standard schooling. There isn’t much to say about the laborers (I still need a better word for that) because anyone who doesn’t fit into the other 8 categories would have the regular school education, then pick up whatever job they do along the way. 

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I'll get into Galanvoth and Montglace some other time because this is already ridiculously long and I still need to work out those countries anyway. If anyone has any questions, let me know! I’m honestly amazed if anyone read this whole thing, but it’s really good info for me to have so I’m really thankful for WBJ. :) 

Tagging my world building peoples. Let me know if you want on or off this world building list (I also have a separate list for short stories/moodboards if you’d want on that one) and please please feel free to tag me in any writing thing you share. I love seeing what people are working on! <3 @ageekyreader @lynnafred @worldbuildingwren @theguildedtypewriter @toboldlywrite @wchwriter @ghostsmooches @lady-redshield-writes @bluemartlet @reeseweston @dreameronthewind @forlornraven @pen-for-sword @homesteadhorner @shadow-maker @loopyhoopydrabbles @emptymanuscript @madmooninc

Day 1 (Intro to my writing/series) / Day 2 (Geography) / Day 3 (People) / Day 4 (History)/ Day 5 (Civilization & Architecture) / Bonus: Art Theft  / Day 6 (Gender & Sexuality) / Day 7 (Economy) / Day 8 (Government) / Day 9 (Religion) / Day 10 (Holidays) / Day 12 (Elementals) / Day 11, 13, 14 (Language, Plants, Food) / Day 15 (Technology) / Day 16 (Magic)  / Day 17 (Medicine) / Day 18 (Fashion) / Day 19 & 20 (War & Weapons) / Day 21 (Fun) / Day 23 (The Sky)