#the rest of the prompts might be bc i scrapped a lot of stuff

[artsoupsoupart]

Madney Week 2021: Paint Me as You Mourn Me

Day Three:   “I don’t care what happens to me as long as you’re safe.” + angst

Read on Ao3  

“Ch-Chim,” her voice is so far off in the distance, somewhere behind the ringing in his ears. It’s dark, but there are flashes of light pulsing into his line of vision, and he knows he’s hit his head at some point. “Chim, you can get out. Something—”

Her own grunt of frustration cuts her off as he shakes his head, eyes blazing with certainty as his vision clears enough to focus on Maddie, the one person he had secretly vowed to protect from the moment he had met her (even if he didn’t really know the extent of said vow). He looks around for something, anything that could free her from the weight crushing her. “No, gotta get you out first.”

He can think a bit clearer now that the dust has settled, and he’s taken in his surroundings. There had been an earthquake. It had shaken everything and anything, but then it had stopped. The aftershock, though, was quick and intense, and then they were falling, and Chimney was losing everything that meant anything to him. She’s not gone yet; he has to remember that. She’s not allowed to leave him he thinks to himself. Not yet at least. There’s a long trail of blood dripping from her head, thick and oozing, and her eye and side of her face is already beginning to bruise something grotesquely purple. He remembers the ground shaking, remembers thinking this is one of the biggest earthquakes he had ever experienced. He had shielded her with his own body, protecting her in the passageway of the parking garage but then the floor gave out beneath them, and they fell and tumbled to whatever was below.

“Baby, I’m…” she groans out in a pain so distinct that it sinks his heart. “I’m stuck. You have to go. If you don’t,” Maddie winces in pain, her words slurring. “If you don’t—”

“No!” he cuts her off again, his hands cupping her cheeks. “I don’t care what happens to me as long as you’re safe.”

The first time he had picked up a paintbrush, Howard Han was eight years old and at school. It had been the most natural transition from crayons and color pencils to acrylics and watercolors. He had loved it immediately and had gushed to his mother over and over again about how he had wanted to paint for the rest of his life. He painted even the most mundane of scenes. There were canvases of the sky and the moon and the woods behind his home. He had journals and sketchbooks of little moments of ice cream trips and big events like graduating. He mapped out every important event of his life through acrylic and graphite and watercolor.

Setting up Maddie’s security system had been an easy tradeoff for beer and pizza. He had said yes before even meeting her, mainly because he is kind and gentle and the safety of someone is his main priority no matter if he’s on the clock or not.

And then he had seen her. She had said she’d never seen Mission Impossible and what a travesty that is, he had joked. Immediately he takes notice of her, drinking her into his system in the least creepy way possible. She’s blue but not in the dangerous, threatening midnight or oxford blue of a raging ocean where the sea threatens to swallow and drown him whole. She’s nothing like the broad strokes of a pallet knife, thick and aggressive and coarse. She’s far from the aquamarine that drips of hopelessness and grief that he knows so well. She doesn’t make him sad. She doesn’t make an alarm go off in his mind that encourages him to put up false pretenses that will lead to absolutely nothing and drain him of everything he thought he was.

Instead, the strokes of paint are soft under the round brush. Featherlight but abstract because this is already beautiful but so wonderfully new. Chimney doesn’t know the last time he’s felt like this or if he’s ever felt this feeling before. He yearns for her already though they barely know each other, they don’t know each other. Still, she’s a calming sapphire, welcoming and brilliant. He wants to learn what makes her smile, what makes her laugh, what makes her dream of love and light. She sparkles already and he’s only known her for a couple hours. For just a moment he knows he can’t begin to capture what she makes him feel on a piece of linen wrapped around planks of pine.

…

Takeout and a movie between friends, that’s all this is. It’s all this will be because they’re friends and he’s content with that. For each tomorrow, he makes a vow that says if friendship is all they have, that will do. Because she’s been through a lot. It’s what she needs and what she deserves and he’s grateful to be witness to a side of her that he thinks is reserved for few people in her life. He is witness to her tenderness, to her gentle hands and soft voice. He’s on the receiving end of her bright sarcasm and welcomes it just as she does his (corny) jokes. They are friends, but they’re closer than that. She leans her head against his shoulder when they watch movies. He comforts her when scenes are a bit too much. Being allowed to hold her hands is sage green with wide, smooth strokes. They laugh together. She makes him walk and talk differently but they’re just friends. Maybe.

The thin liner brush traces the blobs on the canvas, outlining, defining the images beneath the black paint. For what it’s worth, the old Chimney is gone. The old Chimney would contrast with what exists now. The old Chimney is replaced with one that compliments the sage of who she is. Perhaps now he is a blush of pink that mimic his cheeks when he’s near her, or a muted orange that is warm in a way he couldn’t be before. Together they are a peach sunset on a sprawling meadow. He’s relaxed when he’s with her. He doesn’t have to pretend, doesn’t have to lie. She laughs at his jokes and leans against his side. They are warm and inviting and everything good pools just from being together.

They’re just friends and he can be okay with that for as long as she is as well. He won’t push. He won’t press without her because they’re friends but somehow they’re also partners. Together, they are free to be, to exist and open themselves up entirely.

…

He told her he loved her. She is who he loves, with cats in her throat in the morning. She is who he loves, dancing together in the kitchen, cuddled together on the couch, the morning after saving a life. He is who she loves, with his jokes and his strength. He is understanding and hope and joy. She loves him just as much as he loves her and that burns across the pages of his sketchbook, page after page being filled with their desire, affection, and devotion to one another.

Her eyes shine as she smiles at him, they sparkle more than stars in the deep onyx of an unpolluted sky. Perhaps that’s what he’ll miss the most if he loses her one day. The way those deep ebony pools of burnt umber darken because he loves her. The look in her gaze shoots him directly in the heart every time, without fail. She’s gold, a brilliant yellow that blazes through his very being, his very soul. The light that they’ve turned on is bright and blinding and he thinks this is the end all, be all for him, for them. It takes every bit of self-control in him to not fidget as he paints their passion against the pale beige canvas.

Then they’re red, scarlet, burning bright as they connect with one another. This time is different, better. They’ve professed their love for one another, and it shows in their touch, in their kiss, in the warmth of skin against skin. The strokes are angled, precise. He thinks of time as he paints. How they’ve spent so little of it together in the grand scheme of things, but that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because time goes along with space and they’re well beyond that. They care about each other’s most benign details. They are one and will be for as long as they chose to be.

…

Chimney doesn’t know why he brought the paintings. Each one leans against the wall of the hospital room, comforting him, mocking him. His eyes flicker to each one and his heart breaks that much more. The doctors say she’ll be fine. Somewhere in the back of his mind he believes their optimism, believes she’ll wake up and won’t hate him for failing her, for losing his grip on her, for being the indirect cause of why she’s even in the hospital in the first place. She’d never see it that way, see him that way. Still, he can’t help but think he should have held her tighter, protected her better.

He looks over at Maddie, watches the rise and fall of her chest under the skinny tubes connected to her. There’s so many wires, so little sound, so much light in this room and it’s overwhelming. Everything about this situation is overwhelming. He can’t get the flashes of falling out of his head. He can’t figure out why his hold on her hadn’t been strong enough, how he could have possibly let her slip out of his grasp. It’s not his fault, he’s heard it many times in the last two days. But he had let go, he had let her arms go as they fell, and she had ended up pinned beneath thick, unmovable cement and there had been a rebar of her own through her shoulder. And so much blood.

He’ll never get the image of the color fading from her face as she joked that they’d have matching scars. If only he was good enough, worthy enough to be able to wake her up. He wants to hold her while he waits but can’t risk jostling her and making things worse than they already are.

“I’m going to love you for a long time, Maddie.” His hand finds its place back in hers, tears pooling in his eyes as he realizes how cold it is. She runs cold anyway, but this is practically frigid ice against his. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him, he knows. The fact doesn’t stop him from worrying anyway. “So, just wake up now and then you can rest until you’re better.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, or speak or even flutter her eyes.

With one hand still in hers, he turns to the travel easel holding a small canvas frame and picks up a paintbrush, dipping it into the flat wash with a sigh.

[crispyjenkins]

I dare you to write an Ani5 fix-it fic. I will not be taking criticism and will die on the hill that this is the most powerful ship and could’ve saved the entire clone wars. Bonus points if it features the ship Mace Windu/headaches (bc anakin is a walking mess of shatterpoints and lives to annoy Mace). Codywan to help knock some sense into anakin would also be top tier. I LOVE YOU ZEPH’BUIR

(of course i can’t do a whole fix-it in a quick prompt answer, but i think i’ve set it up for a far happier ending than in canon! support communication and education in relationships (ღ˘⌣˘ღ) and also adhd clones.

fives might be the most i’ve ever struggled with a character (‘cept maybe ahsoka....) so it took a little while to figure out how to write this scene in a way i liked. also, had to go and watch fives clips to try and get my autism brain working, and BOY HOWDY do i actually hate dbb’s take on the clones, especially the accent but everything else too. their character designs make me want to cry. so i’m begging, for me, to imagine this fives like this especially because then we get Tol Anakin and a Smol Clone BF and i think that is a seriously underutilised dynamic.

thank you for the prompt, ad, and for cursing me with this ship in the first place. someday i’ll get around to actually writing them as the battle husbands they are 🧡)

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  Echo's always been good with programming, but Fives is better with the actual building. He's not any good with inventing, maybe, but putting things together? Opening them up and knowing immediately what's wrong? Fives would even say he enjoys it — and being able to talk shop with Skywalker like they're nobody mechanics from the Outer Rim instead of General and Soldier makes the long hyperjumps between missions actually bearable. 

  How that led to him sitting in a rarely used hallway on the Resolute with Skywalker ("Anakin," he keeps insisting with a smile), both leant over a mouse droid in pieces on a drop cloth, Fives isn't really sure. It probably had something to do with Skywalker's excited bounce when he'd come to ask if Fives wanted to help him, the sparkle in his eye reminding Fives just how young the both of them are. How, technically, he's older than Anakin.

  Because, yeah, he is Anakin, not Skywalker, when they're like this. With his growing knight cut a curly untamed cloud around his ears, grease smeared on the underside of his jaw, with Fives stripped down to his blacks from the waist up, with even his blasters set on the floor next to them. 

  With it quickly becoming clear that Anakin doesn't actually need help to rewire the mouse droid, but had asked for Fives to join him anyways.

  They've been at it for a few hours now, their jokes winding down to companionable quiet as they both work on separate parts of the droid. It honestly might have been easier to start from a scrap droid than try to rewire this one correctly, but it's easy work Fives could do blindfolded, and sharing the mutually-focused silence is actually quite nice.

  Anakin is elbow-deep in the outer casing when he finally asks, "Do the clones feel love?"

  And Fives almost gets up and walks away. He knows not every battalion ended up with a good Jedi, that the 212th and the 501st had been so kriffing lucky to end up with "The Team", but sometimes he forgets. Maybe that's the worst part of it: slow, personal moments like this, Fives forgets he's not natborn and bearer of a face shared with millions. Being around his general makes him forget, and maybe he had taken that for granted until now.

  Or maybe it's for that reason that he hesitates from storming off, because Anakin had been the one to name Alpha, to insist on giving them proper leave, to defend them from anyone who talks down at them even if they're a planetary leader. And Rex had said something, once, about Anakin’s brain working in either/ors, being hardwired in some way to only see in black and white and believing that if you're one thing, you can't be another. That what Anakin says isn't always what he means.

  So instead, he asks, "What kind of love are we talkin'?"

  Anakin refuses to raise his head, and Fives can almost see him stressing about how to phrase this.  "Y'know, grand romance and stuff. One-and-onlys and holodrama romcom propaganda and imagining growing old together."

  "'Not quite sure what you're asking, sir." He takes a deep breath. "The short answer is yes, we can and do feel that, but the long answer is I can't speak for every brother, and I would not want to. Some of us don't feel that." Shrugging, he passes Anakin a socket wrench before he can ask for it. "But it's not because we can't, not because of the longnecks. We're bred to be obedient, sir, not emotionless."

  Quiet settles over them again while Anakin processes this, his mouth twisted rather horribly. Fives starts to think he would do a whole awful lot to turn that frown back into a haughty smile. 

  "What do you really want to ask, General?"

  "I'm married to Senator Amidala."

  Now, everyone with eyes knows that. Maybe Torrent knows even better, when they've been covering for their general for over a year now, and clearly the Jedi just aren't doing anything about it — but Fives also knows Anakin has never actually told anyone about this, not even General Kenobi. Rex says Anakin still thinks they've been discreet.

  "If I may be blunt, sir, this is not news."

  And Anakin actually laughs at that, shaking his head as he tosses down his tools to stare at the opposite wall instead. Fives watches his gaze go distant, somewhere far away from the Resolute lost in the middle of space. “I’ve loved her since I was nine years old, Fives. I loved her through not seeing her for a decade, through her assassination attempts and the First Battle of Geonosis and becoming a knight, and I...”

  Fives sighs once. “No one said you had to stay in love, sir.”

  “But that’s just it,” he groans. “I’ve never known how to do anything else, how to be anything else. I don’t... know who I am without it.”

  He has to look away from Anakin, then, because he’s seen brothers go stupid for people they meet on campaigns, or for their Jedi, and Fives isn’t nearly as young as some of the shinies out there, but he knows what it looks like, when they leap in without thinking. He lets out a long, slow breath, his eyes falling on the ‘saber at Anakin’s hip. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  Anakin blinks at him, and nods.

  “That’s too young to decide what you want to do for the rest of your life.” Fives raises a brow at his general’s startled expression, which is maybe more amusing (endearing) than it has any business being. “General, you’re barely an adult, just the same as the vode. If my mental timeline is right, you weren’t even twenty standard when you married Amidala, which, frankly, was reckless and unfair on her part.”

  “Padmé would never–”

  “I don’t mean intentionally, sir. The fact of the matter is, no wonder you don’t know who you are without her, because you’ve always had her.” That decade of no contact notwithstanding, considering Anakin didn’t not have her, either. “Senator Amidala knew who and what she was before you, and she’ll know who and what she is without you.”

  “That’s not quite fair,” Anakin grumbles, but his throat is flushed in what Fives hopes is entirely appropriate guilt, or at the very least embarrassment. “It was my idea to get married after Geonosis.”

  Fives snorts. “The idea of a child thrown into war, afraid to lose anything.”

  “You’re being uncharacteristically candid, Fives.”

  “Respectfully, sir, the last thing you need is to be coddled.” His general laughs again, this time good and bright in a way he hasn’t heard before; and then Fives can’t help what he admits next. “We weren’t allowed toys, or anything.”

  Laughter cutting off abruptly, Anakin’s eyes grow haunted instead. There might not be anyone else in the galaxy with quite the same experience as the clones, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t those that understand.

  “Hevy made me and Echo– Well, he said they were mythosaurs like Kal taught us about, but they looked more like sad loth cats. He cut up his own bedsheet to make ‘em, and couldn’t tell the longnecks what he’d done with it, so he just slept on the bare mattress.”

  “Fives...”

  But it’s clear Anakin doesn’t actually know what to say, so Fives pushes on. “Some of Fett’s instructors tried to teach us Mando’a, you know? I think Spar is the only brother that ever got fluent, the rest of us have been making up words and combining them with Basic and Kaminoan and whatever else the Cuy’val Dar spoke that sometimes we don’t even remember what language they are anymore.”

  “I didn’t learn Basic until I was five.” Anakin thunks his head onto the wall behind him with a sigh, the mouse droid forgotten at his feet. “Other padawans always told me I was lucky Master Obi-Wan knew Huttese.” Ahh, kark, his general had been a Hutt salve; at least the spice runners made sure their slaves could communicate with their customers. “I couldn’t read a word of Aurebesh when I first came to the Temple, though to be fair, I couldn’t read anything else, either.”

  “You grow up around other kids?”

  “Yeah, my mom and I lived in the biggest slave slum on Tatooine.”

  Fives doesn’t need to tell him how lucky he was just to have had their own quarters. “I think, sir, that the vode know better than you think, what it’s like always standing on the edge of losing everything.”

  Squeezing his eyes closed, Anakin inhales sharply and clenches his fists over his knees. “What happened? To your mythosaur toys?”

  “One of the longnecks found them while we were in training, ‘threw them out before we got back. I think Hevy was even more upset than we were.”

  The leather glove over his prosthesis creaks as he tightens his grip on his own palms. “Was it easy? To just... forget about them?”

  “Of course not,” Fives snorts and crosses his arms, “we were the equivalent of eight standard at the time, but we honestly didn’t have a choice. As we got a little older, we stopped trying to put meaning in things, because we weren’t allowed things. Our names are our only real possession, even our armor can be taken from us, but we will not, cannot, let anyone take our names.”

  Groaning, Anakin scrubs his hands over his face before pushing himself up to finally look at Fives properly. He still doesn’t speak for a moment, just watching him, then teases flatly, “You’ve been spending too much time with Cody and Obi-Wan, you’re starting to speak in riddles.”

  “They are riddles only to you, sir.” He offers a small smile, and is only slightly disappointed when Anakin doesn’t return it.

  Instead, he lets out a winded breath. “So. You’re saying that it’s not easy to let go of even small things, but we must. And then there are things that we shouldn’t let go of?”

  “Some things aren’t ours to keep.”

  Anakin swallows. “Like Padmé,”

  “Like any person, no matter what sort of love we have for them.”

  Groaning, Anakin pulls his knees back up close and drops his face into his arms. “But I still love her.”

  Knowing that this is not a new problem, that General Kenobi has been trying to teach his general this for as long as they’ve known each other, Fives takes a moment to consider. “You don’t really have to stop loving her.”

  “But you said–”

  “You think I stop loving my brothers when they die?”

  Whether or not it’s healthy to hold onto affections for someone after a romantic relationship is a conversation for another time, Fives decides, and leans over to pick up where Anakin had left off with the droid.

  “General, it sounds to me like you already know all this,” he says, twisting a wire into the grip of his glove to yank it from the motor. “And  that you’re digging your feet in — which is the crux of the problem, isn’t it?”

  “You sound like Obi-Wan,” he groans, but doesn’t deny it.

  “Hmm, well, at least we’re still just kids.”

  Anakin very slowly looks up from his arms, just enough for Fives to see his wide eyes. “What do you...?”

  “Well, we’ve still got time to learn, don’t we?” Fives raises his eyebrow as he fits the new wire into the motor and starts to close all the panels back up. “I still think about Hevy and Droidbait and Cutup, and honestly, I still think about Echo’s and my mythosaurs. That’s not a bad thing, I don’t think, not even the Jedi would think that’s bad. I’m still angry when my vode don’t get funerals and I honestly hold that against the Chancellor and the Jedi both. But I don’t get to go back to Kamino and take my anger out on the longneck that took our toys, and I’m... working on it, not being so angry with the generals. I’m still angry. But I know the Jedi have about as much say in all of this as we do, and I know burying my brothers won’t bring them back. So I’m working on it.”

  “I... don’t have to be good at it all at once.”

  “Great Maker, General, just because you’re the Chosen One doesn’t mean you have to actually be good at absolutely everything from the start. You just have to try, and you still have time to.”

  He looks up and finds Anakin already smiling back. “Fives, I could kiss you.”

  “Considering it sounds like Senator Amidala just divorced you, I think that’s a very bad idea, sir.”

  “Bah, you’re no fun.”

  Fives feigns offense, “This mouse droid we’ve rigged to follow Captain Rex around and scream says differently.”

-

  The night the 501st returns to the Resolute after finally (kriffing finally) leaving Umbara, Fives finds a hand-sewn stuffed mythosaur on his bunk, with a string collar and a dogtag etched with CT-782.

-

Mando’a: Cuy’val Dar — “Those who no longer exist”, group of 75 Mando’ade and 25 others put together by Jango to train the clones vod/e —  “brother/s, comrade/s, sibling/s”, technically gender neutral but used most often in fandom as “brother/s” (*in this context, fives is using brothers as gender neutral as well, because you won’t take trans and nb clones even from my cold dead hands*)

[possiblypeachy]

tea & schemes. (6)

―; summary: welcome distractions can be found in the library-- besides the books, of course.

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 4.5k

―; warnings: none(?).

―; A/N: i... love them... a lot. writing this is like playing with little dolls and making them hold hands n stuff except!! i’m a baby that has an awareness of the healthy progression of a relationship and so i keep them just out of reach of each other to intensify the pining!! how splendid and good of me!!!! :))

anyway, please do enjoy!! (also, i made a pinterest board for this so hmu if you want me to send you the link bc it’s practically an amalgamation of pictures that make me happy)

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

― ❊ ―

“Freddy?”

Florence took the hat she had been wearing and placed it on the table beside the door, haste dictating each of her movements. From placing cutlery on the dining table, Lissie gave her a sidewards glance, an eyebrow quirking upwards, but said nothing yet; if there was to be a quarrel, they could get it all out first before registered pacifier, Felicity Marlowe, would step in.

“Freddy?” For a young woman raised from birth to be delicate and heavenly, Florence sure did have a set of lungs on her. If Frederick hadn’t heard her shouting from downstairs yet, he might as well have been deaf. Even Lissie flinched back at her volume.

Floorboards creaked above them. Lissie stifled a laugh when a loud sigh could be heard at the top of the stairs. When Freddy’s face finally emerged from behind the corner, practically dragging himself down the stairs, she had to leave the room, lest she further irritate the man.

“You’re doing an excellent job of annoying the neighbours, my dear sister.” He observed, trudging toward the dining table to take a seat. Florence did the same, taking a spot right in front of him. After flattening and smoothing her skirts down, she leant forward on the table, hands clasped together just before her bowl. Upon noticing the seriousness in her posture, a worry began to grow within him. He gave a quick glance down to her interlocked fingers and noticed a slip of white between the gaps. “What’s this about?”

The fingers of Florence’s right hand dipped behind those of the left and emerged with a piece of paper-- evidence of her escapades. She slid it across the table toward her brother. “I met a lovely man in the library today; he was all charm and smiles. He even quoted some of Dickens’ work to woo me.”

Brows pulled downwards, Freddy took the slip of paper though had yet to look at it. “And, you think this is a world-ending problem why? Should he have quoted Shakespeare instead?”

She rolled her eyes and thrusted her still interlocked hand toward the note. “Read the bloody note, Fredd--”

“Hey! Elbows off the table.” Lissie, who had adopted a particularly maternal tone, scolded as she waddled over with the steaming pot of stew. It landed with a jarring thump! down onto the table beside them both. A tea towel hit Florence’s arm and she yelped, eyes meeting the blue of Lissie’s. “You should know this, lovely.”

Florence gestured between herself and Freddy. “He and I have something important to discuss; I think I should be allowed to put my elbows wherever I please, mother.”

Lissie chortled at her immaturity. “Your elbows are your own until food appears on this table. As soon as that happens, I’m afraid that I--”

“Revenge?” Both women stopped in their bickering to look at Freddy, who’s gaze dragged from the paper to his sister. His expression contorted, lips parted and brows knitted together as if speechless. “What does that mean, Florrie? What’s the man’s name?”

Lissie let out a small sigh when Florence leant toward her brother, elbows on the table, but began to spoon out the stew anyway, leaving the siblings to speak without her pestering.

“Willard Molyneux-Herbert.” The name rolled off of her tongue like a thick poison. “Ring any bells?”

She could see Freddy visibly dragging himself through his memories, gaze focused over her shoulder and into the past. Florence began to idly stir the stew with a spoon when her brother, unconvinced of his own mind’s capability, pointed into nothing. “I recall a… Alan Molyneux-Herbert. I brought him in a few months ago after his horrific surgical practices were presented to my people.”

Despite the unfortunate predicament she was in, that fire flickered to life in Florence’s eyes. Freddy suppressed a sigh upon noticing it. “He could be his older brother.” She got up on her feet to lean further toward her brother, scanning over as much of the note as she could so she could point to the line that backed up her theory. “See? They must’ve been close-- or business partners of some kind.”

He gave a hum, rolling the corner of the paper as he pondered. Then, he placed it to one side, prompting Florence to sit back down, and picked up his spoon. “Did he say anything… strange to you?”

“Besides being far too forward?” One of her eyebrows quirked upwards and Freddy grimaced, taking to eating a spoonful of his meal rather than replying. “He asked that I meet him again in the library tomorrow.”

After a few moments of quiet, his lips drew into a tight line. “I think you should.”

Florence scoffed before spooning a chunk of beef into her mouth. She covered her lips with the back of her hand as she spoke. “No objections to me doing the dirty work this time, brother dearest?”

Knowing that she’d hit back with something like that, he groaned. “It’s a public library; he can’t try to do anything in there besides torment you with his flirting.” He wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin and gestured to her. “I’m certain, after your scuffle with Mister Fullmore, you can handle yourself around one man. If familial similarities tell me anything, I doubt this Willard is the largest bloke either.” Florence hummed, pointing her spoon at Freddy to confirm his point. “Besides, I can hardly take your place can I?”

She gave a small laugh. “I think I’d enjoy seeing you try.”

“I’m sure you would.” He replied with a smile-- the kind that was accompanied by a fond shake of the head.

They ate quietly for a while with only the grandfather clock on the other side of the room creating steady noise. Lissie pottered about between them as their bowls began to empty, cooing gently to Duncan who had hopped down the stairs to collect any scraps that fell onto the floor. When Freddy finally finished, he didn’t leave the table as usual and instead leant back in his chair, staring at his sister. She soon noticed this and dragged her gaze away from the remnants of stew in her bowl. Spoon still held close to her mouth, she prompted him with a raise of both brows.

He clasped his hands together and rested them against his stomach. “Mister Frye visited before you returned. He asked me to ‘apologise on his behalf for dashing off today’.” Freddy mirrored her raised brows, which hadn’t yet moved from their position. It was as though she was a rat caught in a larder.

Slowly, she raised herself up from her bowl, placing the spoon neatly onto the napkin at the side. “I was… on my way to the library and we ran into one another. He rushed away because--”

“I’ve known you since you came out of the womb, Florence; stop lying to me.” Frederick stopped her, rolling his eyes until they met hers again. She huffed but was given no time to defend herself. “It seemed like, from what he told me at the door, that he ran off without so much as a thought to you or your feelings--”

“He came to apologise--”

“-- and only had his sight on his… agenda for London. You shouldn’t want to spend all of your time with a man who doesn’t consider your emotions, Florrie.”

Florence widened her eyes and shook her head, like her brother was stupid and she was drawing attention to it. “I’m not heartbroken, Freddy; Mister Frye can do as he pleases. I’m not going to bloody marry the man.”

Frederick breathed out a laugh. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in weeks.” Seemingly satiated with her answer, he stood from his chair and patted down his waistcoat and the lap of his trousers. He partly did this to avoid Florence’s scalding stare, her jaw clenched in an attempt to keep back a smile of disbelief. With that done, he turned and made his way to the stairs, presumably retiring for the evening before his sister could bite back with anything too venomous.

Florence sighed, slumping back in her chair so Lissie could collect her bowl and cutlery.

Well, at least tomorrow would be interesting.

---

Florence found Willard sat at the same table the next day. Now, she was somewhat late, though that was mostly due to the fact that she had been standing in the entryway wiping sweat from her hands for a good amount of time. Lying and acting to appease someone you know is one thing but it gets a lot scarier when you’re dealing with a man who, in a few scrawled words and a look or two, had made himself seem very… nasty.

For someone who had been sat, alone, in a library for goodness only knows how long, Willard didn’t seem to have all too great of an interest in any of the hundreds of books on offer. Instead, he played with his thumbs, strands of golden hair tumbling onto his forehead. It was stupid, Florence thought as she approached him, but she still couldn’t possibly bring herself to deny the fact that Willard was a terribly beautiful man.

When a chair scraped across the wooden floor in front of him, his head snapped upwards. For a moment, he looked almost innocent: green eyes wide and lips parted just enough for Florence’s eyes to linger on them. However, upon taking in her blush-coloured dress and the curls in her hair, that conniving twist appeared on his lips and she instinctively looked away.

“Dear lady,” he began, voice rumbling like the beginnings of a roar, “I thought it impossible that you look more beautiful than yesterday but it appears you have proven me wrong.”

Florence, in an effort to not be sucked into the whirling green of his eyes, rubbed her nose with a finger and acted like she was picking something from the skirt of her dress. “You flatter me, Mister Molyneux-Herbert.”

She sensed that he’d placed his upturned hand on the table in front of her and she finally dragged her gaze to him. His palm begged for her own. “Please, Miss Abberline, call me Willard.”

Florence smiled-- a courteous gesture though not at all genuine; it seemed to satisfy him enough. Her fingers relished in the cool wood of the table before taking their place in his hand. “If that’s the case, you may call me Florence.”

Like yesterday, he placed a lingering kiss on the back of her hand. She allowed her gaze to flicker away, seemingly flustered under the attention, her lips curling into a coy smile.

This was terrible. Horrendous. A nightmare. Florence delighted in her skill of manipulation but had never had to act so… submissive before. It seemed that Willard only held that sweet glint in his eyes when she shied away from him-- when she acted petite and enamoured by male attention. It made her want to tug her hand away and--

A cough sounded behind her and she jolted, pulling her hand away from Willard in the process. While not exactly how she had planned getting away from him, she was still grateful that it had worked. As Florence turned in her seat, ready to give the disturbance a small, thankful smile, she met a pair of hazel eyes.

Wait. She knew those eyes.

Her vision finally focused on the rest of the face.

Jacob.

Half of her said to turn around as to not make Willard suspicious of anything. The other half declared that if she simply spun around that it would look strange too. So, Florence faced halfway between them both, gaze able to dart between the pair. Though, with how peeved Willard looked, she didn’t particularly want to glance in his direction.

“Who are you? Can’t you tell that the lady and I are busy?”

So, he was an emotionally volatile man too. Great.

When Florence looked to Jacob, awaiting his response, he caught her eyes, brows twitching just enough for her to assume he was quite taken aback by Willard. “The name’s Jacob Frye, sir. I’m here to collect Miss Abberline; her brother says it’s urgent.”

A slight panic struck Florence.

What did Freddy need? Had something gone wrong? Was he hurt?

Wide eyes flickered over to Willard, her hands already arranging her skirts to make it easier for her to stand. There was a strange glint in his gaze. He was focused on Jacob; his sudden hostility had quietened. Much to her surprise, Willard didn’t open his mouth to speak again, instead leaving the conversation open to her.

“Why? What does he need?” Florence rose from her seat, eyes now trained onto Jacob. “He hadn’t said about something ‘urgent’ this morning.”

Jacob shrugged, giving an unknowing frown. “He didn’t tell me anything else-- only requested that you get back home as soon as you can.”

A hand to her forehead, she let out a heavy sigh. “Willard,” She began; Jacob seemed to be quite intent on listening in on the exchange, “I must cut our meeting short. I am beyond sorry but… Frederick never usually calls on me in such a manner so it must be important.”

“I can accompany you, dear lady. My carriage and driver should be nearby.” Willard tensed to stand but Jacob held out a hand. The blond slowly lowered himself once again. Florence could feel rage ebbing off of him-- likely thanks to being pushed about by a man of a lower class.

“Sergeant Abberline asked only for her. I can get her home safely, Will.” Willard visibly bristled and Florence could’ve sworn that she could see the beginnings of a smile playing at Jacob’s lips. “Now,” Jacob held out a hand, which Florence took, to help her out of the alcove, “if you don’t mind, the lady and I should be off.”

With that, he swept his arm in the direction of the exit-- a dramatic gesture that made Florence suppress a smile-- and the two of them left the building. She didn’t dare to even look back at Willard, lest he kill her with his burning stare alone.

When the thunder of carriages upon stone and the chatter of people returned to her senses, Florence turned to Jacob, who was still leading her along. A hand came to his arm, half to get his attention and half to give her the leverage to walk alongside him. “Right, Jacob, what’s the matter with Freddy? If he’s in the hospital for something, I swear--”

“Nothing’s the matter.”

“-- I will get my hands on-- wait. What?” Florence stopped on the pavement, expression crumpled with confusion. “What do you mean ‘nothing’s the matter’?”

Jacob, having realised that Florence had paused, reeled backwards to address her. There was a grin on his face that had an undertone of caution; he was unsure if he had made a mistake. What with the look of annoyed bewilderment painted across her features-- brows drawn together, lips parted, nose scrunched up-- it was expected for Jacob to have a genuine sense of worry settle in his stomach.

“I mean that you looked terribly uncomfortable in there and I thought, being the saint to society that I am--” Florence’s jaw shifted to one side slightly, her hands on her hips, in an attempt to keep a relenting smile from tugging at her lips. He was insufferable. “-- that I would be doing you a favour by stealing you away.” His eyes, having been thrown around dramatically while he was speaking, drifted hopefully back to her. One of his brows raised and his lips curled into an apologetic smile.

Florence said nothing.

Jacob stayed frozen in that position for a few moments more before slumping, sighing lightly. “I’m sorry for worrying you.” He held a hand out toward her, beckoning. “I’ll make it up to you with a surprise-- I promise.”

She looked between his hand and his face, then finally grinned. Jacob’s shoulders visibly relaxed and it only made her laugh, sweeping gleefully toward him. “Seems like I worried you there. Care about my feelings do we, dear Jacob? My brother was concerned that you didn’t.” Rather than taking his hand, she hooked her arm around his, leveraging herself to his side.

“You are a menace, Flor.” His smile said otherwise, however.

“Only to you.”

They locked eyes for a moment, smiles softening into something different altogether. Florence could suddenly feel her heart in her ears. There was that heaviness of breath in her chest-- a choking swell of her feelings.

No. No. Not again.

As though struck by lightning, her gaze darted away, blinking a few times like she was resetting herself. “Where might this surprise be then, Jacob?” Florence looked back to him, though she appeared to have steeled herself somewhat. When she noticed the light of concern in his eyes, a light squeeze came to his bicep alongside a smile.

Deciding against saying anything about the sudden change in her demeanour, he began to walk them both along the street. “Well, I recently met a bloke by the name of Robert Topping. Strange man, with an even stranger sense of fashion--”

“Yes, because you are the pinnacle of that area.” Her other arm moved around to tug at his untucked shirt and he batted her away, chuckling.

“You’ll see the man soon and you’ll be eating your own words, dear Flor.” Jacob shook his head, as if he were recalling Robert’s dress sense and shivering at it.

“Why? What does this Topping fellow have to do with where we’re going?”

“Will you let me speak without interrupting?”

Florence huffed out a laugh, gesturing in a forward motion with her hand. “Go ahead; I’ll try not to interject.”

Jacob nodded a ‘thank you’ as he tugged her down a backstreet, glancing from place to place to ensure he was going the right way. “Well, Topping is a bookie for a variety of events but my personal favourite are the fights. So, I thought I might bring you along to a fight club to watch a few matches-- get invigorated, you know?”

“Oh, I’ve heard of these fight clubs. Freddy often complains about them.” Florence mentioned. “I suppose he just doesn’t understand why people would fight against each other for fun.”

Jacob raised a brow. “You’ve heard of them before?”

“Why does that surprise you?” Florence glanced up at him, confused.

He paused for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m not sure, I just supposed there’d been a rule surrounding the secrecy of fight clubs or something.”

Now far too wound up in this string of their own thoughts, the pair walked in silence for a short time. Once again, Jacob seemed to have a knack for leading Florence down alleyways that she didn’t even know existed. He often gave a nod or a wave to people dressed in green-- his ‘rooks’, she remembered-- which she began to do as well, if only to seem more like a friend of Jacob’s than anything else; she supposed she didn’t want to get the reputation of ‘that bird that Jacob buys’. It appeared as though her upbringing-- filled with reminders to remain a respectable woman-- had stuck in some ways more than others.

Jacob turned to her for a brief moment, mouth opened, but no words came. One of her brows tugged downwards. “What is it?”

He looked away again and breathed out a sigh through his nose. “I don’t mean to… intrude on your personal business but--”

“Willard?” The light-heartedness in her tone relaxed Jacob and a relieved smile curved his lips.

“Yes. I didn’t realise you had a gentleman suitor, hm?”

Florence grimaced and made a noise akin to “blergh”. “No, I wouldn’t count Willard as that, despite his trying.” Jacob raised a brow, urging her to elaborate. “The first words he said to me were a quote from one of your dear old friend Dickens’ novels. Then, he introduced himself as the--” she mimicked a man’s voice, “--’third son to the Earl of Carnarvon’.” She sighed, throwing her hand into the air. “I mean, how pompous can one man be?”

Jacob had been grinning the whole time, quite amused with her ranting. “So, I take it you’re not interested then, despite his beautiful blond locks?” He acted like he was flipping hair over his shoulder and she laughed, shaking her head.

“I most certainly am not interested-- mostly because he supposedly has some kind of grudge against my brother and wants revenge by means of me.” He felt her grip on his arm tighten somewhat and realised that, although her tone sounded fairly unfazed by the idea, Florence was really quite angry. “I don’t understand why all men interested in me have some kind of criminal inclination.”

Jacob, an assassin and criminal by trade, gave a slight laugh, raising his eyebrows and averting his gaze by glancing down a nearby backstreet. “They certainly do.”

Quiet fell between them once again but only because he was considering. He took the few moments in which they descended a set of stairs to weigh up his options.

With a certain degree of courage mustered, Jacob asked: “Have you ever been with someone, Flor? Like... romantically?” as normally as he could.

She didn’t seem to pick up on the riot in his mind but still frowned somewhat. “Yes. Well, sort of. I tend not to enjoy thinking of it.”

He furrowed his brows. “Why not?” A cheeky laugh slipped passed his lips and an elbow nudged into her side. “Was he a disaster in bed?”

A harsh squeeze came to his arm and, through a chuckle, he yelped at the pinch it caused. When he looked to her, she was glaring at him but a light of amusement danced through the gold in her eyes. “No, Jacob, I’ve never even--” she paused, glancing to the side, defeated. He grinned, infuriating her further. She continued, if only to stop him from saying anything else. “Thomas Langhorne is the terrible man who I used to love but he broke my heart and is now married to my eldest sister, Harriett.”

Jacob blinked a few times at the speed in which she said this, having to rewind her words in his head. “What? He’s married to who? I feel like there’s more to this-- if you’re willing to tell, of course.”

Florence sighed quietly. It was a tender topic still and merely scraping the surface of it made her want to pummel Thomas. Though, the look in Jacob’s eyes was overbearingly patient and that little voice in the back of her head convinced her that perhaps sharing the memory might have a relieving effect.

“When I was fifteen, I fell in love with the mayor’s son, Thomas Langhorne. It was the kind of young love you read in books, you know? There were butterflies and nights stolen away and ugh!” She groaned, brows forced together. Honestly, it almost looked as if Florence could throw up at the thought. “He promised to have my hand in marriage and young me, being foolish, fell hopelessly in love with Thomas. I never understood why we had to keep everything a secret, however.” Ah, here was the problem, Jacob suspected. He could almost feel her nails piercing through his coat with how angrily she held his arm. “I figured out that little conundrum when I took a trip to our cellar and found him…” Florence grimaced and took a breath to brace herself, “... inside my sister.”

“Bloody Hell.” Jacob hissed through his teeth, looking down at her in disbelief. Her vision seemed to be glazed with fury and didn’t notice the concern for her in his eyes.

“It turns out they loved each other and Thomas had used me to get to Harriet. I was simply the idiot who thought I was in love.” Florence, feeling heavy-hearted but altogether like a weight had been loosened from her shoulders, gave a bitter little laugh. The grip on his arm lessened. “So, I have decided to stay away from all matters romance until I absolutely must marry someone, lest I have all of society frown upon me.”

Jacob felt a pang of hurt somewhere-- not at her declaration to steer clear of love but at the mere fact that such a man could take a treasure like Florence and stand on her like he did. It was terrible, he thought, that a young woman, during the years in which they all dream of falling in love, had barred herself from doing just that because of the selfish desires of this Thomas bloke.

“I don’t think you should give up on love so easily, Flor.” He mentioned to her, gesturing for her to let go of his arm and walk behind him down a tight alleyway. “Besides, this Langhorne fellow doesn’t seem like the ideal man.” There was a pause, then Jacob huffed out a laugh. “How big was he?”

When they emerged from the alleyway, getting closer to the distant sounds of a crowd cheering, the light that finally hit Florence revealed a mightily confused expression. She had an inkling of what he meant but wanted confirmation. Her eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”

Jacob gave an impish grin. “You know: the downstairs.” He waggled his eyebrows and Florence snorted.

“I called the ordeal a ‘little conundrum’ for a reason, dear Jacob.” Amusement bled back into her eyes and the way she was smiling told him that she was keeping back laughter.

“Well then, you should forget little Thom being your first love. Let your sister have him, eh?” The pair came to a door and the roaring crowd was most certainly behind it. Jacob swept an arm forward to encourage her to go in front of him before he revealed the arena. “Find another first-- one who actually knows what’s right there in front of him.”

Perhaps Jacob was right; Thomas didn’t deserve to have such an impact on her life. He was a rat of a man and Harriett could keep him. Florence would find someone far better: someone who could make her laugh, who would calm her anxieties, who would adventure with her, despite what everyone says. Yes. Yes. She at least deserved that.

“Plus, I’m certain the next bloke you find will have a much bigger--”

Florence thrust the doors open and the two of them drowned in the roar of the crowd, bells ringing and bookies begging for bets. Despite the noise, she could sense that Jacob was chuckling behind her.

What a dastardly man, she thought with a smile.

[jackiebrackettt]

you’ve activated my rambling trap >:] which also means this goes under the cut:

basically a final draft of a script is like.. one of the Earliest things that is set in stone in a filming process - there can be some rewrites if something comes up but generally you have the script and then there’s So Much More To Do

blocking (<- figuring out the beats and blocks of the script), storyboard, camera plan, and movement plan are the big ones generally. lighting plan too. not to mention building/getting a set etc etc and the way that will effect the rest of everything. you want to have the script to base all that off and then if things change, they change

obviously there’s no intent to massively change the script though - definitely not so much in terms of what’s being said or the emotion behind it. stuff like movement, blocking, and positioning would be the main things effected bc screenplay writers are sort of.. not supposed to write Camera Movement etc etc. so if the DoP wants a character framed a certain way, that might effect the movement. which could mean adding movement where there is none or changing the movement to better fit in accordance to the rest of the film set/camera shot

although generally if the director and writer are 2 diff ppl there can also be some differences with the other things - emotions and dialogue etc etc. (if u are a writer u do Not want to be on set it is hell)

not to mention the actors themselves - they have multiple takes and in intense, high emotion scenes can sometimes add things to their performance if it feels natural and if the director likes it they can keep it. also same goes for comedy. the actors are focused Solely on their own character as well which is why them coming up with stuff is usually considered “the funniest” or “the best” -> a lot easier to deep dive into a character and what they’d say/how they’d react when it’s the only one u have to worry about

it’s also a directing uhh trick (? Idr the word. oh wait technique) to get actors to take scenes multiple different ways shrug which means there can be some added things/flexibility/changes in there. as a director, you Want to get ur actor into the headspace where they feel confident enough about the character’s direction/thoughts/reactions/etc to add stuff in - it’s much more immersive. same with the script writer in general which is why u get a lot of “the emotion is this”. anyway obviously not all the time, but that’s why a lot of these improv things are smaller lines/movements/etc that ppl pick up. it’s adding rather than changing

there’s also, as I said, multiple takes. it’s just as likely someone could’ve tried to add in a line or movement that just didn’t work for whatever reason so it was scrapped. we’re seeing that the “best bits” that are improv-ed because obviously only the best bits would be added. like it would have to be Really Good to be added

so basically when people compare scripts to the end result there is so much more they’re missing out on in between. this also isn’t even going into the editing, which can change things as well (although I’m with a lot of ppl on “why did they cut this out?” sometimes lol but pacing and overall time limits of the movie do come into play 😔)

anyway this was mostly prompted bc I see ppl get a little uhh intense? ig? about the stranger things actors adding “the best lines” in like “just let them write the script” etc etc. which u know like.. their Understanding of their characters doesn’t necessarily mean they can write a script. like if they can that’s epic but that’s a completely different skill set. perhaps bc they’ve been playing them so long they’d have a better feeling for it, sure but yeah

also saw a comment on a diff script to film thing about how “so they didn’t mention a movement here in the script but the actor ended up doing it Eyes emoji” and it’s like.. well yes but there’s a storyboard, camera plan, movement plan, and the director’s thoughts on the film day that also go into changing all that! I know I mostly focused on directing/film day stuff but the whole point of this is like.. there’s a lot that goes on in between the Final Script and the Final Take That We See On Screen. a lot of other paperwork, visualising, set building/acquiring which also could change how things are filmed, in general translating from Screenplay to Camera Shot, and multiple takes

that being said: every filming experience is probably a little different lol really depends on the director/producer ig. but when ppl assume actors improv-ing bits is somehow uhh.. Out There or that some things were changed/added bc of the actors when there isn’t necessarily a confirmation - well it’s a little funny ig

one dayy someone will ask me about the script/screenplay -> film days process and well i will have a grand time. until then i will laugh a little at the assumptions ppl make. sorry