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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 3: The House Of Soup, Salad, And Breadsticks]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, Nintendo, smoking, kids, parenthood, all-you-can-eat breadsticks, wedding planning, mentions of birth trauma and abortion, a brief Greek lesson, Audi Quattros have very tiny back seats.

Word Count: 9k (someone take this laptop away from me!! I am out of control!!).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevirr @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1

Thank you so much for your patience and encouragement, I was really not doing well for a while but all your kind comments meant the world to me!!! I don't know when Chapter 4 will be ready, but hopefully early next week. My posting schedule is super wonky now. We'll get back to regular Sunday updates eventually, besties. 🥰🧁

It’s Thursday, late-morning, sunlight bending in through the open windows and a flock of blue-winged teals toddling through the backyard on their clumsy webbed feet. From the little pink Panasonic boombox pipes Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again. Your steps as you dart around the kitchen are airy and effortless; you’re humming without realizing that you are. You can’t seem to stop watching the clock, the second hand ticking endlessly, revolving like a moon around its planet. Olive Garden tonight! Olive Garden with Aemond!

“Knock knock?” your guest ventures tentatively as the front door creaks. You hear her heels click on the ever-so-slightly inclined floor and the bright jangling of keys and bracelets. Her accent does not surprise you; you were the one who answered the phone when she called in a panic yesterday.

Jade Dragon is a European company. I shouldn’t be shocked that Brits are descending upon Napoleonville.

You greet her from the kitchen, sight unseen: “Hi! Come on in!” Amir rushes over to set the very last cupcake on the glass serving tray, key lime with cream cheese frosting peppered with zest like flecks of emeralds. You have scrubbed the counter meticulously to make a space for your guest to do her cake tasting. There is an open wooden barstool for her, a yellow legal pad for you to jot down her selections. She steps into the kitchen—click click click, jangle jangle—and she is a stranger, surely, and yet something about her face strikes you as familiar.

“I really must thank you again,” the woman says, wringing her pinkish little hands, glittering with rings; she’s flushed all over from the heat, which she isn’t used to. She wears what for many women would be their Sunday Best: a modest organza dress patterned with sunflowers, gold jewelry and heels, and (oddly) a khaki overcoat that runs to her knees. Her hair hangs in thick, glossy, auburn waves. She smells like perfume, amber and roses, a brand you don’t recognize. “I was so distressed when I called, I must have sounded like a madwoman. It’s all just been so fraught. I know this is very last-minute, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you making time to see me today. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“We are delighted to help!” Amir croons warmly as he swoops in to take her coat, which she surrenders with some bewilderment, her large dark eyes clever but innately vulnerable, anxious. Again, you cannot shake the sense that you have met her before. Amir’s hands sweep down the overcoat as he peeks at the tag inside, and he mouths to you, grinning, eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses: Christian Dior! He’s delighted to help this lady, sure; but he’s far more enthusiastic about the prospect of squirreling away more cash for his imminent exodus to San Francisco. Amir hangs the coat in the tiny living room closet and then goes to the stovetop to check on the Kentucky butter cookies that are cooling there.

“Amir and I love baking for any occasion related to a wedding. Everyone is cheerful and excited…and hungry too, of course!” You give your guest a reassuring smile and wave her over to the counter. She’s still tormenting her own hands, still glancing uncertainly around the kitchen. Amir is using a spatula to transfer the cookies from the baking sheet to a cake plate. “Remind me, ma’am, on the phone you said your name was…Allison?”

“Alicent,” she corrects, taking a seat on the barstool beside you and clutching a camel-colored leather purse. She hesitates before she adds: “Targaryen.”

Targaryen?! Jade Dragon?! You gawk at her. Amir drops a Kentucky butter cookie on the floor. You exchange a glance with him and can practically see the bills flitting through his mind: Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin.

“Please don’t make any fuss on my account,” Alicent pleads with those sleek, imploring eyes. “I’m just a customer, just an ordinary customer—”

“A VIP customer!” Amir says, beaming. He won’t work on their rigs, but he’ll take their money in a heartbeat. He considers it compensation for the inevitable environmental catastrophe, for the souls of all the places their dynasty bleeds dry.

“Ma’am…Alicent…Mrs. Targaryen…” you sputter. “What on earth brought you here?”

“My son is getting married.” She squeezes her eyes shut, an infinitesimal frustration, a self-reproach. “Our son, I mean. Viserys and I, our son is getting married, and we’re hosting an engagement party for him and his fiancée this Saturday, as I mentioned when I called. We had arranged to have caterers fly in, but now there’s some sort of visa problem and they won’t be able to make it in time. I found a company based out of New Orleans that is very well thought of for hors d’oeuvre and lunch, but the cakes I sampled…well…they left a lot to be desired. I was desperate, I tell you, utterly bereft, you know we have family and friends and all these industry representatives who will be in attendance, photographers, journalists, and I can’t ruin it, I can’t embarrass the happy couple, it’s not as if people get more than one chance at a wedding!”

Amir rolls his eyes at you from across the kitchen. Listen to this idiot, he means.

“But then I asked around town, and I got the same recommendation over and over again,” Alicent tells you, smiling now. “Everyone said that I just had to stop by Hummingbird Bakery.”

And now you know exactly where you recognize her from. She looks so much like the drunk man from the holding cell; his hair was blonde and his eyes were that sad swirling blue, but nonetheless he was a Targaryen the same as Alicent, and they share so much of the same bones, blood, innate defenselessness. That boy is getting married? His poor goddamn bride. “Well I am thrilled that you found your way to us, Mrs. Alicent Targaryen. And I think you’ll taste at least a few cakes that you’d be proud to serve at the engagement party.”

“And you can have them ready by Saturday?” Alicent asks fretfully.

“Absolutely.” You won’t sleep much between now and then, but the business matters more. And if you can recruit the Targaryens and some of their associates as regular customers…well, you might actually be able to start saving up for that new house Aemond asked you about on the night you met. You gesture to the glass tray on the counter. “Amir and I have baked twelve cupcakes for you to sample today. I’ll write up a list of the flavors you like best, and we can make any customizations. You can choose one flavor and have multiple cakes made, or four cakes in four different flavors, or any other arrangement, you just let me know and we’ll see that your wishes are granted.”

“These are all for me?!” Alicent says, surveying the cupcakes.

“Yes ma’am. Vanilla bean, triple chocolate, coconut, red velvet, carrot, white chocolate raspberry, key lime, lemon, peanut brittle, cherry chocolate chip, blueberry jam and cream cheese, and hummingbird. But don’t get overwhelmed, you only have to eat one bite of each.”

“And whatever you don’t finish we’ll let Cadi throw to the gator,” Amir says.

“Gator?” Alicent is alarmed.

“She lives in the tree row,” you explain. “She doesn’t bother anyone.” And you almost add: Except Aemond, of course. He hates her.

“Oh. Fascinating.” Alicent blinks a few times. “And who is Cadi?”

“My daughter. She’s ten, she’s at school. She’s…” You glance at the clock. “Learning about fractions and decimals at the moment.”

“How wonderful! And what does your husband do for work?”

“Terrorism,” Amir says, and Alicent Targaryen’s jaw drops.

“He’s the sheriff of Assumption Parish,” you swiftly amend. “But he’s my ex-husband now.”

Alicent doesn’t know how to reply. She stares at the cupcakes instead of at you. After several long, awkward seconds, she says: “My, do these look delicious! Where should I start?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“This one is hummingbird cake, you said?” She picks it up. Her hands are fidgety; she doesn’t seem to ever stop moving. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Did you name the bakery after it, or did you name the cake after the bakery?”

“Oh no, the cake existed first. It’s been popular around here since…what, Amir? The 60s? Something like that. My mom taught me how to make it when I was seventeen. Hummingbird cake was my favorite dessert for years.”

“It’s from Jamaica originally,” Amir notes. The Kentucky butter cookies are displayed on the kitchen table, and now he’s beginning to peel vivid green Granny Smith apples for dumplings.

“It has bananas, pineapple, cinnamon, pecans…”

“Mmm!” Alicent sighs as she takes a bite. “Oh, it’s fantastic! The different fruits add such dimension of flavor! And the texture too, so interesting. Very substantial, almost like a fruitcake. Yes, I think that is a strong contender.” She continues on to the next cupcake. As she nibbles on each one, she chats nervously, almost compulsively. “She’s a darling girl. Woman, I mean. My future daughter-in-law.”

You get up to pour Alicent a glass of sweet tea. “What’s her name?” you ask politely. You are actively trying not to let your thoughts drift to Olive Garden: soup, salad, breadsticks, Aemond licking blood-red marinara sauce from his lips as he smirks at you from across the table, acting like he doesn’t want to be there.

“Christabel.” Alicent sets down the carrot cupcake, opens her purse, and digs through her wallet for a photograph. It’s small and rectangular, and the girl trapped inside the frame—a girl, truly, if she’s twenty you’ll eat your white denim shorts—looks like Teri Copley: billowing platinum hair, squarish jaw, pink cheeks and red lips, large dollish blue eyes. She reminds you of Barbie; she reminds you of something that belongs in a box on a shelf somewhere. “Her father is a marquess.”

“She’s gorgeous! And is that…is that a job…?”

“It’s a title,” Alicent Targaryen says with a demure, apologetic smile as she tucks the photo back into her wallet. She has spoken of things she should have known were above you. “Like a duke or a baron. Christabel is from a noble family back in the United Kingdom. Milford Haven, more specifically.”

Amir gasps, elated, waving his paring knife around in the air. “She’s just like Princess Diana!”

“She’s very young,” Alicent says, a bit wearily. She takes a bite of the lemon cupcake. “But then again, I was even younger when I got married, seventeen. That’s just the way it was back then. None of my friends even thought of going off to school for years and years, or playing the field, or getting a serious job. In our eyes, there were no other options. You found a good man from an acceptable family and you settled down and started having babies.” Alicent sips her sweet tea, ice jangling in the frosted glass. “Oh, that’s dreadful! Cold tea!” She shudders. “I suppose that’s how you all keep from getting heatstroke down here. Cold drinks and no clothes.”

“Sorry.” You glance self-consciously down at your shorts.

“No no, it’s quite alright. I’m in your jungle, I can’t expect you to conform to my idiosyncrasies.” This is a word you don’t know, although you try not to show it. Then Alicent winks. “Now, if you ever find yourself across the pond…”

I’ll never visit another country. Nevertheless, you chuckle as Alicent expects you to. “I understand what you mean about not having options. I got married at seventeen too.”

“Did you?” she asks, somber now. Her large umber eyes are uneasy, searching.

“Yeah. I was way too young. And unfortunately, the only way to know you’re too young is to not be young anymore. And by then you’ve already made such a mess of things.”

Amir looks over at you; this is not recruiting-a-customer conversation. Alicent nods, slow and thoughtful, studying you with those vast eyes like a dark mirror image of that Targaryen boy in the holding cell. She nibbles on the peanut brittle cupcake to avoid having to respond.

You pivot. “How many children do you have?”

Now Alicent brightens. “Four.”

“That many! I can’t even imagine. They must bring you so much joy.”

“In between the chaos, yes,” Alicent says, sampling the key lime cupcake. “Daeron is my youngest, he’s so sweet-natured, so encouraging, always offering to help with my projects around the house. He never complains. He hasn’t been gobbled up by the company yet. My only criticism is his obsession with his godawful parrot. I’d have it murdered, but tragically Daeron already knows it’s supposed to live 50 years. Helaena reads a lot—about gardens and insects and other planets, all sorts of things I can’t make heads or tails of—but she’s kind and gentle, and she still lets me fix her hair and take her shopping once in a while.” You think, smiling: If I tried to touch Cadi’s hair, I think she’d claw my face off. “And then my son who’s getting married—”

The front door bangs open and heavy footsteps race across the floor. He appears in the kitchen: greased-back black hair, a single gold earring, tan skin, white suit, a bold Hawaiian shirt—sapphire blue water, green palm trees, hot pink flamingos—underneath. He’s breathing heavily and his forehead gleams with perspiration. Alicent appears stunned to see him.

“Criston? What’s wrong? I said you could wait in the Lexus.”

Amir asks the man: “You’ve been in the car this whole time?”

“Don’t feel too bad for me. The Lexus has air conditioning.” The man, Criston, turns back to Alicent. “There’s a lizard out there!”

Amir sighs impatiently. “It’s a gator. And she’s perfectly harmless.”

“I just watched her maul a duck to death! There’s blood all over the grass!”

Amir is unfazed. “To humans, I mean.” He resumes peeling apples.

You tell Amir glumly: “I might have to get Willis to shoot her.”

“Only if it’s a murder-suicide.”

“Criston, help me choose,” Alicent says. She has a gift for ignoring unpleasantness, you’re beginning to notice. “I suddenly feel so overwhelmed.”

He walks over to the counter and begins taking a hefty bite out of each cupcake, eating after Alicent without any trepidation. They confer in murmurs, nods, shrugs, their own language that is threaded with a distinct and curious familiarity. Alicent catches you observing.

“He’s my bodyguard,” she explains hastily, then titters. “And my personal assistant, and my driver…”

“And your babysitter,” Criston says, grinning, crumbs all over his face.

“Yes, they never seem to outgrow the need for that, do they?” Then Alicent addresses you. “Could you manage to have six cakes ready by Saturday, do you think? They’re all so lovely. I don’t think I can narrow it down to less than that.”

Amir casts you a petrified glance. Notwithstanding that, you reply: “I suppose we can handle six.”

“Brilliant.” And you think: Aemond uses that word a lot too. “Then we’d like one vanilla, one chocolate, one blueberry, one coconut, and one hummingbird. And a key lime. I just adore the color, don’t you? A gorgeous, vivid green. It reminds me of the moors back home.”

“Yes ma’am.” You scribble her order down on your legal pad.

“And how much do your cakes cost?”

“$10 each,” Amir tells her.

“$10!” Alicent exclaims, looking at Criston. “Can you believe that? We’re certainly not in Knightsbridge anymore.” She takes $60 out of her wallet and hands it to you. “And you can deliver it to the house if I leave you an address? Around noon on Saturday?”

“Of course, no problem.”

Alicent gives you an address to add to your notes—you don’t recognize the street name, it must be in a new development—and then checks the clock on the wall. “Oh, is that right?! Christabel will be landing at the airport any minute. I’ve got to rush back to the house to make sure everything is ready for her. I can’t be a subpar host.”

“Where’s your coat, Ali?” Criston asks.

“In that closet over there.”

Criston fetches her coat and drapes it over her shoulders. Amir flashes you a salacious smirk. You wiggle your eyebrows back.

As Alicent and Criston cross the kitchen towards the living room and the front door, they pause by the table where an assortment of baked goods, different every day, is displayed for walk-in customers. Criston points to a cake plate piled high with Rice Krispie Treats. “You know who likes those,” he says softly.

“They’re very popular!” Amir announces, ever the salesman. “And we can make them with any kind of cereal you could imagine. Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Flakes, Cocoa Puffs…”

Alicent says, a bit randomly: “Cap’n Crunch?”

Amir doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely!”

“Alright.” She has a faraway look in those dark oil-drop eyes, always a little shimmery, always a little sad. “I’ll take two dozen of those as well.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” you say.

“Thank you. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you echo, perplexed.

Criston and Alicent depart. You hear the front door swing open and then close again. Outside, Criston reminds Alicent to leave plenty of space between her and the gator. An engine rumbles and gravel crunches as the Lexus rolls out of the driveway.

“If they’re not fucking, I’m Tom Cruise,” Amir says. “Speaking of fucking, what time is Scarface coming to pick you up?”

“5:15.” You nod to where Alicent was sitting. “She’s not bad for a robber baron.”

“Oh, please. She would grind your bones into flour if that’s what it took to have cakes ready for her child bride engagement party. I hope that Christabel girl knows what she’s getting into.”

What is she, eighteen? Nineteen? “She doesn’t.” The phone rings and you scramble for it. “Hello?!”

It’s not Aemond. “Hey, sugar.”

Ugh. “Hi, Willis.” Across the kitchen, Amir mimes slitting his own wrists with the paring knife.

“Listen,” Willis drawls in his familiar, I’m-about-to-deliver-bad-news tone. You can hear noise wherever he is: sirens, shouting. He must be using his car phone. “I’m all tied up down here on Route 90, we got a hell of a wreck, ten cars and an 18-wheeler. Had to close all the goddamn lanes in both directions. I don’t think I’m gonna get home until late, really late, maybe not ‘til 9 or 10.”

“So you have to switch nights. You can’t pick Cadi up from school.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, will ya? And that I’ll take her fishin’ this weekend to make it up to her. I’ll keep her Saturday and Sunday, if that works for you.”

“She’ll love that,” you say distractedly. No Olive Garden. No Aemond. Not tonight, anyway. “Anything outside and with animals. Anything that lets her get filthy.”

“Thanks for understandin’. I gotta run.”

“Bye.”

“So long, sugar.” Willis hangs up. So do you.

“Oh no!” Amir waves his knife around threateningly. “No, not a chance, that gremlin does not get to ruin the first real date you’ve had in…what…ever?!”

You smile; you can’t help it. “It’s not a date. Aemond is fancy and kinky, I’m a mom covered in frosting, people like us don’t date. Besides, his personal ad was very clear: Single and not looking to change that.”

“He’s not acting very single.” Amir begins chopping the peeled apples.

“It’s fine. It happens. We can go to Olive Garden some other time. I’ll try to call Aemond, and if he doesn’t answer I’ll tell him when he gets here. Maybe we can at least chat on the front porch for a while or something. Watch the lightning bugs come out as it gets dark.”

“I’ll hang out here with Cadi,” Amir offers.

“What? Really?” Olive Garden might be back on the menu! “You will?”

“Yeah, ho. I can’t in good conscience just stand by while you are deprived of traumatized war veteran dick. I need a break from Grandma anyway. She’s gotten really into Unsolved Mysteries and that shit gives me the creeps. I don’t want to hear about missing or murdered people. I’m already scared I might end up like that.”

“I’d find you. I’d rescue you. My and my pet gator.”

Amir laughs, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Sure you would.”

“I’ll give you $10 out of my share of the bakery profits this week. For watching Cadi, I mean.”

“Deal,” he says. “Now help me with these dumplings so we can get started on those six cakes for the motherfucking Rockefellers.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s 5:13 p.m. when Aemond arrives at what Cadi named the Fall-Down House when she was in kindergarten, toting in her Chewbacca backpack sheets of homework about shapes and seasons, things you could help her with. You wonder what you’ll say when she gets to her senior year of high school and starts asking about calculus, physics, Shakespeare, college applications. It’ll be like she’s trying to talk to you in a foreign language. It’ll be like trying to explain colors to a blind man.

You’re almost done wiping down the stove and counter; Amir and Cadi are singing along and dancing to Kyrie by Mr. Mister: the Moonwalk, the Electric Slide, the Wop, the Sprinkler. Aemond wanders in and hovers on the border between the living room and the kitchen, his neon teal duffle bag hanging from one shoulder, staring with this profound, childlike puzzlement on his face. He looks like he’s never seen people dancing before; it’s some exotic ritual, some rite of a religion he doesn’t practice. He wears dark jeans, a black button-up shirt, black Converses, and his trusty Marlboro jacket. His fists are buried deep in the pockets like he’s holding something precious there, treasure, wisdom, secrets.

“Wassup, Scarface?!” Amir yells over the music, pretending to be reeling Aemond in like a fish. “Show us your best moves! Do the Worm! Do the Robocop!”

Aemond raises an eyebrow, drops his duffle bag, and—after a moment’s hesitation—glides across the tilted wooden floor to you. He takes your hands, spins you around, something like a clumsy, out-of-practice waltz, something real and enchanting beyond measure. And when was the last time you really danced with a man? Willis’ senior prom? Aemond sings as Amir and Cadi do the Running Man:

“Kyrie eleison down the road that I must travel,

Kyrie eleison through the darkness of the night,

Kyrie eleison where I’m going, will you follow?

Kyrie eleison on a highway in the night…”

Aemond releases you, sweeps his blonde hair off his forehead, and guzzles your frosty glass of sweet tea that you left on the counter in an expanding pool of condensation. You are reminded of how Criston devoured the cupcakes with no concern for the fact that Alicent had already tasted them.

“Such a weird song,” Cadi says as it fades out, as the cicadas and nighthawks grow louder through the screens of the open windows. “What the heck is a kyrie eleison?”

“It means Lord have mercy,” Aemond tells her. “It’s Greek.”

“Willis got stuck cleaning up an accident about a half hour south of here,” you explain. “But Amir and Cadi are going to have some nice couch potato time together.”

“Can we watch Unsolved Mysteries?” Cadi asks Amir excitedly, clinging to his arm. Amir groans.

“I might have an alternative,” Aemond says. He returns to his duffle bag, unzips it, and produces—not blue silk scarves, fuzzy handcuffs, a riding crop, or any other tokens of depravity—but a Nintendo game console.

Cadi screams and sprints to Aemond, unable to rip it out of his hands fast enough. “No way! Really?! I can play it?!”

“You can keep it.”

“What?!” She ogles the tannish rectangular box, the two handheld controllers. “This is the most epic day of my life!”

“I’m glad I could deliver it in person. I was just going to leave it with your mum.” Aemond starts taking cartridges out of the duffle bag. “I have Commando, Super Mario Bros., Star Force, the Karate Kid, Kung Fu, Burger Time, Donkey Kong and Donkey Kong 3, Alpha Mission, the Legend of Zelda, and Golf, which I honestly would not recommend. I used to have Top Gun too, but my brother spilled Tang all over it.”

“This is better than Christmas!” Cadi shrieks. “This is better than my birthday!” She dashes to Amir and starts hauling him off towards her room. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

“I’m being kidnapped,” he tells you, feigning distress.

“Cadi, chill. Do you know how to hook that up to your tv?”

She reluctantly surrenders Amir’s hand. “Yeah, Michelle has one.”

“Okay. You can get it ready, I have to talk to Amir for a sec.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, and vanishes into her bedroom with the Nintendo and a precarious armful of game cartridges.

“Thank you,” you tell Amir quietly. “Seriously. I know I owe you.”

He grins. “Anytime. You’re helping to pay my way to San Fransisco, I really can’t complain.”

Aemond perks up. “You’re visiting San Fran?”

“I’m moving there,” Amir says. “And as soon as humanly possible! Sun, sand, and Speedos, here I come! Why? Have you been?”

“I have, actually. It’s a great city.”

You turn to Aemond; this is new information. “Did you go to school there?”

“No, I went to Imperial College in London. But I flew to San Franscisco to interview someone I was writing a term paper about.”

Amir squints at him. “Imperial paid for you to fly across the world for one interview?”

Aemond shrugs, hands back in his jacket pockets. “I got, uh, a research stipend.”

You ask: “Who did you interview?”

“I don’t think you’d recognize the name, but he was a really incredible guy. He was a nurse and the first person to ever come out publicly as having AIDS. Then he spent the rest of his life educating people about the disease. Bobbi—”

“Bobbi Campbell?!” Amir is awed. “Of course I know who he is! You actually met Bobbi Campbell?!”

“Yeah, we had lunch together. Wine and cioppino. His partner was there too.” Aemond is somber, reflective. “It’s probably the most worthwhile thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well you just get better and better, don’t you, big boy?” Amir says. “Have fun at Olive Garden. Don’t hurry home or anything.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You are beaming, serene, warm all over, bewitched by the magic of liminal spaces, doorways between realities that rarely touch. Frank Sinatra—Fly Me To The Moon—floats through the restaurant speakers. The table is cluttered with plates and bowls: breadsticks, salad wet with Italian dressing, zuppa toscana, minestrone, main courses. Families in nearby booths are chattering; wine glasses clink, stories are recalled. You always wonder when you see cheerful married couples surrounded by children: Are they really happy? Is it worth it? Or do they go home after these displays of fairytale adoration and ignore each other, argue, brawl, crack open the Bud Lights, crack knuckles, crack bones like glass? Does true love exist at all? Or is it a lie we’re taught so the species can live on? “I’m in Italy.”

“You’re not in Italy, Cupcake. You’re in Gonzales, Louisiana. I can glance out the window and see a Doller General and a Burger King.”

“I’m basically in Italy.” You gesture to your plate, large and oval-shaped. Your entrée is divided into thirds: chicken parmesan, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo. “I got the Tour of Italy. I’m now an expert in all things Italian.”

Aemond smiles at you, the way he usually does: amused, teasing, craving. “In Italy, the pasta is always al dente. And they use very little sauce, not like here where everything is drowning in it.”

“I personally love my ocean of sauce.”

“And in Italy the bread is served plain. No butter, no olive oil, no…” He scrutinizes a breadstick. “Whatever this is. Assorted soy products, probably.”

“Don’t ruin my dinner or I’ll tie you up next time.”

Aemond laughs: crinkles around his eyes, pure boyish radiance. “Go ahead. I dare you.” He eats a bite of his herb-grilled salmon. “I looked into your Saint Honoratus of Amiens. He’s the patron saint of bakers.”

You roll your eyes like this is obvious. You like knowing something Aemond doesn’t, Aemond with his vocabulary and his high-powered career and his petroleum engineering degree from Imperial College in London, England, a place you have never seen and never will, a city that might as well be located on one of Saturn’s rings. “Yeah, clearly.”

But you never feel like the clever one for long. “And of oil refiners.”

“Is he really?”

Aemond grins. “Yeah. So we’ll have to share him.”

“Did you ever think about doing something besides engineering?” You already know the answer. You saw it in the way he talked about Bobbi Campbell.

“I did,” Aemond admits. “The engineering thing…it was expected of me. It wasn’t really my choice. It’s fine, I’m okay with my job, I’ve come to terms with it. But when I was a kid, I wanted to be a historian.”

“People get paid for that? To study history?”

“Not a lot. But I love the stories. When I was at Imperial, I’d fill every extra space in my schedule with history and anthropology courses. I interviewed Bobbi for my Microhistory class.”

“Micro…history? Tiny history…?”

“You learn everything there is to know about one individual, or one town, or one product, whatever, and through it you can get a better sense of the bigger picture. Like…you could catalogue what specific pieces of furniture were in George Washington’s house to study 18th-century trade routes.”

“Or you could use Ketchikan, Alaska as an example of the dangers of oil rigs and the corrupt, greedy company policies of modern-day robber barons.”

Aemond stares at you. “Yeah. Sure. You get it.” He wastes no time changing the subject. “Where did you go to college?”

“College?” This is preposterous. “Aemond, I never finished high school.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” you say. “I dropped out. I don’t have a high school diploma. I definitely didn’t go to college.”

He’s utterly bewildered. “But…you aren’t stupid.”

“Yes, Aemond, a lot of not-stupid people don’t go to college. And I’d imagine the opposite is true as well.”

He sighs, long and deep, rubbing his scarred forehead with his fingertips. “I’m sorry. I could have worded that more sensitively.”

“Willis is a year older than me. I got pregnant the night of his senior prom. I never went back after summer break. I figured…you know…what was the point? I didn’t need Calculus or World History. I needed money. I needed baby clothes and a crib and a car. And my high school wouldn’t have let me in anyway.”

Now Aemond glares, though his wrath isn’t for you. “They kicked out pregnant girls?”

You smile wryly, chomping on a breadstick wet with marinara sauce. “They still do. They have to make cautionary tales out of us. The weak and the lustful.”

“Well then how the fuck is someone like you supposed to provide for yourself?”

“By marrying whoever got us pregnant and never leaving them.”

“Medieval,” he snaps. He stabs at his salmon, loses his appetite, slams the fork down on the plate. The waitress had just been approaching to ask about dessert; she does a 180 and vanishes again.

“Aemond,” you say gently. I don’t want to ruin tonight. “Please don’t be angry.”

“There are specific things that make me angry.” He rests his chin on his knuckles and peers out the window. Seconds tick by; Frank Sinatra sings about New York, another city you’ll never visit. Then Aemond looks at you again. “What is it like to be a parent?” he says, in the same reverent and mystified tone that someone might use to ask what it was like to flatline on an operating table before being brought back to life. Did you get a glimpse of the gates of Heaven? Did you feel the heat of Hell?

“I can only tell you how it feels to me.” You are wistful; you are painfully honest. You’ve never told anyone this before. No one has ever asked. “It’s…wonderful, and terrifying, and exhausting. You love them more than anything, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get tired, irritated, impatient, resentful. One minute you’re laughing hysterically with them, the next you’re begging them to go to sleep so you can have a half hour to yourself, or just ten minutes, or just five. And then as soon as they’re gone you miss them. You’re too strict or too lenient, never just right. You sacrifice—money, time, your body, your soul—but it’s never enough. You accidentally hurt their feelings and then tie yourself in knots to fix it, but you can never show them when you’re sad, or frustrated, or afraid. They can be so sweet and then so inadvertently cruel. They’re too young to understand that they’re being ungrateful. They ask you questions you don’t want to answer. They’re your reason for living, they’re a burden, they’re the best thing that ever happened to you, they’re your closest friend, they’ve trapped you somewhere you don’t want to be. There are all these emotions that come in waves, they go around and around and never stop. It’s like a tire spinning in mud.”

Aemond considers you for a long time before he speaks. “I think you’re doing a good job. Cadi seems happy. She’s…uh…spirited. But happy.”

“She’s a little wild, but that’s my fault. We grew up together. I didn’t draw many lines, and now it’s too late. And she’s getting old enough to notice things she didn’t see before. Most of her friends’ parents are still married. They might not be in love, but she doesn’t understand that part yet. What she understands is that we’re broke and her dad lives in a different house, and I’m the one who made that happen.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Aemond insists. He starts to reach across the table for your hands, then stops, reconsiders, grabs his duffle bag that’s squeezed next to him in the booth instead. He unzips the small pocket on the side and pulls out a toothbrush, a travel-sized tube of Crest, and a miniature bottle of Listermint. “I’m going to go brush my teeth in the bathroom, and then I’m going to fuck you in the back of my car. Okay?”

Your smile has returned. The magic has too. “Okay. You don’t want dessert?”

“I don’t need tiramisu. I already have a Cupcake. Unless…do you want tiramisu…?”

“No, I don’t like coffee.”

“I think they have other things too, cannoli, cheesecake…”

“Aemond,” you say. “I want to leave now.”

“Got it.” He leaves $30 for the waitress on the table—he always pays with cash, you notice—and bolts for the bathroom. Fortunately, you’d had the same thought; shortly before Aemond arrived at the house two hours ago, you’d packed your pink toothbrush and a tube of Ultra Brite in your Valerie Barad rainbow purse…just in case. By the time you get back to the table, Aemond is waiting and looking uncharacteristically anxious: biting his lower lip, clasping his hands together behind his back. He’s relieved when he spots you. “I thought you might have ditched me.”

“What, and walked 25 miles home?”

“Forget it. Let’s go.” And he shoves his hands into the pockets of his Marlboro jacket before he can reveal any more of himself with them.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re flying down Route 70 with all the windows down, warm twilight wind flooding through the gaps between your fingers, centuries-old southern live oaks and flowering dogwoods passing by in a blur, an Eddie Money tape in the Audi Quattro’s cassette deck. Under the bridges you cross, brackish bayou water ripples lazily, thick with cypress trees, duckweed, spider lilies, salvinia, wading great egrets and lurking alligators. The seats are tan leather and spotless. Aemond rests a palm on your bare thigh, just below the hem of your shorts. His blonde hair whips in the breeze. From the passenger seat, you can only see the right side of his face, the unscarred side. It’s almost like he’s whole again. He puffs on a Marlboro Red, smoke escaping through the open windows, tobacco and tar and nicotine, chemicals and earth.

“We better stop before we get into Assumption Parish,” you tease. “You don’t want one of Willis’ deputies to stumble upon us.”

But Aemond is particular; he wants the perfect spot. Just a mile before Ascension Parish gives way to Assumption, he finds an overgrown dirt pull-off used for fishing. He parks the Quattro just out of sight of the highway, rolls up the automatic windows, blasts the icy air conditioning.

“Get in the back,” he orders, unclicking his seatbelt. The intro of Take Me Home Tonight thunders through the speakers. You obey, climbing into the (very not-spacious) back seat. Just seconds later, Aemond follows.

You giggle when he pulls you into his lap to straddle him. As you toss away his Marlboro jacket and unbutton his shirt, Aemond yanks off your orange tank top, unhooks your bra, accidentally breaks the tab of the zipper off your white denim shorts with his strong, frantic hands. He needs you; he needs you all the time, everywhere, and he’ll never get enough. He’s kissing you deeply, roughly, nipping at your lips and tongue, breathing his smoke into you. His fingers slip into your shorts and under the silk that you bought for him, blue like his eyes, blue like the sky before heavy rain. You’re moaning, grinding, impatient; he’s helping you shimmy out of your shorts, he’s tugging down his jeans. And now you realize that he wants you to stay on top. “Aemond, no, I’m not good at it…”

“Shut up. You’re good at everything.”

That’s a lie, you know it is; still, Aemond makes you believe it. He grabs your hips and shows you exactly how to move them, and soon the rhythm feels effortless, soon you are wet and relaxed enough for him. At the last minute, he gets a condom from the pocket of his jeans, rips it open, and rolls it on. And again, you are struck by a strange but unmistakable disappointment that you cannot have all of him, that you cannot experience what it’s like to be as close to him as humanly possible, this man that you hardly know, this body that unleashes ecstasy in yours.

It’s quick: your arms linked around the back of his neck, Aemond kissing your throat and the slope of your jaw, his hands and murmurs guiding you, delicious fullness and friction. You’re amazed when he comes—I made that happen?? I did that??—and a tidal wave of extraordinary pride, lust, power surges through you. Aemond helps you finish with his fingers, only a few vigorous strokes, and then he drags you down onto the Quattro’s back seat with him.

“Careful,” you say as you lie on top of Aemond’s chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, goosebumps springing up in the chill of the air conditioning. You’re all tangled up in each other; there’s no room to get away. “You’re not going to be able to get rid of me.”

“I’ll accept the risk.” The last rays of sunlight fall across his damp skin, turning him to amber, tiger’s eye, gold. “What happened when you had Cadi?”

You turn your face to look at him. “Huh?”

“You said you were unconscious for a few days after she was born.”

“I told you that?”

“Yeah. The first night I came over. And you’ve been on the pill ever since. You never wanted more kids?”

“No,” you say quietly. “No, I didn’t. I still don’t.”

“So something happened.”

“It’s not a cute story. It’s not sexy.”

“I’ve surmised that.” Another word you don’t know.

“I don’t really ever talk about it.”

“Because you don’t want to, or because people don’t ask?”

You’re amazed by how much he sees, like you’re a clean window, like your skin and skull are made of glass. “My water broke and I went into labor, but I wasn’t progressing fast enough,” you tell Aemond. “I mean, the nurses told me I wasn’t progressing. I didn’t really understand what that meant. It felt like something was happening. There was a lot of pain and pressure, and it was intense, definitely, but it was bearable, I still felt like myself. I was actually really proud of how calm I was. But I guess it wasn’t enough. So the doctor started me on something called Pitocin, and then the contractions weren’t bearable anymore. They were…I can’t even describe it. It was like this bone-breaking twisting, but also sharpness, razor sharpness. I imagined knots of barbed wire. It’s the only thing I could compare it to. And I wasn’t in control anymore. I wasn’t myself at all. I was this animal being trapped, being tortured, and there was no break between the contractions, they happened over and over and over again, one right after the other, and it went on for hours. I kept telling everyone that I couldn’t do it. I needed an epidural, laughing gas, pills, anything. I was begging them to knock me out. I was trying to rip the IV with the Pitocin out of my hand. But no one listened. The nurses acted like I was being dramatic. Women have babies every single day all over the world, why couldn’t I just shut up and deal with it? My mom was around, but she had pretty straightforward births, and I don’t think she could comprehend what it was like. Willis told me I was doing a good job. That’s all he could say: Good job, sugar, you’re doin’ just fine, sugar. But I didn’t want mindless encouragement. I wanted somebody to help me. I thought I was dying.”

Aemond’s hand smooths your hair. He’s watching you closely.

“When Cadi…when she was finally born, I wasn’t excited to hold her. I didn’t even care. I was just relieved the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. I told my mom to take her. I could hear the baby crying, and I remember thinking: Who is that? I almost died for that? I felt nothing for her, absolutely nothing. And then I heard…it sounded like someone had turned a sink on, because there was water running. But then the nurses were yelling and the doctor rushed back into the room. I was hemorrhaging, and it wasn’t water that I’d heard, it was blood, my blood, gushing all over the floor. I passed out and I needed transfusions and I woke up three days later. The very first thing a nurse said was that she was so happy to tell me that they’d been able to stop the bleeding without doing a hysterectomy, so I’d be able to have more children. Can you believe that? It was like I didn’t exist. I was just a vessel. As if I wanted to go through that again. No, never, no thank you. I got attached to Cadi, but it took months. Obviously, now I love her. But I was empty for a long time. Just empty, and sad, and in pain, and hopeless.”

“And your useless fucking husband named the baby you almost bled to death having.”

“He didn’t mean for it to be hurtful,” you say. “He thought he was helping. And it’s a hell of a name, I have to admit it. Arcadia Dove, like a Star Wars character or a superhero. It suits her.”

But still: Aemond shakes his head, incredulous, outraged on behalf of your long-gone teenage self. “When you found out you were pregnant, did you ever consider…you know…not having it?”

You give him a small, guilty smirk. What kind of mother could admit this? “Yeah. Yeah, I did. That was my plan, actually. I called a clinic in New Orleans and made an appointment. Cleared out every penny of my savings to pay for it. Cheaper than a life sentence, right? Amir offered to go with me, but neither of us had a car or a license, and I could never let my mom know. So I asked Willis.”

“And he wouldn’t drive you.”

Worse. “He told me that if I went, I’d be a murderer.”

Aemond jolts upright, furious. “He actually said that to you?”

“Aemond—”

“No, hold on, he actually said that?! He said that you could drop out of high school, you could throw all your dreams out the window, you could become a mum at fucking seventeen years old and marry some guy you barely knew, and if you wanted a way out that would make you a murderer?!”

You offer weakly: “Willis is really, really Catholic. A lot of people down here are, and—”

“He’s a coward, that’s what he is. He was willing to sacrifice your future to soothe his conscience. His life didn’t change. Yours did.”

“I love Cadi. I don’t regret her.”

“But you should have had a choice.”

You study Aemond: his glinting right eye, the deep stormy furrows in his brow. “Why are you so angry?”

“Because you deserved better. You could have been something more.”

Something more? Something more? “I’m not horrified by how I’ve turned out, Aemond. I made the best of my circumstances. I have a job I enjoy, I keep a roof over our heads, I have people to live for.”

“You deserved better,” Aemond repeats, soft and low.

“So did you.” You touch your palm to his scarred cheek and ask in a whisper: “What happened? Who hurt you?”

“Stop,” Aemond says, flinching away from your hand. And that’s the safe word; you have to listen.

~~~~~~~~~~

At home, Cadi and Amir are chatting at the kitchen counter with a late-night snack of apple dumplings, warmed in the microwave, and Breyer’s vanilla ice cream. Blue Bell is cheaper, but Breyer’s tastes real; it’s one of the few things you won’t compromise on.

“Mom, guess how many levels I beat in Super Mario Bros.!” Cadi doesn’t notice that your tank top isn’t quite covering the brutalized zipper of your shorts. Amir definitely does notice; he mouths to you: Baby Jesus is so sad.

“Um, I don’t know…how many levels does it have?”

“Thirty-two,” Aemond informs you.

“Seven?” you say.

“Try ten!” Cadi grins triumphantly.

“Radical! Amazing!”

Aemond applauds. “No way! You’re a prodigy!” You don’t have to ask if he wants to stay. He scoops two apple dumplings into the same bowl and then pops open the microwave, like he lives here too. “How long should I heat these up?”

“About 45 seconds,” Amir says. He yawns and puts his dishes in the sink.

“Thanks again for entertaining Cadi.” You give him a tired, repentant smile. “I would tell you to take tomorrow off, but we both know that’s not an option. I’m going to set my alarm for 3:00 a.m.”

“I myself will most certainly not be awake at 3:00 a.m. But I’ll try to get here by 7:00.” Amir gives Cadi a hug that she pretends not to appreciate. “Goodnight, slayer of Bowsers.” Then he waves to Aemond as he breezes out of the kitchen. “Goodnight, destroyer of zippers.”

Aemond covers his mouth to keep from laughing. “Cheers, Amir.” He brings the bowl of apple dumplings from the microwave to the counter, adds several heaping mounds of vanilla ice cream and two spoons, and slides it over so you can share. Outside, you hear Amir’s Ford Escort pull out of the gravel driveway. “You have a lot of baking to do, huh?”

“Oh my God, I completely forgot to tell you. You’ll never believe who showed up—”

“Mom, can we go shopping tomorrow?” Cadi asks, derailing your train of thought.

Cadi? Shopping? This is an unusual request. “Shopping for what?”

“For my riding boots,” Cadi says brightly as she finishes her apple dumpling, and you think, sinking in ways you can’t let her see: Oh fuck. Here’s the conversation I’ve been avoiding for weeks. “Michelle and Erica are both going to that horse camp in July. Breanna and Sam are going too. Kristen might even go, and she’s a total freakazoid! I can go, right? I’ll need boots, and a helmet, and I want to ride an Appaloosa. They have all kinds of horses, but Appaloosas are my favorite, and if they don’t let me ride one I’m going to go nuclear.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s going to be possible this year.”

“But I have to go. Everyone else is going.”

“I tried, I really did. But I just can’t swing it right now. Next summer I’ll have more money saved up, hopefully, and then you can go to horse camp, and maybe we can even go to Biloxi for a week too—”

“I don’t care about Biloxi.” And now she’s lashing out, because she’s realizing the answer might really be no. Aemond is silently picking at the apple dumplings, looking between the two of you but not knowing what to say. “I care about going to horse camp when literally all of my friends get to—”

“Cadi, I’m so sorry, I really am. But sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s okay, that’s a part of life. We’ll still have fun this summer.”

“I’m not going to have fun if I’m just stuck here at home all day!”

Stuck here with me, stuck here in the life I built for her. “Cadi, please—”

“I’ll give up my birthday presents,” she pleads, her eyes turning misty. “You can just not buy me anything for my birthday, or Christmas either, and you can use what you would have spent on that for—”

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, a hand on her little shoulder, her tiny breakable bones. “I wish I could give you what you want. I really, really do. I’m trying to make things better for us.”

“Can’t you ask Daddy for more money?”

And you remember what Willis said at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year. “Daddy wants to help too, I’ve already talked to him about it. We just can’t make it happen right now.”

“Daddy always says he’d have more money if he didn’t have to send you so much every month!” Cadi blurts out. Aemond is watching you, but you shake your head. He can’t say anything. It’s not his place. “That’s why I can’t go to horse camp, isn’t it? Because we don’t all live together?”

“No, Cadi, that’s not what this is about—”

“Erica’s parents live together and she gets to go! Michelle’s mom and dad are always taking vacations!”

“Every family is different,” you say, fighting to stay calm while your throat is closing up and the blood in your face is hot enough to scald.

“Sam’s mom just bought her riding boots and gloves!”

“I’m not your friends’ mothers, I’m sorry, I’m just not.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have kids if you can’t afford them!” Cadi screams, tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, and then she storms off to her bedroom and slams the door.

You and Aemond are left alone in the midst of humming florescent lightbulbs, long-eared owl hoots, the ambient shrieks of cicadas. The apple dumplings and ice cream have dissolved into a soup. Your lips are trembling; a single blistering tear escapes down your cheek. You refuse to break down. You learned years ago that there is nothing to be gained from it. Aemond studies you, seeking and worried. You avoid his gaze. His hand reaches for yours, stops short, retreats to drum his fingers against the counter.

At last, Aemond says: “How much is the horse thing?”

“Too much. Way too much. It’s over $300, I won’t be able to make rent.”

He sighs; not a frustrated sigh, you think, but a sigh of incredulity, maybe even of pity, which is the last thing in the world that you want from him. Aemond takes his wallet from his jeans pocket, leafs through it, and counts out $400 in twenties and tens that he stacks on the countertop.

You are mortified, horrified. “Aemond, no—”

“Look, next time I see you, we need to talk. We need to talk about my situation, and your situation, and what we’re going to do going forward. And it’s…fuck, it’s, it’s complicated. You’ll see. But we have to get it sorted out, because this is…” He gestures to you, to him, to what you’re building between you like a bridge linking islands. “It’s different than what I expected it would be. And that’s a good thing, but…there’s just a lot we have to discuss.”

“Aemond, I can’t accept this much money from you.”

“The money doesn’t matter. $400? That’s nothing. The money’s not real to me. But it is real to you. So please just take it. And next time I see you we’ll…we’ll decide what happens next.”

It’s complicated, Aemond said. You’ll see. See what? How bad could it possibly be? “We can’t talk now?”

“No, I can’t do it now. I just can’t.”

He’s not just uneasy or distracted. He’s fucking scared. “You’re married,” you say.

“No. No wife, no kids. I swear to God.”

“No girlfriend either?”

“No.”

“You’re divorced.”

“No.” He combs his fingers through his short blonde hair, stares blankly at the wall behind you. “You’re free Saturday, right?”

“Yeah. I think Cadi will be with Willis all weekend, actually. He’s taking her fishing on Lake Verret. If Jade Dragon hasn’t blown it up by then. I’ll be busy with work Saturday morning and early afternoon, but after that I’ll be around.”

“I’ll come over around dusk, probably,” Aemond says, hands in his Marlboro jacket pockets, thoughts miles away. “I have something going on Saturday afternoon too.”

And he leaves before you can thank him for the stack of cash on the counter, or for any of the rest of what he’s given you.

[lizacstuff]

i'd love (if you'd like ofc) to hear your thoughts on episode 20 as a whole! i personally really really enjoyed it.. it had some very good moments not only between edser but between serkan and his dad and selin. and of course were serving that angsty, but flirty, UST that we all love! it felt like a weight was lifted off serkan and he just became even more open with her, if that makes sense? what he says to her about leaving in the latest fragman kinda shows that too.

Are you sure you want my full thoughts? Because I'm about to get long winded, like novel long winded, lol. To start off, on a superficial note, can I say that casually dressed, brooding Serkan was pretty hot? Hello, Sailor! Can we see you in pullovers and hoodies and T-shirts more often? But just happier? He was soooo sad in the opening scenes, and honestly, when you think about it, it's pretty dark that he was so messed up that he didn't leave the house or attend to any business matters for those couple of days. Very unlike him, but he's probably never been at this depth of despair before. Now, since pretty much everyone knows he wasn't leaving the house while Eda was gone, I hope someone (cough Melo cough) tells Eda, she should know that. On a similar note, Eda's friendship with the girls is so lovely. They're indeed her family. Interesting juxtaposition that she took refuge with her friends, while Serkan holed up and stayed away from everyone who cares about him. 

I agree that once we got past the dark brooding and he had the talk with his mom about how if Eda was punishing him there was still hope, he was a lot lighter. I think finally being out from under the secret did him a world of good. He can finally stop pretending to be indifferent and can just be honest about how he feels.  What the “Gitme” line in the fragman tells me, is that he’s ready to put it all out there. He’s not going to risk miscommunications or hurt feelings anymore. Which is amazing and should lead to great things in the next couple of episodes.

More under the cut (a lot more):

I absolutely agree about the scenes between Serkan and his dad and Serkan and Selin. The writing was really terrific and Kerem just knocked both of those scenes out of the park. Serkan's suppressed fury was palpable, and it was extremely cathartic to finally watch him let loose on both of them. The scene with his father went deeper in the family trauma and it was so interesting to hear Serkan say outright to both of them that the reason he moved onto the property was because Aydan couldn't leave and his dad was never there, and was never there for him as a father at all. Which we saw from the beginning when Alpteken was actually at the house but refused to attend his son's engagement party. Regardless of the fact that Serkan sprung Eda on them, not walking 50 feet to make an appearance at your son's engagement party is an asshole move. I wonder how long he's been cheating on Aydan? Years? It's interesting how she foreshadowed that revelation to Ayfer, like she knew.

Also I can't believe he was just cavorting around a luxury hotel in Istanbul. The whole Bolat family are obviously figures in the upscale social scene, anyone who knew Aydan or Serkan could have easily spotted him with that woman and gleefully spread the gossip back. Did he want to get caught? Jerkoff.

As for Selin, we been waitin' for that explosion since she sold her shares without telling Serkan!  I like that Serkan was kind to her after Ferit left her at the altar, it spoke to him taking responsibility for the part he played in trying to manipulate her out of that relationship. However, she took advantage of the new, kinder Serkan (the one that exists courtesy of Eda) and went way too far into unstable territory. I, and many other people, were so confused about why Selin was so angry about uncovering the truth of the accident, like what right did she have to be that angry over it, to stomp over to his house, barge in uninvited and accuse him of being a liar at top decibel levels? Thank goodness the writing acknowledged that it was not her place, and that was the thing that enraged Serkan. They actually allowed him to say, "How dare you come to my house, and I don't owe you any explanations." Also, I'm glad he laid out his feelings for Eda, and his lack of feelings for her. Look... that is rough. Hearing from an ex that they never loved you.  But how she could have been in any doubt, after seeing the changes in him since Eda is beyond my comprehension. She even said early on, It's like there's two Serkans, the one before you met Eda, and the one after. For whatever reason it's like she thought Eda could come in and affect him, and then she could step in and get the Serkan who was in love with Eda, not the rigid, cold one who was in a relationship of convenience with her.  DELUSIONAL.

There was so much more about this episode I loved. It was nice to see Ayfer blossoming in her new business and getting a glimpse of Fifi's past. She comes from a society family, does she? I liked that Ferit helped them. I do agree that impressing Ceren was probably on his mind, but I like to think he's also just a nice man and he likes Ayfer and wanted to genuinely help as well. Interesting that we found out that Ferit's mom never liked Selin. Curious since you'd think she'd look great on paper, perhaps it was because of the speed at which they were moving, and I think she also stood them up, right? That made me like Ferit's mom a bit more than I otherwise would have. 

Aydan was in her element getting back to her charity work, I loved the way she plotted to put her name forward for the leadership position. She's just so savvy. That's why I'm glad she's now TeamEda!  Imagine what a formidable duo Eda and Adyan will make in this world, we saw a glimpse of it last week, but they'll be unstoppable! 

The contract was a neat device. I really appreciate how it was used. One of the things that Eda feels like she can't trust is the way Serkan has tried to control her. As I've said before, I think he's really trying to control the situation. And while that doesn't really make a difference to Eda in this instance, it does make a difference to me as a viewer. If he were being controlling in the sense of trying to dictate what she says or who she is, that would be upsetting. But that's not it, he really loves her for who she is already and he's not trying to change that, he's just, as I said, trying to control the situation. We know that he likes to think everything through and always has a plan and in this instance he was just trying to protect her, but she's right that he can't do that in a relationship. Proving to her that he can cede control is important and that's exactly what the contract did. We saw him do it willingly and blindly and it was actually really beautiful. Obviously, the Serkan apology to Erdem was hilarious, but more than how much I enjoyed how funny it was, I enjoyed how delighted Eda was by it. She loved every minute of it and it was so nice to see her relax a minute and genuinely laugh both at and with Serkan. Additionally, I think she was pretty surprised that he'd followed through with it. Lots of layers to that scene.  

The charity meeting he engineered was also pretty fun to watch. I loved how he calls Engin in to join them with no prep and then just expects Engin to reel off a bunch of good ideas for the girls education initiative. Good times. And Leyla rushing in to let him know that Melo had quit was hilarious, I love that Serkan was like "the whole situation is right here" meaning that Eda was in the room so whatever Leyla had to tell him could not possibly be important. Only Eda is important! LOL. Then Serkan doesn't even think before looping Engin in to go immediately hire Melo. You know what I hope this means!? That my crackship Mengin might actually sail!!!!  LET'S DO THIS MENGIN!!!!  Oh... I know, the show seems really committed to the mismatched duo of Engin/Peril, but I really think Engin and Melo are better suited to one another. And now maybe they'll get scenes together. Piril can dump him for being too... him, and Melo can help him pick up the pieces. They would be Serkan and Eda's big-hearted, teddybear couple friends!  

Watching Eda blossom creatively and professionally while working with Serkan has been a joy. She doesn't stand in awe of him at all as a person, but she does a little professionally, and it's wonderful to see how no matter how angry she is with him or where they are in their relationship she always craves his feedback, takes in his critiques and suggestions, and basks in his praise. While she didn't want his help with her schoolwork, I can't help but wonder if he ever comes up at school. I mean she's in the tabloids with him, and since he's extremely relevant to the field of study, and specifically to that school since he built the library, do her classmates ask her about him? Or does she mention something she did or learned working at ArtLife while in class? Inquiring minds want to know.

As for Eda's resolve to keep things professional, that pretty much was DOA. She definitely challenged him to break the contract there in that room, and I think she actually wanted him to do it, though I’m not sure how she would have reacted. she wants him, but she wasn’t there yet. She knows resistance is futile, deep down she recognizes her own feelings and his and knows they'll never stay away from one another and it's only a matter-of-time, but I think she needs this. She needs for him to understand what it means to be in a relationship, she needs him to know that he can't make decisions without her, and she needs to be sure he's ready to be a partner. Thankfully, he made a lot of headway in demonstrating all of those things in this episode. He signed without reading, he was willing to do anything and everything she asked, and while he's still him (asking Leyla for intel) he respected her wishes while still being there for her in a real way throughout the episode.  

Poor Eda fainting, but it's really romantic that he's always there to catch her. I assume this narcolepsy or whatever it is, like her claustrophobia, is related to the trauma around the retaining wall collapse and her parents' death. It was sweet the way he convinced her to let him be there when she met the contractor, and then during the confrontation he didn't intervene, he let Eda say what she needed to say and was there to move the guy along when it was time. He was pretty much perfect. I know we all NEEDED him to hug her, both Eda and Serkan NEEDED it as well, but she wasn't ready to ask for him yet and he was smart enough not to push it. But the loooooooooonging. 

It's a small detail that she asked him to deal with the paps and he went home and set about doing just that. Hopefully whatever he was doing will lead to the revelation that Selin is the one who planted the story in the first place. I need that, we all need that. And just when you think it's too late at night, he does their "thing" and shows up at her place with Sirius. So dang sweet. I like that he was respecting her pretense about colleagues while at the same time just outright saying, "I'm worried about you. Are you okay?"

The next day's car ride left me in a puddle. Serkan just out there telling her that he would do anything for her. But he didn't push it on her, he waited until she asked. He did a great job of pacing himself through the episode. I find it so romantic that she told him that he couldn't watch her speech. If they were together and settled and happy, I'd think she'd want him front row, center, but in their current state he just affects her too much. She'd be focused on him, worried about what he thought, distracted by him, he just sends her mind whiring and her pulse racing.

Though, it's pretty telling and super sweet that the first thing she wants to know when he approaches her afterward is what he thought of the speech. Oh, Eda, you're not fooling anyone. His opinion is most important to you, pretty much in all things. This scene gives us something that rarely happens, Engin being tone deaf and not reading the room!! WTF was wrong with him? Interrupting like that? Dude knows that Serkan is in a situation here, you don't interrupt for really no reason like that! Get your head in the game, son! Your his wingman, you help, not hinder!

The way Eda blushed and looked pleased every time he complimented her this episode was something else. She's trying to keep emotional distance, and he's breaking the rules when he does it, but still it makes her day. She's never portrayed as a vain character, at all, so it's just so sweet how his words and his compliments affect her. No one else can make her feel like that. 

Serkan was pretty sly in making his case as well. He gets her a bit mushy telling her she lights up the room and then brings up her speech and how it might apply to him. He was right in that she probably hasn't considered things from his perspective. How devastating it must have been for him to learn the truth. I want her to go back and piece together the timeline. She knew something wasn't right with him at the mall when she gave him the robot. Maybe it will help her deal with this if she realizes he had just learned the secret. She knew there was more to the story with the cut on his hand. Knowing he was so upset he put his hand through a coffee table might give her some perspective on his state of mind and why he acted the way he did.  But mostly I want him to tell her he overheard her conversation with Ceren. I think it's important for them both to confront how things unraveled if only to help prevent future miscommunications. 

Poor Eda having a good time using her powers of persuasion to tease Serkan into helping his mother only to find out that she had convinced him to auction himself off for a dinner date! I enjoyed her momentary discomfort at that. Welcome back, jealousy. Strictly work colleagues do not get jealous when one goes out to dinner with someone else, just saying, Eda.  And that smooth bastard bid on himself so he could go out with her only. We should have known! 

The conversation prior to the runway show was priceless, Eda's animosity and reserve sort of disappear and she's just unsure enough of what she's about to do that his reassurances are exactly what she needs.  And how Kerem Bursin can blush on demand, I don't know, but Serkan be red during that conversation, lol. 

I really loved all of Serkan's reactions as the ladies walked the runway. For Selin he was stone-faced and bored looking, for Fifi he gave a sly smirk as she passed as an acknowledgement of how different, and nice, she looked all cleaned up, Melo got the huge grin, we didn't really see Ceren since the camera was stuck on Ferit, but for Piril he gave her the fond, encouraging smile like he was proud of his friend. And then Eda. I don't even know what word to use for it. Enraptured? Dumsquizzled? Fuckstruck? Yes, let's go with fuckstruck. I'm not sure he remembered to breathe while she was walking, he was so affected by her.  This boy has it bad for this girl, ya'll. 

After that, the end was a punch in the gut. Our poor babies have been through so much, they really deserved to have that nice dinner.  Damn you, Selin! Obviously this was a delaying tactic, because once they sat down to dinner, you know they would have worked it out, so we wait. But the reconciliation is coming, don't you worry. I'm feeling it within the next 2 episodes for sure. 

[stunudo]

BAU Prep School AU: 2018

Welcome to the Frederick Buchanan Institute located in scenic Quantico, Virginia, a senior high academy that shapes the best and brightest minds. Its motto is “Behavior, Analysis, Unity,” the mascot the Submariners, colloquially “the Unsubs”. The small school supports the most accomplished faculty from across the country.  2016-2017 school year  Class of 18

(Image link)

Uphill

September 11, 2017 6:58am

Grant Anderson had barely slept the night before in worry over remembering to cast the school flags at half-mast. It had been an annual tradition since before he took over from the old groundskeeper, an indeterminate amount of years ago. He arrived at the school in the peaceful, yet creeping silence of the pre-student hours. He quickly parked in his usual spot and rounded the school in nearly a circumferential path, the American and Virginia State flags were listless on the solitary hill before the student parking lot. He said a simple prayer of remembrance as he steadily lowered the cords.

He sighed as he walked into the building, the heavy front doors creaking in the quiet. Grant Anderson turned to open his office and begin his day but something in his periphery stopped him. He paused and spun back to the large entrance hall that broke out into twin curving stone stairwells. There in the middle of the space was a stone table, where a tiny, antique, single-person submarine was held inside a glass display case. It was held, because in that moment Grant Anderson found it missing. In its place was a very underwhelming plastic model and a notecard. In stunned silence he approached the case, which was meticulously wiped down after the switch. The note read: ‘Good luck without Old Unity guiding your way.- New Canaan International School.’

Grant hunched over to read the note under his breath, “Oh shit.”

7:19am

Kate didn’t appreciate the incessant media reminders of the day that tore her family apart. She leaned against their kitchen island while Kit was talking to his toys instead of eating his cereal. She remained in her flannel pants and thermal long sleeve pajama top; this was not a day she chose to deal with people, especially not teenagers who couldn’t completely grasp the meaning of the anniversary. Someone of them weren’t even born, like Meg. It had been sixteen years since her mother, Kate’s sister went to work in Manhattan and the entire world changed.

Still, Meg was her silver-lining. The most impossible outcome of that day and the trauma it caused. Two years after losing contact, Kate’s sister Liz showed up on her doorstep, homeless, pregnant and desperate. And today that silver-lining was taking her time in the shower.

“Meg!” Kate called up the stairs, the water audibly gushing through the thin door.

Meanwhile Meg was sitting on the closed toilet lid, texting Maya as she walked into school. She was dressed and avoiding the awkwardness of the day as long as possible. She loved her aunt and uncle, but somedays she wondered what it would have been like if her mom were around. If maybe, just maybe she got her shit together. The brunette girl sighed and locked her phone. Time to start their yearly ritual and try not to make Kate cry, more.

Sept. 12 4:02pm

Coach Morgan wasn’t holding a standard practice today, instead he was in full Under Armor running outfit; his ripped body hugged thoroughly. He stood stone faced waiting for the team to exit the locker rooms in their running gear. Eventually his forty players were lined up before him, three uneven rows of bulky teenagers.

“Submariners!” The Coach’s deep voice barked in to the afternoon heat. “The New Canaan Cougars disrespected us this weekend. Those fools stepped foot in our house and took our mascot. Now!” He began pacing in front of his team. “Are you going to put up with that?”

“No!” A few players answered in various ways.

“I’m sorry? Are you going to LET them disrespect this school?!” He cocked his head to the side in exaggerated listening.

“NO, SIR!” Forty voices proclaimed.

Coach Morgan grinned, “That’s right. We won’t be able to put the pain to those guys until playoffs, but, for now, we run laps. Together. As a team. Because we don’t lose focus and we don’t back down.”

Derek grabbed his whistle off his chest, “Line up by jersey number, we stick together.” The whistle blast got the kids scrambling to fall into line. He waited a minute before giving another shrill alarm, sending Iggy Cruz, the kicker, off to lead the team down the hill. Derek knew the pace would quickly dwindle as they fought to keep their spacing even to his attentive glare. He followed behind his number 93 for the first lap as soon as he crossed their starting point he sprinted to the front of the pack, taking over the lead. It was going to be a long practice, for coach and players alike. In the middle of all the sweat and swearing and straining bodies, May Howard was formulating a plan.

Sept. 14 12:57pm

Jordan Kyle and Alex Blake were making quiet conversation across the staff table as Spencer was munching on his perfectly edged sandwich while reading over some worksheets. The lunch Chef Rossi prepared smelled amazing, yet still he dutifully ate his prepared sack lunch. The women were whispering about more personal details of their summers and Spencer was dutifully playing ignorant. What Stan Kyle had removed from where, was really none of his business, nor how long it took to get him back to, uh, normal in any arena.

The wizened Chef had been avoiding the sixth period lunch hour in the staff room because he was avoiding his ex-wife, though not belligerently; more like a puppy that had to lick his wounds after a round of play that was more than he bargained for. Today, he had outdone himself and needed the extra time for preparations; he quietly made his way towards the half-occupied table with his own tray of food.

“David! This is amazing quiche!” Jordan covered her full mouth with her hand as she spoke. Her bright eyes sparkling with delight. He shrugged, smugly.

“Wait until you get to the cannoli.” Alex murmured conspiratorially.

“How’s everyone? I fell like I haven’t heard much from you lot.” Dave tried making small talk.

“Good!” Spencer perked up. “Hotch gave me a prep period this year and you wouldn’t believe how much time I have now.”

“That’s great kid.” Rossi nodded, inspecting his slice of cheesy egg bake. It was a little moist, he took a mental note.

“How was Turkey?” Jordan asked him, Alex unsubtly rolling her eyes at her friend and colleague.

“It was great, Jordan, thanks for asking.” He grinned, the amusement at Alex’s uncomfortableness equal parts reassuring and instigating. “Cyprus was my favorite though.”

“Cyprus third largest and third most populated island in the Mediterranean?” Spencer added after a few eye daggers and a swift kick from Alex beneath the table.

“Right from the brochure, look at that.” Dave deadpanned. “The people were great, really welcoming. It’s amazing, the ones who have the least in this world are willing to share the most.”

“The constructs of community vary from culture to culture, but the village mentality leaves personal possessions nearly impossible. It is innate generosity.” Spencer built on the complexities of Dave’s experiences.

“Well said.” Alex finally spoke up, after the bell rang, freeing her from Dave’s retelling of the vacation that could have been hers.

Sept. 15 11:38am

As a new student in the middle of her high school career, Lena Curtis was less concerned with fitting in and more focused on keeping up with the rigors of the new academic environment. She had been eating alone, earbuds in while reading over assignments or syllabi. Lucas and Jake had been watching her on and off the first week of school, both innately empathetic and seated in the cafeteria two tables away. Now, they just had to acknowledge that they had been staring and perhaps they could talk to her. Fortunately for all them, May Howard wasn’t one for beating around the bush.

“You guys going to invite her to eat with us or do I have to?” She huffed as she sat down between Jake and her more socially acceptable twin, Cissy.

“Be our guest, Howard.” Lucas took a massive bite of his panini as he waited for her to own up to her bluff. She looked to Jake and back to the smug lineman. She slid back off the bench seat, shoving her hands in the pockets of her pressed khakis. She didn’t want to scare the new girl, Azalene, she remembered from last period Physics.

“Hey.” May’s voice was gruff because she was trying to remain calm. “So, a few of us have Physics with you and were wondering if you want to sit with us. It’s cool if you’d rather study, I know there is a lot of homework and I don’t want to pressure you into a forced social in—”

“No, that’s fine. Nice, I mean. Thanks.” The girl’s twin French braids bobbed with her enthusiasm. “I’m Lena, by the way.”

“May, I mean—I am May.” She stepped back as Lena grabbed her stuff, giving her lunch group a double thumbs’ up behind the acquired newbie’s back. Jake’s face broke into his signature grin while Lucas waved obviously. “The big one is Turner, Lucas, then there’s Jake and Cissy.”

“She’s your sister, right?” Lena looked down, either because she was trying to hear May or because she didn’t like looking people in the eye, it was hard to tell.

“Yeah, stuck with her since birth, but its fine. She grows on you.” May shrugged as a half smirk quirked up her usually hidden dimple.

“Hi!” Lena smiled shyly as she say down with her backpack and tray.

“Atta-girl, Howard,” Coach Morgan muttered his approval of his player reaching out to one of the new kids.

“What’s up?” Luke Alvez leaned in, following Derek’s line of sight.

“One of my kids reached out to the Curtis girl. Glad she had the balls, so to speak.”

“Right, Lena. It’s about time, they’re in my next hour together.” Luke shrugged. “Cafeteria duty is pretty chill, huh?”

“As long as nobody crosses Turner over there,” Tara Lewis nodded back to the group they’d been watching.

“Oh, come on now, that’s not fair.” Derek laughed. “Turner is good. Honestly I can’t think of anyone in here we really have to worry about.”

“Why are so many of us on this hour?” Tara asked confused.

“I think it’s a ratio thing, fifth hour has more students having lunch, so there are more of us. Hotch knows what he’s doing.” Derek shrugged, not mentioning that Lewis and Alvez were still new to the school and Hotch wouldn’t leave them to the wolves alone. Derek wasn’t complaining, having back to back lunch breaks were the dream. Meanwhile, Tara shifted from foot to foot. She hated losing her momentum in the middle of the day, she felt like cafeteria duty was a fairly menial task. Luke was quizzing himself on student’s names and learning who were friends outside of class.

Sept. 25 6:37pm

Derek walked behind Penelope as she strutted into the library, taking a deep breath to prepare herself for the coming meeting. The first Booster Club gathering of the new school year, which meant new students, new ideas and old standbys making the upcoming calendar filled with possibilities. She carefully placed the school’s tablet and her phone on the central table. Grant had rearranged the hefty study desks into a semicircle complete by a collection of chairs in arching rows for the parents and additional student participants.

“Okay, thanks for coming to the Fall meeting again. I know you’ve got your hands full this season and it means a lot that you’re here tonight.” She made sure to give her boyfriend her appreciation, who had yet to be home from school for the day.

“Hey, this is important to me too. Don’t worry about me, I’m good.” Derek held her hand against his chest. “You ready?”

“For another record-breaking year? Hell yeah. Let’s just hope everyone else is.” She grinned before sneaking a quick kiss. They were still alone anyhow.

The meeting went effortlessly, or Penelope Garcia and Michel Foyet were so prepared that it felt more like a conversation than an agenda-riddled requirement. Derek sat calmly to Penny’s right as Mrs. Jordan Kyle was to her left, nodding and smiling in encouragement. The parents were enthusiastic and those that usually overreached were pleasantly absent. Midway through a mother and son made their way to the back of the meager crowd, Penelope smiled as they sat down nervously. The meeting wrapped up before the hour was up, leaving the attendees to break into their own bubbles of conversation. Jordan thanked Penelope for a job well done and went home without much fuss.

Derek and Mr. Howard were talking football as Penelope approached the late arrivals.

“Hi! I’m Ms. Garcia, welcome to the Boosters Club.” She held out her violet manicured hand to the mother and then the anxiously quiet boy.

“Thanks, I’m Rebecca Garner, this is Regi, he’s a freshman this year.” The brunette woman confided in a slight accent.

“Regi is short for Reginald, right? How royal.” Penelope grinned, letting the student roll his eyes at her observation. “If you are looking for service to the school hours, check with Michel, they have the sign-up lists for the semester.”

Regi nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. Rebecca looked impatient with the gesture but smiled sympathetically to Ms. Garcia anyhow. “Thanks, nice meeting you.”

“Of course, thanks for coming.”

Derek called for Chinese pick up as Penelope cleaned up the library from the meeting. She hated leaving it less than she had found it, Grant was anal, but he worked himself too hard as well.

“Ready, Baby Girl?” Derek sighed as she gave the room a tertiary glance. “Penelope.” He was tired and needed some cuddle time.

“Yes, I guess. So? My place or yours tonight, Lover?” She asked as he held the door for her.

Sept. 26 4:08pm

Hotch had driven the same route home for the past five years, a scenic and unrushed ritual. He mentally left his day behind him, focusing on the yardwork and dinner awaiting him. There was an oddly satisfying feeling that he was able to come home to his family at a reasonable hour each and every day. His few years practicing law proved how treasured this possibility was. The leaves lined the neighborhood thoroughfare as he made the turns methodically. He passed a teenager mowing the lawn on one corner and a family walking home from school down another block. It was the American Dream and Aaron Hotchner sighed contentedly as he acknowledged his reality with gratitude.

Though it was breezy, their front door was open for him and Aaron quickly found Jack and Haley in the living room which doubled as Jack’s play spot, an octagonal area fenced off in the middle of the room since he had begun crawling at the beginning of summer. The plastic sides had been folded inwards, leaving Jack’s mat and toys strewn across the room.

“Hey!” He smiled as he set his briefcase in the foyer.

“Wait, Aaron, stay there.” Haley called hurriedly.

“Okay? Any particular reason why?” He chuckled, but listened, hovering in the archway between the hall and the room which held his family. “Hey, buddy!” He called to his son who had been thumping a block against another toy with a satisfying and repeated thwack. Jack’s face burst into a drooling grin and he began crawling to his dad.

“Wait for it…” Haley warned quietly. When Jack reached the recliner, he pulled himself up and continued toward him determinedly. His tentative feet taking him away from the grounding of the furniture, but he managed a good four or five steps before falling back into a crawl. Haley clapped excitedly, the joy upon her husband’s face unparalleled.

“Alright, Jack-Attack!” Aaron bent down and snatched up his giggling son. “Has he been walking all day?!

“Just since lunch. I almost called three times, but I figured seeing it firsthand would be more impactful.”

“Well, that’s the best welcome home I’ve ever had. Good job, buddy!” Aaron kissed the baby’s head and brought him back across the room to his toys. The little family spent the next half hour getting Jack’s consecutive step total up to nine before breaking up the fun for dinner preparations and yardwork. Aaron expertly strapped Jack into his carrier, complete with noise dampening earmuffs so the Hotchner men could clear the yard with the leaf blower before settling in for the night.

Next Chapter: Messy

@mentallydatingspencerreid @dontshootmespence @ultrarebelheart @lyrasilverroseelizabethamanti @cynbx @rikersgirl22 @pllfrommars @wheresthewater  @darknesstoglowing @adropintheocean1234567 @tleighstone12 @unitchiefwives @sam-carter-in-training @prettyboysjello @ddreammcatcher @thegirlinflames  @night–hawk @t25luver @onlyalittleteenwolfobsessed @thismiss02 @literallyprentissstwin

[leiascully]

Fic: An heni a vez e grass ar merc’hed 5/?

Taking a leap here.  WWII AU, PG-13, wartime trauma and injuries, mentions of Nazis.  French puns.  Names changed to reflect the time and place.  The Syndicate are Nazi-adjacent but working for a different new world order. Title is from a Breton proverb, but I just used the part that means “he who has the grace of women”.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four 

He graduated after a week or so to washing the dishes and wiping down the kitchen tables, although he still had to sit sometimes.  He liked it best when they were all in the kitchen together after dinner.  Émilie had usually been put to bed.  Marguerite relaxed with a glass of chouchen while the rest of them prepared for the next day.  The clientele of the White Whale had been reduced by the war, but there were still regulars, and some still traveled the roads.  They'd had all kinds of soldiers, Marguerite said, all the better reason to have changed the name of the place.  These were fraught times; they couldn't afford to lose business over partisan concerns.

 "If I'm a cousin, I should know more about the area," he said, up to his wrists in soapy water.  "Even as the cousin of a Parisienne.  Any local legends?"

 "They say the ghosts of King Arthur and his knights roam the woods," Monique said, scrubbing one of the tables.  "He was king of the Britons once upon a time, and it was a golden age of peace and wisdom.  His knights were the finest in the land, and they fought against the forces of darkness and brought prosperity to all, as far as that went in the feudal system.  Now they haunt the quiet groves of Bretagne, or so the stories go, ready to take up arms again against whatever endangers this place."

 "Really?" Mulder asked, fascinated.  He picked up another plate to wash it.   

 Dana snorted.  "They do say that," she conceded, drying a few glasses, "Especially the old-timers.  But they also say that rubbing garlic on a wart will cure it, or that the moon can change a man into a wolf."

 Mulder and Monique exchanged glances.  She gave him a tiny nod and went back to scrubbing.  

 "Arthur and his knights only appear before a battle," Marguerite corrected.  "They were seen before the Great War, and again a few years ago."

 "Mother, you don't believe in these things," Dana chided.  

 "It's a wild strange world we live in, my little mouse," Marguerite said with a smile, and Mulder saw a hint of the girl Dana must have been in the gentle expression that crossed her face.  

 "I love a good ghost story," Mulder said, letting hope tinge his voice.

 "See, he really is my cousin," Monique said.  "We're both tall, we both have dark hair, we both have strange accents, we both love ghost stories."

 "There are no ghosts," Dana said firmly.  "I swear Émilie has less stomach for these stories than you do."  

 Maelice was counting the bottles of cider.  "There's an energy here.  Surely you can sense that, Dana."

 "I can sense that there's a lot to do before any of us gets to go to bed," Dana said stubbornly.  "And I can sense that morning always comes earlier than I'd like it to."

 "There's no harm in a story," Marguerite said.  "They say that the ghosts ride at the edge of the woods on the eve of great battles, to warn the village.  They say that the brave and the pure of heart can see them."

 "People have lived here for thousands of years," Maelice said.  "There are druidic menhirs all over Bretagne.  Why not Merlin?  Why not Arthur?"

 "Arthur is a story," Dana said.  Her eyes flickered to Mulder for support, but he shrugged.  She rolled her eyes and took out a bowl, measuring flour and salt into it.

 "Lots of things that people believe in are stories," Monique said, warmth in her voice.  "Glory.  Victory.  Royalty.  All of it."

 "Believe what you want," Dana said with a sigh.  She turned the dough she was making out on the clean floured table. "I believe in bread.  I believe in Mass on Sunday.  I don't believe in ghosts."

 "I'll help you with the bread," Marguerite said.  "Kneading eases my arthritis."  She nudged up next to Dana and they worked on the dough together.  

 "They appear before a battle?" Mulder asked, looking at Monique.

 "Only a great battle," Monique said, clearly enjoying herself as Dana ignored them.  "A battle between good and evil that might change the world."

 "Are they solid?  Are they spirits?  Are they forms of light?" Mulder asked.

 Monique laughed.  "You do love ghost stories."

 "My sister loves them," he said, a pang of missing her shooting through him.  "She always insisted that I read them to her."

 "And now you have an encyclopedia of ghosts in your brain," Monique said.

 "Ghosts, spirits, monsters of all sorts," he said.  "Anything that goes bump in the night, Sanne delights in."

 "I like to think they're forms of light," Maelice said thoughtfully.  "Shining like stars to show us the way."

 "That's enough," Dana said, and there was a strange firmness to her tone.  The others quieted.  Mulder glanced between them.

 "Did you hear what old Jean said?" Marguerite asked as she continued to knead the bread, and everyone relaxed as she relayed the gossip one of the regulars had been spreading.  

 The Arthur story wound itself deeper into Mulder's brain as he worked on the dishes, leaving them to dry on a towel at the side.  He vaguely remembered reading the stories in his childhood.  Sanne's interests tended towards the occult; she had read to pieces all the books of legends he'd gotten as a child.  He wished he remembered more now than a handful of names and an ache in his heart for a true chivalry, a selfless devotion to a worthy higher cause.  Once upon a time, his whispered, in a golden age, there was a king more noble than any other, and his knights were brave and true and wise and kind.  He wished that were true.  He had encountered few soldiers who fit the qualifications for the Round Table.  The causes espoused by the commanders of the German Army were reprehensible; the ideas of the Allies might be nobler, but the methods of war were cruel no matter what philosophies underpinned them.  Perhaps the Knights of the Round Table had struggled with the same dilemmas.  

 The bread dough set to rise and the dishes done, they all said good night and went to bed.  Mulder tapped his way down the hall and changed his clothes, but after he'd found his pyjamas, his stomach growled.  He remembered the leftover soup in the small refrigerator and made his way back to the kitchen.  The electricity was sometimes unreliable, but the service hadn't been entirely cut off.  He heated the soup in a small pot and sat at the table he had wiped down earlier.  It was peaceful in the kitchen, the presence of the women of the house almost palpable.  As he was eating, he heard someone in the cellar, climbing the stairs.  The door pushed partway open and then stopped.  

 "Why did you say anything?"  It was Dana's voice, sharper than usual.

 "He can help us," Monique said, in a tone designed to soothe that clearly wasn't working.  

 Dana laughed bitterly.  "In what way can he help us?"

 "Even his presence will make people look the other way," Monique said.  "We shelter him openly.  Whether he's my cousin or a Nazi soldier, they will assume we have little to hide.  A houseful of women looks innocent."

 "There are no innocents," Dana said.  "Not anymore.  Not since the Great War.  And we all hear the whispers of worse atrocities."

 "Which is why you and I do what we do," Monique said.  "However small our impact."

 "You and I and the rest of the hens," Dana said, sarcasm thick in her voice.  "Just waiting for the men to return, no one to crow an alarm."

 "Not everything is so straightforward, Dana," Monique said.  "Sometimes we must let people believe what they want to believe."

 "I hope you're right," Dana said.  

 Mulder stood and moved as quietly as he could, holding his bowl as if he were just coming back into the kitchen, and then he coughed.  Dana and Monique fell silent, and the cellar door opened all the way.

 "Good evening," Dana said, her posture rigid and formal.  

 "Oh, good evening," Mulder said.  "I didn't think anyone was awake.  I got hungry."

 "Working will do that," Monique said, pressed close behind Dana in the doorway.  "Did you find what you needed?"

 "Yes," Mulder said.  "Next time I won't take it to my room, though.  The cane and the bowl don't work well together.  I thought I would bring my bowl back and wash it.  No one needs extra dishes to do."

 Dana relaxed a small amount.  "I appreciate that, although it's yourself you're saving from the effort later."

 "I like to make the most of the moment," he said.  "Good night, ladies."

 "Good night," Dana said, and left abruptly.  Monique lingered as he washed his bowl and the pan and set them out to dry.  

 "Will you take me to the woods one day?" he asked.  "I would like to watch for the lost king."

 Her eyes appraised him.  She nodded.  "One day," she said.  "They say too that only the worthy will see him."

 "I try and fail and try again," he said.  "Worthiness is a journey and a destination."  He thought of his father, and of his father's work, and of his mother's bitterness.  Sometimes it seemed as if there were a wasteland between him and the hopes he had of being better, kinder, stronger than the generations before him.  He thought Monique understood that.

 She nodded.  "I'm going to have a cigarette before bed.  Would you like to join me?"

 Scent memory coiled lazily up from the packet she held out: his father's colleagues smoking, the one who used the cane always wreathed in vapor and reeking of tobacco.

 "No, thank you," he said.  

 "Suit yourself, cousin," she said.  "Good night."

 "Good night," he said, and made his way to bed to dream of heroes.

[traumaticlaw]

+4

W h o? Who had knocked that box over? It heard the cardboard topple, the squish as it plopped into a puddle. Was it blood or was it water? It could never tell the difference, lacking any sense of smell. Instead, the creature emitted a low growl as it pulled it’s constant companion over in the direction of the noise. Did it hear a hitching of breath, a near silent swear at the detection? It pushed its chest forward, propelling itself roughly towards its newly discovered purpose.