#the way i held back from using any more french than was strictly necessary even though i am literally bilingual

[heich0e]

if you're still doing prompts I would love a tednou piece ❤

mint i cannot put into words the things i feel for this man and i'm so sorry i will never be able to do him justice but oh i tried

When you were young, your grandmother always told you that time was a fickle friend.

It had meant little to you back then, just another one of those silly phrases that the elderly woman seemed to have an endless supply of, on topics that ranged from the weather to catching frogs. You’d always accepted them for what they were and moved on, years passing as the fickle friend ticked ever forward.

But as you’d grown older you realized that time was not your friend at all.

It moved fastest when you were doing things you liked, so it never seemed to last.

Slowest when situations were their least tolerable, so it felt as though it would never end.

And most cruelly of all, it separated you from people who you loved.

You rolled over in bed, the flat cotton sheet between your body and your duvet winding itself around your waist in a way that was uncomfortable and constricting but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

It was the least of your most pressing concerns.

It had to be early, despite the fact that you didn’t know the exact hour – the blinds were open just enough in your bedroom to make out a strip of barely lightening sky on the horizon, throwing the cityscape into backlit relief.

You swept your hand under your blankets, looking for something, knocking the unusually large croissant shaped plushie beside you off the bed in your search. When you felt your touch brush the smooth, solid form that you were looking for, you wrapped your fingers around it and pulled it out from under your pillow where it had been hiding.

The bright screen of your cellphone told you, almost tauntingly, that the hour was 4:58AM. You blinked a few times as you processed this information.

No, time was definitely not your friend at all.

Your fingers seemingly had a mind of their own as they continued to slide across the screen, finding the right places to touch without you even having to think about it. Before you knew it, a ringing sound echoed through your bedroom --the repetitious jingling puncturing the perfect stillness that had previously surrounded you.

“Did you know that the oldest person who ever lived was 122?” you heard a familiar voice ask, in place of a proper greeting — as was his tendency. A second after the question was posed the video of his face filled the screen with light.

“Hi,” you said, your voice still a little sleepy despite the fact that you had probably been awake for the better part of an hour. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“She was French too,” Tendou replied, pushing some hair out of his eyes as they crinkled up in the corner with a smile.

He’d been letting it grow out lately: no longer the eccentric, pushed up style of his youth, nor the buzzcut he’d spontaneously gotten when he first moved to France because he hadn’t known how to ask for a trim. It was a nice length on him —the soft strands framing his angular features complimentarily. You couldn’t help but think he looked a little older, more mature with the added length. You wanted to run your fingers through them, feel their softness for yourself.

It had been so long since you’d been able to do that.

Pesky time, again.

“Are you okay? Why is it so dark? Isn’t it late there?” You watched his eyes search the screen curiously as he fired off question after question, struggling to make sense of your entirely dark FaceTime call. He was in his own bed, you could tell from the floral printed pattern of the pillows just behind him.

You crawled a little further over, the sheets rustling as you untangled yourself from them, until you could reach the lamp sitting on your bedside table and flicked it on. You blinked against the sudden illumination, rubbing your bleary eyes as they struggled to adjust.

“I can’t sleep,” you complained to the screen, almost laughing at how pitiful you looked and sounded on your end of the call. You shimmied back in your bed, to a more comfortable position on your own pillows, nestling down.

Tendou’s face curled into a little smile, and he shook his head disapprovingly though it was almost entirely feigned.

“You scared me for a minute there, I thought something was wrong!” he chided you playfully.

“Something is wrong” you replied indignantly, offended that he thought so little of your sleeping problems.

He laughed at you, no trace of sympathy in the sound, resting his cheek in his palm as he propped himself up in bed.

You narrowed your eyes at his dismissive laughter in response to your very important and very pressing issue. “I’m hanging up” you said, your finger ghosting over the button to end the call.

“Don’t!” he protested loudly at your own childish threat, his grin only widening at your sudden petulance.

“I’m gonna call my other boyfriend, Wakatoshi, who I’m sure cares a lot about my delicate sleep schedule” you sniffed indignantly, looking away from the screen.

“He’d answer you know — he’s probably already up and getting ready for his morning run,” he remarked, his head lolling to the side and pressing further into his hand so his cheek squished a little bit around his fingers.

Your lower lip jutted out —you’d been hoping for more of a response.

“You’re cute when you're tired,” he said to you, the words teeming with a familiar fondness. His softness made you feel a little weak.

You breathed out slowly.

That was what you were calling for.

“I miss you,” you said to him, rolling onto your side and leaning your cellphone against one of your pillows, freeing your hands in order to tuck them under your head as you settled down on your side. Your positions were almost mirroring each others, even though you were so very far apart.

“Come here,” he said to you simply, as though it was an obvious solution to such a big problem.

“You come home,” you replied, your counter argument flawless as usual.

“You know I can’t,” he sighed, his playful smile still on his face but his eyes flickering with something a little more sombre. The solemnity didn’t suit him.

“I know,” you said. And you did know. You always knew.

It wasn’t as easy as that.

But you still said it every time, anyway.

“Why can’t you sleep?” Tendou asked, trying to lighten the mood by changing the subject.

You didn’t say anything, rolling instead so that your face was buried in the crook of your own arm, hidden.

“Helloooo,” he tried to coax you out of hiding, a smile in his voice as he changed his tactic. “I’m hanging uuuuup.”

“Don’t!” Your head popped up as you protested, eyes wide. He was grinning when you looked and the screen, and you quietly cursed his use of your own threat against you.

“There she is.” Satori smiled at the camera. “So, why can’t you sleep?” he repeated his earlier question, twiddling with his fingers on his end of the call.

You watched the way his fingers moved, long and lithe, tugging and twisting at themselves as he waited for your response.

“Well?” he pressed.

“I had a dream about you,” the words came from your lips in a sort of sigh, barely words at all.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, his voice a little different than before. Breathier, and deeper.

“Hmmm” you hummed, nodding a little.

It was quiet for a moment.

The city had yet to wake up outside of your windows, and all the way on Tendou’s side of the world in Paris, the city was finally winding down for the night.

“Wanna hear another fact?” Tendou asked, the first one to speak after the prolonged pause of just staring at each other through the screens of your cellphones.

You hummed in agreement, your eyes fluttering closed.

“In french, instead of 'I miss you', we say 'tu me manques'.”

Hearing Tendou speak french made a pleasant little shiver dance down your spine, just like it always did. He’d come a long way in the time he’d spent since leaving home. You curled around yourself a little tighter under your blankets.

“That’s nice,” you said, meaning it.

“It doesn’t mean ‘I miss you’ though,” he continued, but it wasn’t in the usual vibrant voice he shared his bits of trivia in.

No, this was softer, gentler in every utterance.

“It means ‘you are missing from me’.”

Your eyelids squeezed shut a little tighter, a pang that was neither painful nor comforting and yet somehow both pulling at your chest.

“I think the french might be on to something,” you murmured, letting your eyes flutter open only to see him staring at you intently.

“Maybe,” he agreed with a smile.

“I’m sorry to call you this late,” you said, your lips pursing a little as your cheeks warmed uncomfortably. “I know you have to be up early for work.”

“You can call me whenever you want. You know that,” Tendou laughed, finally letting his head fall onto his pillow, his red hair fanning out around his cheek. “My time belongs to you, anyway. Always has.”

You blinked a little at the screen, wondering each time you opened your eyes if the soft smile on his face would have twisted into something more teasing. But it didn't.

Because he'd meant it.

Maybe you could still make a friend of time after all.

[lifeisdabubbles-undersalmondean]

La Pomme ~ Chapter Six

Pairing: Sam x OC (eventual Dean x OC and Dean x Castiel. And I mean eventual.)

Series summary: George is a casual French-Mistake-universe Supernatural fan living in no-COVID 2020, who's life is upended when she's suddenly launched between realities, two years into the boys' past (S13E22). What begins as an insane, immersive fan experience turns into more when Jack goes missing and George offers up her AU information to help track him down. Soon it's discovered that she and Sam may actually have history. But that's impossible, right?

Word Count: 6,200

Warnings: {smut, fluff, angst, show level violence, swearing, mentions of suicide} ***Detailed warnings will be tagged for specific chapters.

A/N: Following the events of my prequel Paradise and second story From My Eyes Off. Reading those first gives context but isn’t necessary to start this one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Approximately three hours of arguing with herself about staying away from them later, George went to see if Jack and Sam had returned yet. She reasoned that, at this point, they'd been so adamant about her coming that staying away altogether would probably raise a larger red flag than if she just made a quick appearance.

That's not true! I'm just going so that they don't come looking for me. This is definitely the last time. Once I get the kid set up on the games, he'll forget I exist. Then I can slip back to my as-yet-undiscovered-room and wait quietly for Rowena to return and return me home. Everything will be fine. This has nothing to do with the beard.

I have to go to keep seeming uninteresting and innocuous, She reasoned with herself, though she knew it was dangerous. It was also not the real reason she was going.

There was no part of her that believed any of that. Especially as her heart fluttered at the thought of bearded Sam in that tight, gray deep v-neck.

First, she stopped in the kitchen to grab two beers from the fridge. Then she went to check Jack's room. As she walked up to the open door, she heard the two men talking.

"I don't understand why you don't want to tell me what happened." She heard Jack say.

Sam's annoyed huff made her pause, "I did tell you; nothing happened. She passed out exhausted and I didn't know where else to put her. There are so many new people here right now, I don't know what's an empty bed and what's not."

"OK…" She heard Jack's doubtful reply and then a pause before asking, "If Brent had passed out in your arms, would you have carried him to your bed?"

George grinned devilishly at the implication of the question, covering her mouth with her hand to stay quiet. There was a long, intriguing silence before Sam ordered defensively, "Shut up."

George decided to take that as her cue. She stepped into the doorway and cleared her throat, "'Shut up,' huh? Interesting parenting philosophy." She smirked as Sam started a bit and looked over at her. Presumably, he was wondering how much of that conversation she'd heard, and she felt in no hurry to fill him in.

Jack smiled at her and pointed to a surprising amount of booty on his bed and the floor in front of it, "George! They had everything on your list! Oh, except Mario 64."

Looks like the shoe's on the other foot, She thought smugly.

"Wow, really?" Her eyes went wide when she saw the small flat screen TV box leaning against the footboard and she looked at Sam with a surprised chuckle. She guessed Sam really wanted to keep Jack occupied. "And you bought it all, I see, awesome! Did you want some help setting up?"

"Yea, come in!" Jack nodded enthusiastically, waving her in, and then began unpacking his loot. George hesitated for a second as Sam watched Jack lay out all the equipment to start getting it set up.

Bitch, I don't know why you're taking pause now! You brought the damn beer. You planned this; just go in already.

With a quick, annoyed shake of her head to quiet the smug voices, she finally stepped into the room.

When she got close to him, Sam smiled, "Hey."

"Hi," George returned his smile nervously. "I don't remember that being on my list," Sam followed her gaze to the flat screen and then squirmed a bit, guiltily. Motioning to the rest of the stuff, she asked with a chuckle, "Feeling a little bit of dad guilt over something?"

Sam feigned ignorance, "Hmm?"

"I mean, OK, you needed the system and some games but…" Her eyes ran over the huge pile of game cartridges on the bed, wide with judgement. "And the TV? Kinda screams single-divorced-dad overcompensation. And I speak from experience."

"Oh, are you a divorced single dad, too?" Sam joked.

George snorted and corrected, "Raised by one… well, on Wednesdays and every other weekend. And he worked weekends… and most Wednesdays, so…" She trailed off with a what-are-you-gonna-do shrug and Sam nodded, understanding the semi-absent dad thing.

"I can definitely relate to the unavailable father," Sam's tone was serious but there was a smile on his face.

George stared at him curiously for a minute, Supernatural episodes flashing in her mind, and then nodded, "Oh, yeah, I guess you can." She was still getting used to television characters being real people. When he furrowed his brow curiously at her, she quickly said, "Anyway, yea, uh-expensive presents helped ease my dad's guilt about not really being there. That's how I got most of my video game experience." Just as he opened his mouth to respond, she held out a beer with a questioning look and said, "I think I owe you one or two of these? Although, seeing as this one is also from your fridge, think of this as more of a symbolic gesture. Since I can't actually repay you."

He chuckled and took the beer with a soft, "Thank you. And, no repayment needed. Trust me, we're just happy to be able to help. All of you." He was referring to the people from the camp again and she grimaced as a twinge of guilt zapped through her. Lying to him made her feel awful.

While it seemed like Jack was focused on unboxing the TV and not paying much attention to them, she held up the other beer and asked quietly, "Can he? I wasn't sure if you let him, but I brought it just in case."

Sam frowned a little and shrugged, "My brother lets him and I… choose my battles," he finished with a sigh. George smiled and nodded understandingly.

Seeing Jack was still preoccupied, she shrugged after a moment and offered, "Well, I don't normally drink beer but I can just say it's mine? He may not even ask for one."

Sam nodded appreciatively, snapping the bottle cap off his and tossing it into the garbage can in the corner. As she watched him raise the cold bottle to his lips, she couldn't help but stare at his gorgeous, newly bearded face. As he took a swig, her mouth went dry. Luckily, she was able to look away just before he caught her staring and she mentally kicked herself.

He raised an eyebrow at her when he noticed she didn't join him. Setting his drink down on the desk next to him, he reached out to take the unopened beer from her. "Ya know, it's more believable that you're drinking it, if it's actually open?"

"Oh, right," She let out a 'heh' of embarrassment as he popped the cap off and tossed it into the can as well. Taking it back from him, she admitted, "Like I said, not a big beer drinker."

With a teasing expression, he said, "Hmm… but really anything you drink out of a bottle has to be opened first, right?"

She blushed and smirked at his ribbing. Forcing herself not to laugh with all her might-made more difficult by the fact that she could see him trying not to smirk-she simply said, "Well, like I said, I was a latchkey kid. I typically drink strictly from the garden hose."

Jack finally looked over at them, finished plugging the TV in, and called to her, "George, come check the games!"

She grinned at the small "HA!" he let out at her joke. With a small, mental shrug, she lifted the beer and took a swig.

Fuck it, maybe it'll help calm my nerves. She then heard a smug sing-songy voice say, famous last words.

She walked over and looked at the cartridges that were laid out on his bed, "Nice! Oh, no way! Perfect Dark?!" She picked up the game and clutched it excitedly, "I totally forgot about this one!"

"Yea, I picked up a couple extras that weren't on the list. I hope that's OK, they just looked interesting," Jack said nervously.

"Of course it's OK! You might end up hating my game suggestions-not that that's possible because I have the best taste, obviously, but still. I'm glad you have a few to try on your own." Her grin increased as she looked at the game in her hand again, getting lost down memory lane for a moment. This game had gotten her through some rough patches.

She set it down and glanced over the few that were unfamiliar to her. "These ones I've never played before, so that'll be great. You'll get to actually figure out a few on your own."

"Will it be hard?" He wondered.

"Probably. And you'll most likely get so frustrated that you'll want to tear your hair out and throw the console against a wall. But, it'll be so freaking fun you can't stop. As Charles Dickens said, 'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times'."

Sam laughed, picking his beer back up and taking another drink. George couldn't help but grin, drinking hers as well.

Damn if I'm not addicted to that sound.

While Jack was trying to get the console set up, he struggled to hook the system up to the small flat screen he'd placed on his dresser. George came over to help. After a moment, she identified the problem.

Holding up the console's composite cable she huffed, "This TV doesn't have RCA ports!"

"What?!" Sam 'pffted,' coming over to check it, running his hands along the back. When he found nothing, he stood back and put his hands on his hips, "Are you saying we're actually going to have to use our crappy old TVs for this?" He shook his head in disbelief.

George shrugged, "Eh, at least it gives him an authentic experience?"

A short while later they had the system set up on an old tube set and the three of them were playing a few rounds of Mario Kart 64. Jack was sitting cross legged on the edge of his bed. On the floor to his left was Sam, slouching against the bed with his legs stretched out long in front of him. George was to his right, with her knees bent and her feet planted on the ground, sitting straighter upright but also leaning against the bed.

In terms of play, all three were taking it serious. George was a little rusty but her muscle memory helped her quickly grab and keep first place almost every round. Jack was picking it up surprisingly quick but struggled with the strategic aspect of trap setting and disabling opponents. Sam needed a lap to get used to the buttons, but was now smoking Jack and catching up to George with ease.

At the moment they were in the middle of the second lap of their fourth round. Surprising everyone except George and Sam (because they threw it), Jack had won the first round and was very proud of himself. Unfortunately for Jack, he got a little too proud of himself. Her competitive side had roared to life at his boisterous celebration and the boys ate George's dust on the second and third rounds.

Sober George would have known better than to agree to another round. She would never admit it, but Sam had been hot on her tail the entire last round; he'd definitely be able to beat her by the next one. Unfortunately for her, she'd already finished her second beer and was feeling real cocky when they'd both demanded another round of her.

She had warned dramatically, "Alright, but if you're gonna take a shot at the Queen, you better not miss."

George was fairly far out in front and feeling great, when Sam's Peach shot a red shell at her Yoshi and she wasn't able to avoid it. As her Yoshi tumbled, George watched Peach fly past her into first place, a string of inventive curses flew out of her mouth, explaining in detail exactly where she thought Sam could put his red shells. He couldn't help but give her a quick, amused 'wtf' expression at her colorful vocabulary but she was too busy mashing her buttons to get back in gear again.

Just as she was gaining back on him, she gasped when Yoshi flipped over again. Another red shell.

"The FU-JACK!?" Her jaw dropped at Jack, whose Mario drove by and was now in second place. George let out a frustrated screech as the two men high fived each other over Sam's shoulder.

"Looks like we didn't miss, your royal highness," Sam teased, then dodged a kick to the shin with an evil laugh.

When Yoshi was upright and ready to go again, she pressed the A button down so hard her finger turned white. Pulling out all the stops to try and catch up to them again, she finally hit a mystery box. It took all her might to refrain from jumping for joy when three red shells appeared around her kart. Neither Jack nor Sam had noticed. Falsely confident that they'd disabled her, they'd devolved from their joint effort to take her down and were now going against each other. Jack lucked into hitting Sam with a tossed banana peel but Sam was able to out maneuver him on the next few turns and had scooted ahead again already.

George continued to gain on them, using her memory of the course to cut every corner she could and climb her way back up to third place. Sam and Jack were neck and neck, nearing the finish line on the final lap, and smack talking each other. They were barely paying attention to her and she waited for just the right time, before mashing her trigger button. Her red shells launched rapid fire. She watched with glee as Peach and Mario flipped over and stalled mere feet from the finish line.

As Yoshi sailed past them both and crossed in first place, George leapt up from her spot on the floor in triumph, "YES!" Sam and Jack flinched in pain; they were pretty sure everyone in the bunker had heard that.

"Tried to take me out, huh?" She asked Sam, then turned to Jack, "Didn't think I could get back up, did you? How ya like me now?" They were both trying to hide their annoyed grins and she continued, "You want to know why I always play Yoshi? Because he ain't a BITCH, and Neither. Am. I." She mic-dropped her controller onto the bed and did a victory dance in place. "Both. Of. Y'all. Can. SUuuUUuuUUuck. IiiiiIIiIIiiiIIiiit!" She sang joyfully, punching her arms into the air.

"Suck what?" Jack mumbled at Sam in exasperation, bummed that he'd lost again.

"Er-Nothing. It's just a saying, don't worry about it," The other man assured with a nervous throat clearing.

George quickly stepped over Sam's outstretched legs to the open space at the foot of Jack's bed. Jutting out her hip and placing a firm hand on it, she promptly began cat walking back and forth while singing, "Walk, walk, fashion baby. Work it. Move. That Bitch cuh-ray-zee." Jack was far more annoyed at losing than Sam, but they were both incredibly amused at her flamboyant, over-the-top reaction.

Sam watched her display with a smile and, after a moment, commented, "OK, Cindy Crawford, I'm cutting you off."

Pausing her catwalking to victory dance in front of him, she then lobbed, "And why? Don't like having your ass handed to you by a drunk woman?"

"You LUCKED out with all those red shells, George!" Jack argued defiantly.

"Now, now, Jack. Don't be a sore loser," George admonished jokingly, still wiggling her hips in delight.

"Yea, you're clearly only allowed to be a sore winner around here," Sam said pointedly with a chuckle. When George froze mid victory dance, her butt no longer bouncing in front of him, Sam regretted saying anything.

She scrunched her nose at him in offense, holding her hands up in surrender, "OK, fine. Yes. If it hadn't been for those red shells I would have been in third place."

Sam gave her a smug grin and said, "That's right."

She continued sweetly, "And obviously Jack would have won." A triumphant smile spread on Jack's face and he nodded his head in gracious acceptance of her determination.

"Thank you, yes-wait, what?" Sam started to agree with her and then it registered what she'd actually said. He did a double take. She knew darn well Sam would have won that round, but the smirk on her face told him she'd never admit it. Curiously, he was as turned on as he was infuriated.

Then, George added, "But the entire game is luck, dude! Most video games are. If you can't handle this, I would stay away from Mario Party," She warned in a serious tone.

Jack and Sam exchanged a serious look, then looked back at George. They had the same determined expression and Jack said, "Let's do it," while Sam nodded in agreement. He was having fun for the first time in weeks.

Maybe months, he thought grimly. He also hoped she'd say yes so he could do everything in his power to make her win and score another full frontal victory dance.

George laughed a little and nodded, "Alright. But don't say I didn't warn you. It's fun as hell, but no one wins at Mario Party. No. One," She finished ominously.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom before we keep going," Jack got up and headed for the door. He turned back with a thoughtful look on his face and said, "I might go to the kitchen for some snacks, too. Do you want anything?"

George shrugged, "Well, here's the situation Jack: I'm gonna say no but I will most likely steal some of whatever you bring back. So, I would say just accommodate for that and you should be golden."

Sam chuckled and said out of the corner of his mouth, "There's a life lesson in women if I've ever heard one." He avoided acknowledging the dirty look she shot him and shook his head at Jack, "Nothing for me, thanks."

After Jack left, George gave Sam a suspicious look and teased, "No more beer? Hmm, I see what you're doing."

Sam gave her a 'feigned innocence' expression and murmured, "Hmm?"

"You can stop drinking all you want; I can beat you, sober or not," Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave him a mean mug.

He chuckled, but said, "Truthfully, asking Jack to bring me a beer felt a little-"

"Alcoholic single dad?" George finished with a laugh and he joined her, nodding in agreement.

"Right," Sam pointed a quick finger in the air. "Not a great look," He said, standing up with a groan. "Yikes, shouldn't have been slouching like that. The older I get the less forgiving my back is."

"Have you ever tried a massage?" She asked, almost absentmindedly as she was distracted by him. His full height always took her breath away at first; she loved it.

Sam considered her question for a moment. Looking her over appreciatively, he asked with a teasingly incredulous tone, "No. Why, are you offering?"

That snapped George out of her stupor and she blinked rapidly. Thinking she hadn't heard him correctly, she asked "Oh, what? Oh, no! Er-I-I mean, I just, I wouldn't know where to begin. What? No, I mean I wouldn't know what I was doing. Not-no, I know what I'm doing I just-I'm not a professional. I-" Stop talking. Stop talking, now! George felt a bit warm and started fanning herself, "Hoo d'awgy, is it hot in here or just me? Maybe you should cut me off," She finished with a nervous laughter.

He had watched her nervous, adorable rambling gleefully, chuckling once or twice. Whenever he was near her, an eerie pressure would build in his chest that was reminiscent of feelings he'd thought were long since lost to him. He realized it was that feeling that spurred him on to be so flirtatious. At her last statement though, he reigned himself in and answered her question more earnestly to help break the tension and give her a chance to calm down, "I'm not so big on strangers touching me. And I worry about how sanitary those places are," he finished with an exaggerated shudder.

It had been kind of him to cut her a break, but when he started stretching out the kinks from his prolonged seat on the floor, any chance she had of calming down disappeared. She couldn't help but admire his physique. Her eyes trailed his body once over but then quickly settled back on his beard. She could kill the show producers for not letting him be bearded sooner than Season 14. 'Smoldering' didn't even begin to cover it.

She hadn't realized that she'd gotten lost in thought about those sexy whiskers until she heard his throat clearing. Widening in horror, her eyes quickly met his, which looked half amused, half curious.

With a lick of his lips, which made George's brows furrow with desire, he asked gently, "Is there something on my face?"

"No!" Gulping, she blushed from head to toe. After thinking about it for a split second, she heard a buzzed voice in her head say fuck it, you've already embarrassed yourself. Tilting her head to the side, she boldly proclaimed, "Well, actually…Yeah!" A nervous chuckle escaped her lips as she tried to figure out how to say this without giving anything away. In her inebriated state, she finally settled on, "The last time I saw you, your face was less… Hagrid?"

Sam let out a loud laugh, a look of mock offense on his face. She covered her mouth as she snickered, realizing maybe that wasn't the nicest thing to say.

"Oh, wow! Hagrid, huh? I… Well, I'm not sure how to take that. Maybe I should go shave real quick," He teased sadly, rubbing a slow hand over his beard. It made her weak kneed.

"No! Please don't! I'm sorry," She leaned forward and gently squeezed his forearm with both her hands, then let go. "I was just trying to make you laugh! And I couldn't think of an attractive bearded man reference fast enough; Hagrid was the next best thing."

"Nah, you're right. Hagrid was good; you had to do it," He shrugged in acceptance. Squinting at her curiously, he asked, "But, just to clarify, you don't think I look like Hagrid, right?"

She snorted and then looked unsure. As she spoke she slowly craned her neck up, "Well, now that you mention it, he was half-giant!" Another laugh escaped him and she bit her lip to keep from grinning. The sound mixed with the beer was lowering her inhibitions a bit and she ran her eyes over him quickly in appreciation. Before she could stop herself, she assured him, "Seriously, though. The beard looks good. You look…" All the descriptions she could think of were too inappropriate even for her less inhibited state. Finally, she breathed, her eyes wide for emphasis, "good."

Sam gave her a shy, sexy smile and he looked down at the ground for a minute. She could swear the skin of his cheeks near the top of his beard was slightly pink.

Was he hiding a blush behind all that rugged? George wondered, watching him closely. Her stomach was nearly painfully tingling with nausea; she knew she should stop but fuck, when was she ever going to get this opportunity again?

Sam looked back up at her, the look in his eyes making her gulp, and asked with a questioning shrug, "'Good,' huh?"

George could tell he was baiting her but unfortunately her rational side was beating her horny/ buzzed side back with a stick, trying to keep control. So, she simply nodded and gave him a flirty smile, confirming, "Yes. Good." The word came out as a painful purr that caused Sam's eyes to darken curiously. George unconsciously licked her lips; it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

"Hmm," was the noise that broke the silence finally, rumbling heavily from Sam's chest. He was feeling very conflicted. For one, the alcohol was obviously affecting her and he wasn't trying to take advantage. But also, she was causing him to feel a lot of intense and strange feelings, feelings that hadn't been stirred up in years, and he couldn't explain why. He'd just met her! Knew almost nothing about her, yet he was flirting with her left, right, and center like he was… well, Dean! It felt so comfortable around her; he felt a calming sense of ease, as though his life wasn't a giant crapshoot of terrible day in and day out. That feeling should have been foreign to him but it wasn't completely. That's what terrified and confused him.

They'd been staring intensely at each other. George thought it seemed like he was holding himself back; she recognized the look and assumed it was the same one on her face right now. Running a suddenly nervous hand through his hair, he huffed a little and smiled.

"Well… thank you," His tone sounded as sincere as it did nervous. "I-"

Just then Jack came back and broke the tension in the room. George released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and turned to look at him. Balancing in his arms were two packs of red vines, one large bag of peanut M&Ms, six beef jerky sticks, two 'sharin' size' bags of Cheetos, and four Yoohoos.

The intensity of the previous moment paired with the absurd amount of food made her exclaim, "Dude!" The laughter bubbled out of her before she could stop it; she got near tears. Sam joined her with distinct but far less intense chuckles at Jack's attempts to interpret George's earlier instructions.

"What?" Jack asked curiously, "You asked me to account for you wanting some! I figured it was more efficient to just bring you your own."

"Ah, yes, a classic mistake, Jack. Half the fun is eating the other person's food," Sam teased.

George shook her head and sighed out the last of her laughter, "Oh, man. That was great. OK, I have to pee and then we'll have a talk about appropriate food portions before the game. Also, the fact that you brought peanut M&Ms and not caramel is near criminal."

Sam followed her out the door, saying, "I think I've changed my mind on that beer. I'll be right back, too."

"Grab me one?" She requested over her shoulder and he nodded affirmatively.

On her way back to Jack's room, George was wringing her hands nervously. Her mind was racing; she'd barely been able to concentrate on peeing! There was a heated debate going on in her head about what the hell she thought she was doing. A very large, very selfish part of her had not wanted to hold herself back. But she was skating on thin ice. Thin? Try imaginary! You seriously believe Sam Winchester is flirting with you? You have lost your damn mind. You look like a bumbling moron to him. A total Becky! Not to mention, he's a 10 and you're an Idaho six, if we're being generous.

The unnecessarily hurtful arguing in her head silenced instantly when she rounded the corner and found Sam in the hallway, sans beer. He was nervously pacing about 6 feet from Jack's room. She gulped; he looked agitated all of a sudden. Was he about to give her a talk about being inappropriate and how they should just "be friends?" She heard a voice sing-song in her head: I told you so, six.

Forcing herself to move forward once again, she tried to steal herself for the blow. To her surprise, his expression shifted to regret when he noticed her finally.

"Hey," He started, his tone apologetic. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but-" he held up his phone with a grimace.

"You have a hunt," George finished slowly with an understanding-and incredibly relieved-head nod. She watched Sam glance back at Jack's room with sad eyes. It clicked after a moment and she added with a less understanding tone, "And you want me to keep Jack distracted while you go?"

Sam gave her an adorable, pleading face, "Yes, please? I already broke the news to him and he's… upset about not being able to come."

George frowned, "Dude, are you seriously leaving me here by myself to entertain him? Sam!" She stomped her foot quietly, mock upset, "I don't know anything about what young adults are into these days. SnapChat? Four Loco? Miley Cyrus?!"

"Hey, look at this as an opportunity to finally play those real deep cuts from Avril," Sam joked back and George punched his arm gently; both laughed.

"OK, but really, do you have any tips for how to handle a teenage boy who's pissed because he can't go kill things?" She looked nervously toward Jack's room. "How do I cheer him up?"

"Well, I think we both know what you're going to have to do," Sam said with a deep, apologetic sigh. George raised an eyebrow curiously. Sam raised both of his and widened his eyes with a pointed head tilt in response. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she began to see where he was going with this and his head started nodding slowly.

"No," George said matter of factly, starting to shake her head. "No!"

"Look, I know it's not ideal, but-"

"I refuse!" She dug her heels in and her arms crossed over her chest.

"Now, now," He began in the same tone you would use to speak to a toddler. "You asked how to make him happy."

"I am not going to debase myself like that, Sam. No!"

"Listen, I know it's hard! But you've done it once already! Was it really tha-"

"Horrible! You of all people should understand why this is a terrible thing to ask! You had to do it once, too!" She uncrossed her arms and pointed at him, demanding, "Look me in the eye and tell me a little piece of your soul didn't die the last time?"

"Oh it wasn't that bad," Sam rolled his eyes dramatically.

"That's easy for you to say, Sam! You're bad at it! But, I have a reputation to protect!"

"OK, Kinicki, well if you want Jack to have fun, you're going to have to suck it up and let him win at Mario Kart!" When she huffed, shaking her head in continued defiance, he rolled his eyes and offered a compromise, "Every once in a while!"

After a few moments of mean mugging each other, neither one willing to give in, they both just started laughing. Once their laughter died down, he gave her a serious, apologetic expression and said, "Georgia, I really am sorry to do this… I was having fun."

As he used her full name, she couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. With a gentle shake of her head, she waved him off, "Don't be sorry; you have to go. And truly, I don't mind. Jack's actually a pretty cool kid…" She trailed off and then furrowed her brow in mock concern, "or am I a lame adult?"

He chucked, then shrugged and said, "Well, if you are then I am."

"Good thing Dean didn't hear you say that," She joked, shooting a finger gun at him. The look on his face in response was indiscernible and she kicked herself. "Shit, sorry. That was insensitive. With Michael and everything, I-I didn'-"

Sam waved his hand in the air and cut her off, "Nah, I know you didn't mean anything by it. I was just thinking how accurate the statement was, yet… you haven't met Dean, right?"

Her eyebrows went up in sobered surprise. Shit. She gulped and stuttered out, "Oh-right-no, that's right. I haven't… I-I just, uh, I know what it's like to have a big brother! He's-he is your big brother, right? I mean, I think I've heard Jack or someone say that…" Sam's brows furrowed further, looking at her curiously and nodding slowly in confirmation. "Right, well, yea. I just-I figured since Dean was your big brother, he'd relish the opportunity to make a comment about you being a loser. I know my brother certainly lived for it." She felt like he could tell she was sweating and it made her sweat more.

"Uh huh," Sam said with a slow drawl, not entirely convinced.

As George watched him she became less nervous, realizing that there was a lot of pain behind his bright hazel eyes. It was obvious that he was really worried about his brother; her heart twinged in empathy.

Without thinking, she placed a hand on his forearm and gripped tightly. With a comforting smile she promised, "Don't worry, Sam. You'll find Dean soon."

Sam felt as if the wind knocked out of his lungs as an intense burst of deja vu hit him. It couldn't be… that had been a dream. A fake dream at that! All part of the trickster's mind games trying to get him to give up on saving Dean. Obviously, there was no way this was the same woman. Yet he knew he'd heard that consolation before. From her, he felt sure. But how would he have dreamt about a woman from an alternate reality?

She jumped when she heard someone shout from down the hall, "Sam!"

George was panicking internally. He'd flinched at her words and the look on his face made her sick to her stomach. She let go of his arm quickly. Had she gone too far? Had she offended him? Was he just disgusted at being touched by her? A million thoughts raced through her mind as a cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

Sam snapped out of his stupor and furrowed his brow a bit. "COMING!" He boomed in their direction and then looked back at her in apology. Though he still seemed perturbed by something.

George smiled understandably, eternally grateful for the interruption, and began before he could say anything, "You have to go! I'll keep an eye on Jack for a while longer. But I swear to God if he starts trying to talk to me about Fortnite or TikTok or FOOTBALL: I'm. Out."

Sam had moved around her, slowly starting to head for the map room, "Football?"

"I just really hate sports," She deadpanned with a shrug, turning her body around to follow him.

He chucked and nodded, "Ah. Noted." He bowed to her slightly as he backed away, "Well, Thank you again. I owe you a beer now… or maybe a massage?" He offered innocently, adding, "I may not be a professional, but I definitely know what I'm doing." He watched just long enough to see her jaw drop, then with a wink, he turned and left.

When she'd mopped herself up from the floor and had finally started breathing again, George looked up to the ceiling and begged, "I have thirty five thousand dollars in savings and retirement and it's all yours for a copy!"

[ineffable-snowman]

Fic: Maybe Someday

I finally finished a somewhat longer (7k) Good Omens fic. You can also read it here on AO3.

Many thanks to @tickety-boo-af, who was a super nice and helpful beta reader!

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

One Saturday afternoon, Aziraphale miracled the buttons of his vest a shade darker. Normally, he was against using miracles on clothes because he believed in tailors but it was only a minor change and it was meant as a symbol. Because he had a plan.

As far as Aziraphale knew, most humans put a lot of effort into their corporation to look nice for their, well, date. (There really was no way to still call this a “meeting” when neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had a job anymore.) Humans did it to give the other person something pleasant to look at, as Aziraphale understood. He was glad Crowley did not follow Hell’s fashion choices because he was not ready to put dirt or even worse on his face. There was no doubt what Crowley liked: black and tight-fitting clothes. But Aziraphale didn’t own any black clothes and he was pretty sure that trousers like Crowley’s would just look ridiculous on him.

Searching through his bookshop, he found some clothes from the last two centuries in a wooden chest squeezed under several books. After he had encouraged the moths and spiders to leave, he scrutinised the clothes. Most of them had moth holes and smelled a bit. But nothing a thorough miracle wouldn’t fix. He had liked the hats in the Victorian Age. But maybe not the best memories for Crowley. What about that cravat from the Sixties? Fashion had been crazy then and even Aziraphale had decided to purchase something new. But mostly he had tried to give Crowley a reason to live – because then Aziraphale had still worried that Crowley wanted to use the holy water on himself. It had been utterly frightening to find the fine balance between promising Crowley something more (but at the same time not promising too much and not too obviously) and stopping him from getting himself into even more danger.

But that was over now. And the cravat had looked a bit dashing, hadn’t it? It would be quite fitting to wear this again when Aziraphale wanted to take the next step in their Arrangement…or was it a Relationship now? He felt that it should be, but it was not, not really. Aziraphale knew what a romantic relationship looked like, he had read enough books. And the things that, according to human literature, were supposed to happen had not happened between him and Crowley.

Aziraphale had cautiously placed his hand on the table between them when they were dining at the Ritz. Crowley had not taken it. Aziraphale had lingered after Crowley had dropped him off at the bookshop and accompanied him to the door. Crowley had not kissed him goodnight.

After a few weeks of nothing happening, Aziraphale had had the sneaking suspicion that Crowley held back because of him. Maybe Crowley was trying to take things slow because he did not want to scare Aziraphale off like the last time when Aziraphale had told him that he went too fast. Aziraphale had always felt deep regret whenever he had had to stop Crowley from doing something dangerous. It had not seemed fair to stop someone from loving, of all things.

He told himself that he should be happy, and what if they were taking things slow? They had all of eternity. But there was still this nagging feeling that Crowley was holding back. It didn’t seem right after everything that had happened. Maybe it was now Aziraphale’s turn to move things forward. To grant Crowley permission. To show him that there was nothing to fear, that Aziraphale would not reject his love, ever again.

How to do it? It certainly was not Aziraphale’s strongest suit. But he had read enough to get an idea about…flirting? Courting? Dating? The words seemed terribly frivolous but then most humans would consider getting dinner together at expensive restaurants a date. So they were already doing it. Now it was up to Aziraphale to “spice things up.” Tastefully, of course.

And that is how his beloved vest ended up with miracled buttons.

When they had their next dinner date (Aziraphale had read a promising review in the newspaper about a fancy new French restaurant), he miracled the cravat clean and tied it carefully. He fretted a bit with his shirt and could not decide: Was it indecent to leave the top button open? He did not know that restaurant yet. What if they expected a certain dress code? What would Crowley think if he – well, no, Crowley certainly did not mind showing a bit of skin if his own clothing decisions were anything to go by.

Aziraphale left that button decision for later and focused on his hair first. He had decided to use a tiny bit of product to make his curls less frizzy and more defined as his barber had always suggested he do but so far Aziraphale had never seen the purpose of that. He had just finished his very careful application when he heard the familiar honk of the Bentley.

“Dear Lord, is it already time?” Aziraphale glanced at the cuckoo clock. Crowley was fashionably late as always. Aziraphale grabbed his coat, opened the top button in a desperate last minute decision and hurried outside.

Crowley was casually leaning against the Bentley, as he always did. He gave Aziraphale an intent look.

Aziraphale’s heart hammered, not only from the physical exertion. “Running a bit late,” he said with a quick nervous look to make sure no one was staring at his new outfit. He felt terribly exposed. “Please don’t make up for it by exceeding the speed limit more than is strictly necessary.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s go?”

Crowley went 70mph, which Aziraphale took as a sign of goodwill on his part.

After ten minutes of silence, during which Aziraphale had to force his nervous hands down to keep them from closing the opened button, Crowley eventually asked, “What happened to your bowtie?”

“Oh, er, I thought it-it would be nice t-to try something new once in a while.”

Crowley gave him a sidelong glance. “That cravat is hardly new, is it?”

Oh, so he noticed! Aziraphale was not sure if that frightened or elated him. Somehow it was both at the same time.

The Bentley’s tyres skidded on the pavement, the car slid for some meters and Crowley hurled a very rude word at the street.

“Well, not everyone acquires new clothes every decade,” Aziraphale said reproachfully, gripping the door handle very tightly.

Fortunately they arrived at the restaurant without discorporating. Aziraphale kept nervously touching his cravat upon entering. “You don’t think it’s a bit too, well, risqué?” he said under his breath.

Crowley smirked. “We’ll see if they throw you out when they see you.”

“Oh, don’t mock me, you old serpent.” But it oddly helped calm his nerves.

No one threw him out and no one gave him funny glances for his attire. No one but Crowley. Now that they weren’t in the car anymore but seated opposite each other at the small table, Crowley looked at him all the time. Let him stare, Aziraphale told himself. I dressed up for him to look at me. He deserves this. No hiding anymore. It was exhilarating and frightening, Aziraphale’s breath was a bit quicker than usual and he was certain that Crowley noticed. But Crowley didn’t mention it. In fact, he was unusually silent. They did some weird small talk about the weather, about the menu and the wine… which Aziraphale almost spilled. Well, he did actually knock over his glass with his shaking hand but, with a quick-witted miracle, he saved the tablecloth and himself the embarrassment. Crowley noticed, of course, but he didn’t comment, just raised his brows.

Once they had their food, things went a bit smoother. The food was excellent and it made conversation easier. Aziraphale’s main dish, wild pheasant in mushroom and wine sauce, turned out to be a perfect choice, and Crowley let him try (and then offered him the bigger part of) his wonderfully glazed potatoes.

Again, Crowley did not take his hand when he placed it on the table after they had finished dessert.

When they left the restaurant, Aziraphale decided to be brave. “Could you give me a lift?” he asked, purposefully repeating the words from 1967.

Crowley stopped and turned to him. “’Course. What else would I do with -” He indicated first Aziraphale, then the Bentley. “Kidnap you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind,” Aziraphale said lightly.

Crowley’s brows climbed up into his hairline. “How on earth am I supposed to take that?”

“Er. Probably with the knowledge that the wine has been a bit on the stronger side. Oh dear.”

“Right.” Crowley climbed into the car and waited for Aziraphale to follow. “So. Where do you want me to give you a lift to?”

Aziraphale briefly considered the notion of replying with something dramatic like, “To the stars,” but he had said and done enough foolish things for today. But then he couldn’t just say, “Back to the bookshop,” either, could he? He racked his brain. What to do at night in London?

“I was wondering, have you ever been on the London Eye?”

“Sure. ‘S nice. But I thought you hated it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did. In a very polite but scathing way.”

“Well. I thought I could give it a try. If you were amenable, that is.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He sobered up to drive them there.

Usually the London Eye closed at 20:30 but they were miraculously lucky that there was still a lovely young lady who was busy with cleanup. She agreed to let them into the VIP pod and turned the wheel on to move again. Aziraphale tipped and blessed her generously.

It was true, he had been reluctant when the London Eye had been installed, especially when he had heard that Crowley had somehow been involved. Tourist trap, disfigurement of the skyline etc. But once they were up in the air, he had to admit that the view was splendid.

“Marvellous what these humans come up with,” he said upon looking at the thousands and thousands of lights of the city below. They had seen how a small village had turned into a dirty industrial town, then a majestic imperial city, then a tourist destination. They knew all the buildings (and had met most of their builders).

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed softly. “Glad they’re still here. Would be a bit boring otherwise.”

Aziraphale turned away from the city lights to smile at Crowley. He had taken his glasses off to better enjoy the view and was leaning against the glass. At this moment Aziraphale felt like his heart could burst with love. For the world, the stars, the humans, and for this wonderful demon who had been here with him through everything.

“Yes. I am glad, too.”

For some reason the observation wheel took them on two more rounds.

“Funny, I only convinced it to go one more round,” Crowley remarked.

“Goodness. So did I.”

They exchanged a quick glance and a smile and then they enjoyed the view and each other’s company. During the next round they reminisced about the people, events and buildings they had seen during the last centuries. There had been fires, diseases, two wars, and yet nothing had ever stopped the humans from rebuilding and making things better again.

During the third round they had a heated argument about architecture. Crowley seriously argued that that horrible Gherkin was an enhancement of the city but St. Paul’s Cathedral was “not very inventive” when he knew Aziraphale had had a bit of a hand in it!

The last ten minutes they spent in companionable silence sitting very close to each other.

When Crowley dropped him off at the bookshop he wished Aziraphale a good night but still didn’t kiss him.

“Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale said urgently just before Crowley could get into the car and leave.

Crowley stopped dead and turned abruptly. “Yeah?”

“I-I-I just wanted to say.” His human heart was beating erratically again. “I really had a lovely evening. Thank you very much.” He smiled tremulously.

“It’s not like I personally caught your pheasant and cooked it.”

“No, thank goodness you didn’t.” They had never got the hang of preparing human food. Although Aziraphale had become quite experienced with tea during the years and had, once, succeeded at semi decent biscuits. “But, I believe you had a hand in the creation of the London Eye. Which was rather, er, nice.”

“Eh, I was mostly responsible for the pricing and marketing. The rest was all the humans.”

“Still. It was a lovely evening.”

Crowley made a sort of agreeing noise. “You, I mean, the – it suits, um, you – look good.”

Before Aziraphale could say anything, the car doors banged shut, the engine whined and the Bentley raced away, leaving him standing in front of his bookshop, lost for words but smiling giddily.

*

So the dressing up bit had been a success. Aziraphale decided to repeat it. He grew a bit more comfortable with the opened button, and asked his barber for recommendations for the best hair product. He even gave his wings a very thorough preening. One could never know what would happen.

He found that he liked dressing up for Crowley. He always felt nervous anticipation as he got ready before Crowley arrived to pick him up. That was probably what all those romance novels meant with “butterflies in one’s stomach” (which Aziraphale thought was a rather disgusting image).

He also liked it when Crowley looked at him for longer than strictly necessary although it made his insides churn at the same time. Funny, these inconsistent emotions.

Still, Crowley did not kiss him. Although his glances were so intent they almost felt physical, he had not even once touched Aziraphale purposefully. Every time they met, Aziraphale expected it to happen and was nervous and excited. Every time it did not happen, he was both relieved and disappointed. But most of all he was worried. He didn’t want Crowley to think that he wasn’t allowed. He didn’t want him to doubt Aziraphale’s love for him.

So Aziraphale did the bravest thing he had ever done, something that took even more courage than disobeying God Herself by giving the humans a flaming sword, or marching into Hell in Crowley’s body. When Crowley dropped him off this night at the bookshop, Aziraphale did not leave the car but turned to face Crowley.

“You can kiss me, you know,” he said in a very small voice. “If – if you wanted to, that is,” he added quickly. He did not want to presume anything.

“If I – what?!” Crowley’s mouth hung open.

Aziraphale expected hellfire or the holy army of angels to rain down on them but nothing whatsoever happened. It was very quiet in the car. He could feel his chest lift and fall quickly and he kept looking at Crowley, who was still gaping at him.

“What about you?” Crowley said eventually, still not looking away.

“What?” Aziraphale’s voice came out high pitched.

“Do you?”

“I’m afraid you will have to elaborate, my dear.”

Crowley finally turned away and spoke determinedly to the front window. “Do you. Want me. To… kiss you?”

“I…” Aziraphale trailed off. This was not going according to plan. And he did not have an answer to that question. Did he want Crowley to kiss him? He supposed he must. This sort of thing was supposed to happen, right? All the humans liked it, all the poets had sung its praises, so it must be good. “I-I-I wouldn’t mind,” he finally allowed.

“Right.” Crowley was still staring straight ahead. His fingers were drumming an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel. “Get out of the car!” he suddenly snapped.

Aziraphale winced in shock at the harsh tone. “I-I-I’m terribly sorry if I have overstepped any boundaries,” he was quick to apologise. “It seems I have not read the situation correctly.”

“I said,” Crowley reiterated and his voice was dark and faintly demonic, “get out of the car.”

“Crowley, please let me -”

“No.”

The door on Aziraphale’s side flew open. He gingerly stepped outside. “Well,” he said helplessly, hovering next to the car, wringing his hands, “have a lovely evening.”

*

Aziraphale spent the next few days brooding over how everything could have gone so terribly wrong so suddenly. They had had a perfectly fine dinner at his favourite Italian restaurant. Crowley had kept looking and sometimes even smiling at him and had offered him his tiramisu. They had reminisced about their time in Rome, and Crowley had good-naturedly mocked him (at least it had seemed good-naturedly at that time) for having tempted him with oysters.

So what had changed?

What was so horrible about the idea of a kiss?

Aziraphale had been so sure that Crowley loved him. Could he have been wrong? So maybe he did not love Aziraphale in the sense that he wanted to kiss him but was that a reason to be so offended and reject Aziraphale so rudely? Yes, it had hurt. And even worse was that he had not heard from Crowley since then. Since the averted Apocalypse they had hardly spent a week without seeing each other or at least speaking on the telephone. But no sign from Crowley for several days now.

His other idea was that it was Crowley’s usual offence when being called nice or any such thing that was not appropriate for a demon. But he had seemed free at last from those hellish expectations – or at least more relaxed (no one knew better than Aziraphale that you couldn’t just change 6000 year old habits), because there had been no more angry outbursts or even wall-slamming when Aziraphale had complimented him but he had only rolled his eyes, like he had needed to at least keep up appearances. Was insinuating that he loved just too much?

Whatever the reason, Aziraphale was deeply unhappy with the state of things. Oh, they had had much worse fights before. Aziraphale knew Crowley’s dramatic departures. He knew that Crowley could spend years or even decades sulking. But ultimately he had always come back, often to save Aziraphale’s corporation in an even more dramatic fashion. Yes, it had always been deeply touching (and also a bit exciting, if Aziraphale was entirely honest) and he did not doubt for a second that this time Crowley would come for him if he found himself in a dangerous situation. And yet, he did not want that. He did not want to spend years apart and he did not want Crowley unhappily sulking. No, he had almost lost Crowley in that blasted Apocalypse business, he was not going to let a stupid misunderstanding get in the way now. If Aziraphale had learned anything from reading and watching all the great tragedies of human literature, it was that a lot of these could have been avoided by sensible communication. (He had had a very heated discussion with Will about the ending of “Romeo and Juliet”. Will had unfortunately entirely disregarded Aziraphale’s suggestions for an alternative ending, which had led to the decision to keep his Shakespeare collection incomplete and to the steadfast refusal to ever watch that play again.)

So, communication. Humans did it all the time and they were amazingly successful considering they had such a short time. So he should be able to pull it off, too, with his millennia of experience, right?

He spent a week wondering if he should write Crowley a letter (he composed several drafts), contact him via phone (he dialled the number but always put the earpiece down at the last moment) or go to see him in person (he rehearsed every possible conversation in his head and some out loud).

Once, he thought he saw the Bentley speeding past the bookshop.

It was then that Aziraphale decided to go to see him in person. He did not put on the cravat or use hair product. His hand was shaking when he rang the bell. Crowley did not buzz him in but used the intercom.

“What?” he snapped.

“Er, hello. I – I think we need to talk.”

“Oh?”

“I think there has been a – a misunderstanding and I would really like to apologise and-”

“Right. Come in. Or – let’s go for a walk? Weather’s nice today.”

“I don’t really mind.” As long as they were together and talked this through and agreed to still be friends, Aziraphale was really fine with anything.

“Decide, angel,” Crowley’s voice came impatiently out of the intercom.

“Oh, well, then let’s head to St. James’s. The weather is rather nice, isn’t it?”

Just a few minutes later, Crowley was standing outside, hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale.

“Thank you for, for agreeing to talk with me,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley just sighed but he followed him to St. James’s anyway, silent and moody and with his hands in his pockets but he was there and willing to listen and that was all that mattered for now.

Aziraphale needed three circuits through the park until he found his courage to start the actual conversation. “It seems there has been a misunderstanding because I misinterpreted certain things. I was operating under the assumption that you were interested in pursuing a…” He faltered. “A… romantic relationship. Romantic relationship in the sense of… a relationship. Not related to the Nineteenth Century, of -”

“I know what a romantic relationship is, for hea- whatever.”

“Oh, good. I mean, I’m terribly sorry that I offended you. But I’m afraid I am still not entirely sure if it was the insinuation of a, er, romantic relationship or a, a… Good Lord.” Aziraphale quickly glanced around to make sure that nobody overheard them, and lowered his voice. “A kiss. Or the, the suggestion of your capacity to love.” He cleared his throat. “So, obviously, you can rest assured that I will absolutely never mention the – the things again if any of them bother you. Although I should say that I firmly believe that you are capable of love, even though you may not be interested in a romantic relationship, because there are so many different types of love – I, as an angel, should know–“

“That’s not the point,” Crowley snapped.

“Well, then, pray tell what is the point,” Aziraphale retorted in much the same manner because he was getting a bit impatient. Communication only worked if both partners were willing to be open and honest and he felt like he was doing all the work here and was making a complete fool of himself by stammering and blabbering and talking about things widely out of his comfort zone while Crowley just sulked. “It would be jolly helpful if you could at least tell me what offended you so I can avoid it in the future.” He stopped in his tracks and stood in front of Crowley so he was forced to stop too. “You know, because I would rather like to salvage our friendship.” He relented a bit. “You are too important to me, Crowley,” he implored more softly.

Several complicated emotions flickered over Crowley’s face and Aziraphale regretted that they had not stayed at Crowley’s flat because then he could at least have seen his eyes and maybe understood a bit more. The emotions finally settled on a sneer. “Oh, so we’re friends now?”

“Please don’t be difficult,” Aziraphale admonished.

Crowley finally tore his hands out of his pockets and threw them in the air to gesticulate wildly. “Difficult, now that’s a bit rich! You are difficult, telling me to kiss you and – and talking about romantic relationships out of the blue!” He spat the word ‘romantic’ like it was an insult. Aziraphale felt insulted.

“Right.” He adjusted his bowtie and turned away to…to look at the ducks. “Oh, look, I think I haven’t seen this young swan before. Have you by any chance brought something to feed them?”

At the next moment, Crowley was shoving fruits, frozen peas, three sorts of bread and on top of all that a packet of oat flakes into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Oh. Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale balanced all the hastily miracled food in his arms and started feeding the ducks. He was ever so grateful when the ducks accepted the food that he carefully threw them with trembling hands. If Crowley could not accept what he offered, well, at least the animals were appreciative.

He heard Crowley sighing next to him. “Aziraphale, listen, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I think I explained it all just now and I told you it was obviously a misunderstanding, so why-”

“Why do you think you have to enter into a, nrhm, romantic relationship with me?”

Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly on the ducks. He was glad he had more than enough food to keep them and himself occupied for a while. “They are not really big on love in Heaven. They say they are, of course, but it’s very different from down here. Over the years you have been very helpful and generous with me, in a way that I was not used to, and I suppose that’s why I mistook your friendship for…love. I don’t want to belittle our friendship by that because it means the world to me and I wouldn’t want to lose it, not for anything.” He felt tears prickling at his eyes. He squatted down to pet one of the older swans that knew him and was therefore trusting enough to let itself be touched. It was only a small comfort. There was a long silence until Crowley cautiously knelt down next to him. The swan startled and fluttered away. Crowley cursed loudly and thus roused even more ducks nearby.

“Sorry -” Crowley stood up hurriedly and took some steps backwards. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…”

Aziraphale turned to him. He looked lost and like he did not know what to do with his long limbs. Aziraphale took a deep breath and stood up. “I’m being silly. Bit emotional. Goodness.” He forced a chuckle. “Don’t mind me, dear.”

“Stop it.” Crowley lifted a hand, made an aborted gesture, let it fall again. “We’re still friends, of course. No need to worry. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Oh, good.” Aziraphale smiled tremulously but gratefully.

“Can I…” Crowley looked doubtful, hesitated. “How about a hot chocolate? Some pastries?”

Aziraphale felt the tears prickling again. Dear God, he was so in love. “That would be lovely.”

“Good,” Crowley said in relief, Aziraphale suggested a café nearby, and when they walked there side by side things felt almost normal again. Almost. Somehow Aziraphale still did not feel like going inside the café and sitting there between all these humans. He felt too vulnerable.

“Can we maybe just go back to the bookshop?” he asked.

“Sure, of course, yeah, why not.” Crowley paid for the chocolate and the pastries and they made their way back.

When they arrived at the bookshop Crowley was oddly hesitant and hovered in front of the door.

“Won’t you come inside?” Aziraphale asked hopefully. “I couldn’t possibly eat all the pastries by myself.”

“Oh, no, it’s good, they’re for you.” Crowley shoved them into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Ah. I see. Thank you. I’m sure they will be wonderful.”

“Yeah, sure, enjoy.” And he was gone.

*

Again Crowley did not seek him out for days. The days turned into weeks and not a word from him. But then one day a plain package was delivered to the bookshop. Attached was a short note in Crowley’s familiar handwriting:

Got this at an internet auction. Guess this was still missing from your collection? C.

It was an edition of Christine de Pizan’s early poems. There was even a signature. It was a very rare manuscript and a wonderful addition to his collection but the other signature – the “C.” – was so much more important. Still using the abbreviation in case the letter fell into the wrong hands.

Aziraphale rummaged through his bookshop until he found the most beautiful stationery he owned. Then he chose his favourite fountain pen to compose a reply.

My dear C.,

Thank you ever so much for that generous gift! It was such a pleasant surprise when the postman delivered the package this morning. A signed work from Christine de Pizan was indeed missing from my collection. You might remember that I, unfortunately, did not really appreciate Christine’s writing choices during her lifetime and therefore never thought to personally ask her for a signature. I’m all the more looking forward to reading her poems today.

It seems I sometimes need a bit of time to fully appreciate good things for what they are.

I was really grateful for the thoughtful gift and was very glad to hear from you again. I hope you are faring well? After spending so much time together during the last years, I find myself missing your company. Please ring me up if you are in the mood to have lunch together or just to meet up and talk.

Yours

Aziraphale

He made sure to write his full name and hoped Crowley would understand it for the gesture it was.

Maybe he did because just two days later Aziraphale’s phone rang.

“So. I was thinking of going to the Globe tomorrow. Was wondering if you wanted to come, too. They’re putting on a new production of -”

“Yes!  Yes, that sounds lovely, I would absolutely love to go – sorry, I interrupted you. What production did you say they were putting on?”

“Romeo and Juliet. Still want to go?”

Aziraphale briefly hesitated. He had vowed never to see that play again. But then, it was not so much about the play but about the company. It certainly would not do to reject Crowley now that he was reaching out again. “Yes, why not?”

“I thought you didn’t like that one.”

“I thought you didn’t like the gloomy ones.”

“Ah. It’s a modern production. They could’ve changed everything, who knows.”

“Well, you know I’m not usually a fan of these modern reinterpretations but it could only improve Romeo and Juliet.”

Crowley snorted and just like that everything was easy again. They bickered over modern theatre, discussed Shakespeare’s works and reminisced about the good old times (Crowley especially missed throwing tomatoes and eggs at the stage when the play was bad).

They spent almost an hour on the phone. The only thing that struck Aziraphale as slightly odd was that Crowley did not offer to pick him up but just told Aziraphale to meet him at the Globe tomorrow afternoon at 3pm. It was fine, he told himself. At least they were going to do something together again. Small steps. It would all be fine.

*

They did change a few things about Romeo and Juliet, mainly it was set in modern day England and featured two young humans of opposing religious and political views falling in love. They did not change nearly enough. Aziraphale could not even stomach the pastries and the wine that Crowley brought him during the intermission. He knew it was going to end just as horribly as always and was tensing up more and more during the second part.

“You alright?” Crowley whispered just before Juliet decided to take the drugs.

“Yes, yes, totally fine,” Aziraphale sniffed and dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief.

“You want to leave?”

“Oh God, yes, please!”

He grabbed the pastries (wouldn’t do to waste perfectly good food just because of a stupid, miserable play) and, to the dismay of the humans seated around them, they hurried out of the theatre. They left just before Romeo discovered Juliet’s lifeless body.

“I really hate that one.” Aziraphale dabbed his eyes again. “I don’t see why a good writer like William Shakespeare would waste his talent on something like that.”

“You could’ve just said no, you know, didn’t have to come.”

Aziraphale decided not to point out that Crowley looked quite miserable, too, and did not ask why he had chosen to see that play in the first place. Instead he said, “Next time we go to the theatre, I pick the play.”

“Fine. As long as it’s not Winnie-the-Pooh.”

Aziraphale went on a rant to defend Winnie-the-Pooh and by the time they arrived at the Bentley, he had almost forgotten about the gloominess that was Romeo and Juliet.

“Alright.” Crowley hovered in front of the Bentley. “You want to head back or still do something else?”

“Maybe…maybe we could go for a picnic?” Aziraphale kept watching Crowley very closely. He did not want to make him uncomfortable again like with that disastrous suggestion of kissing.

“Uh, sure. St. James’s?”

“I was thinking more about heading out to the countryside.” Aziraphale would prefer some peace and quiet right now. Not the usual busy London places. No humans to worry about. “If – if that was alright with you.”

“You sure?”

“Well, yes, of course. I just suggested it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, well, you sometimes say one thing and mean something else.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale smiled in regret. It had been their way of communication for more than 6000 years. Saying one thing, meaning another. Over the centuries they had become rather good at navigating the silent conversations that took place simultaneously, had developed their own code. It seemed that that code did not work anymore and that there were new rules now that they were free from their respective head offices. Aziraphale was determined to figure out how this new communication between them worked. He would make it work. “You are right, I did not really want to see Romeo and Juliet,” he admitted. “But I thought it would be nice to meet up again. And I’d very much like to spend some more time with you aside from that wretched play. We could also go for a stroll at St. James’s or have tea or even go to the movies if you don’t want to go for a picnic. Or just go back to the bookshop or your place to have a drink.”

“Hm, suppose I owe you one for making you sit through that stupid play. A picnic it is then. Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, how about a picnic at the beach?” Aziraphale suggested enthusiastically. The weather was nice enough for early May and he had not been to the seaside for quite some time.

“Okay. Uh. You want me to drive us there?”

“Obviously. How else do you expect me to go there? By public transport?” Aziraphale grimaced in disgust and was relieved to see Crowley grin at that.

The drive to the seaside was relaxing (as far as being driven by Crowley could ever be. To his credit, he did not go over 80mph). They did a bit of small talk to avoid getting hung up in miserable thoughts about Romeo and Juliet, greatly enjoyed the fact that the Bentley was willing to play something else than Queen’s Greatest Hits, and stopped at a little supermarket to get a bit of food and several bottles of red wine for their picnic.

When they arrived at the little beach, the sun was already getting low and it was a bit chilly. Nevertheless, Aziraphale greatly enjoyed their picnic. The wine and cheese were surprisingly good. Maybe it had been a little demonic miracle or maybe it was just that everything tasted perfect when you were having a picnic at sunset with the demon you loved. He did not really mind the wind or the sand that was getting everywhere either. Everything here felt easy, and Aziraphale chuckled fondly when Crowley tried to chase a bunch of seagulls away, who weren’t really bothered by his demonic threats.

“It’s all your fault.” Crowley flopped dramatically down next to Aziraphale. “Feeding a seagull. Really, angel. You should know better.”

“It looked very hungry,” Aziraphale said in apology and smiled down at Crowley. His limbs were spread everywhere, his chest was lifting and falling quickly because he was still out of breath and his sunglasses reflected the clouds of the evening sky. Aziraphale wondered what it would be like to run his hands through Crowley’s hair. He thought he would like that. Or sit a bit closer (after all, it was a bit chilly), their shoulders and thighs touching, maybe even holding hands. That would be nice, too. Or a kiss. Because that was a thing, wasn’t it? When you were drinking red wine at a beach at sunset with the one you loved there was meant to be a kiss, right? But he was not sure anymore if that was something Crowley wanted.

“You alright? Something on your mind?” Crowley put down his sunglasses and squinted up at Aziraphale. Always looking out for him – making sure he was comfortable, getting him his favourite food, chasing away seagulls... Aziraphale swallowed. God, he was so in love.

“Are you happy, my dear?” he asked softly.

“Huh, I – yes?”

“If there’s anything you wanted…,” Aziraphale prompted cautiously.

Crowley scrambled into a more upright position. “More of that wine.”

Aziraphale chuckled awkwardly. “Ah, yes, of course.” He handed the bottle to Crowley. He liked sharing a bottle. It was oddly intimate to put his lips where Crowley’s had been just moments before. He liked the brief, casual touching of fingers when they exchanged the bottle.

Crowley chugged down a large part of the wine. “Why -” He glared at the bottle so hard that the label crumpled in nervousness. “Why would you ever think that I’d – that I’d enjoy… kissing you against your will?”

Aziraphale froze. “What…what do you mean?”

“That’s what you were offering. Wasn’t it?” Crowley finally directed his glare at Aziraphale.

“Er, I, what? Who said it was against my will?”

“Oh, come on, you were scared shitless.”

“I really wasn’t.” Aziraphale was a bit affronted because he had felt it had been a rather brave thing to do and now Crowley was belittling him for it.

“You were. You were – were fidgeting like you were talking to Gabriel or the other fuckers.”

Aziraphale huffed in indignation. “I most certainly did not offer Gabriel or any of the other angels to kiss me.”

“Pff. Thank – Someone. My point is, I’m not – I’m – I won’t kiss you. So. You don’t have to be scared.” Crowley glared at the bottle again and it burst in his hand.

Oh. Without thinking, Aziraphale cradled Crowley’s hand that was sticky with red wine (and maybe even blood) in his hands. “Crowley, no, I’m not scared of you. Never.” He sent a quick healing miracle, just in case. “My dear, please don’t ever think that. And I’m sorry to say so but you are the least scary demon I have ever met.”

Crowley chuckled weakly. “Wow, insulting me now, that’s real low, angel.”

“Ah, well. I suppose you managed to scare the seagulls away. Eventually.”

“God, you’re such a bastard.”

Aziraphale smiled, squeezed his hand and then let go a little regretfully. He found he rather liked touching Crowley like this. But communication first. “Now, you may be right in that I was maybe a little, tiny bit nervous. But I’ll have you know it’s perfectly normal to be nervous before your first kiss.”

“Says who?” Crowley put his sunglasses back on.

“Books.”

“Aaaah.”

“Yes. Basically every love story ever. Well, every love story that features a kiss.”

“There don’t have to be, ah, kisses. This,” Crowley made a vague gesture that encompassed himself, Aziraphale, the beach, the dusky sky, the sea, “is just fine.”

“Are you sure? I’ve made you wait for so long -”

“No, no, no. It’s not – it’s not waiting, like this. It’s… good. Urgh, did I really just say that? I meant – happy. I’m happy. And I’d be happy if it was always like this. You don’t have to do anything.”

Aziraphale inhaled and exhaled slowly. He had never felt so free, so safe in his life. “I love you,” he said and the words came as easily and naturally as the waves rolling constantly onto the beach. He felt tears in his eyes, tears of relief and happiness, and he was glad it was almost dark by now so Crowley hopefully couldn’t see them and worry again.

“Y-Yeah?” Crowley croaked.

“Yes. I do. I absolutely do.” Oh, he had not known how much lighter he would feel when the weight of millennia of fear and guilt lifted from his chest! “I do, my dear,” he repeated, giddy with it that he was finally allowed to let it all out. And then, because he was feeling particularly daring, “I think I would like to try hand holding. What do you think?”

“Nmmm, yeah?”

Aziraphale offered his trembling hand, and just to be perfectly clear, he whispered, “I’m not scared.”

Crowley grabbed his hand and squeezed it so hard that Aziraphale was momentarily worried that he would break his fingers. Very slowly he rubbed little circles with his thumb on the back of Crowley’s hand to make him relax, trying to show him that he would not let go, never again.

No one said a word. They just stared into the dark sea and listened to the crashing of the waves, the cries of the seagulls and to each other’s breathing, which was eventually slowing down. Finally, Crowley’s hand in his unclenched a little. Aziraphale kept caressing circles onto it and savoured every minute. He liked that Crowley’s hand was still sticky with red wine and a little cold. In fact, now that the first excitement of the touch had worn off, Aziraphale noticed how cold it was. It was just spring and neither of them had thought to bring a coat.

“Are you cold?” Crowley asked. “You want to go back?”

“No! Absolutely not! Not cold at all!” Aziraphale said through clattering teeth. “Let’s stay.” He inched infinitesimally closer to Crowley but without actually touching. Huddling for warmth was probably a bit much as they were just figuring out hand holding. Maybe in a few months or years. Or even decades. They had all the time in the world. And hand holding was fine. In fact, it was so fine that Aziraphale never wanted to stop, no matter how much he trembled from the cold.

But then Crowley conjured up a little fire and it wasn’t only cosy and warm but also excitingly romantic. At night at the beach, hand holding in front of a fire! “Oh, that’s lovely,” Aziraphale sighed happily. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Nah. There’s a sign at the entrance of the beach that says that it’s forbidden to make camp fires here.”

“Ah, I see.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand gently. “Should I thwart you then?”

“You can try.”

“Maybe later.”

He did much later, in the next morning when the first humans came to the beach for jogging and walking their dogs. It was time for them to leave and go back to London. Aziraphale’s limbs were cold and stiff when he extinguished the fire, collected the empty wine bottles and leftover food (and he almost had a cramp in his left hand). But he couldn’t have been happier. The Bentley graciously played them piano preludes from Debussy when Crowley drove them almost slowly through the countryside.

They stopped at a little café to warm up with hot drinks. When Aziraphale put his hand on the table, Crowley’s own inched closer until their fingertips touched, like a silent question, and Aziraphale turned his hand open to welcome him.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Dead Man Walking (4/?)

Summary: Prime Ministers don’t normally wake up in morgues after they’ve been murdered, but that’s exactly what Robert Sutherland has just done. Right in front of Lacey’s nose. With limited resources and not knowing who to trust, Sutherland and Lacey must work together to get to the bottom of the attempted assassination.

Based loosely on this dream I had.

Rated: T, eventually E.

Note: This is meant to be ‘darkly humorous and amusing mystery’ rather than ‘gripping political thriller’…

[One] [Two] [Three] [AO3]

—

Dead Man Walking

Four

Lacey’s night just kept getting stranger. Having delivered the Prime Minister safely into the hands of his Chief of Staff, who, although at least three sheets to the wind and probably closer to four, did at least seem capable, she should have just left them to it.

She should have just got them out of the hospital, waved them cheerily away with a cry of ‘good luck, don’t nearly get assassinated again’ and gone home. It was almost two o’clock in the morning, for heaven’s sake, she had better places to be than skulking down alleyways beside the ambulance station. Like bed, for instance.

But no. Here she was, skulking down an alleyway with the Prime Minister, the Prime Minister’s drunk Chief of Staff, and the Prime Minister’s drunk Chief of Staff’s equally drunk mother, for whose presence no one had a satisfactory explanation.

There was a taxi waiting in the shadows and Lacey nearly jumped out of her skin when the lights came on, half-convinced that the secret service had caught them, and they were all about to be thrown in jail for absconding with a supposedly dead body.

These fears were immediately allayed by the taxi driver sticking her head out of the window wearing an incredulous expression.

“Did you two just kidnap the Prime Minister?” she whispered, in as close to a shout of alarm as a whisper could ever get. “I told you I wasn’t getting involved in any illegal activity! You put him back where you found him right now or I’m turning this car around!”

“We’re not kidnapping him, we’re rescuing him,” Carrie said patiently. “And considering we found him in the morgue, we’d really rather not put him back there if it’s all the same to you.”

“Well, technically we found him in a linen closet,” Mrs de Ville pointed out. “Miss French found him in the morgue.”

“Can we please get out of here?” Sutherland asked. “I thought this was a rescue mission; you’re talking more than a fucking cabinet meeting and making about as little sense.”

The stunned taxi driver still did not move.

“Shouldn’t you have a limo and bodyguards and the works?” she asked.

“Well, if we’re going to get technical,” Carrie snapped. “As it is, he’s got us, and I suggest that we get out of here.”

Carrie bundled the Prime Minister into the back of the taxi, much to his protest at being manhandled on top of already having died that evening and been poked with needles by Lacey.

Lacey should have taken this as her cue to leave. He was in good hands; everything would be all right. All she had to do now was avoid the hospital for a couple of days until the furore died down and Sutherland was officially alive and back in Downing Street again.

Her phone buzzed with the arrival of a text message, and the weight of it in her hand reminded her of her earlier phone call to Dorothy and the test tubes of blood she’d dropped off in the pathology lab whilst she’d had Sutherland hiding in the closet. She couldn’t walk away now. Like it or not, she was in too deep. She’d been in too deep the moment she decided to help the poor man avoid the Suits rather than simply informing the necessary authorities that he was alive.

She looked at the message; it was from her father.

DID YOU STEAL THE PM???

She ignored it and shoved her phone back in her bag. She could answer later, once everything wasn’t quite so up in the air.

“Are you coming, darling?” Carrie was standing by the open taxi door. “All things considered I think we might need you. As amazingly put together as I look right now, I’m just a tad worse for wear and a sober brain might be helpful. And, of course, we can work out some kind of recompense for the marvellous help you’ve already given.”

It was not exactly the promise of recompense that swayed Lacey, but she couldn’t deny that when one of the most powerful people in the country – she’d seen Yes Minister, she knew how much power the Civil Service held – said that she might be needed, it did make her preen a little.

“My moped’s round the corner,” she said. “I’ll follow you.”

With that, she thought, she’d effectively thrown her lot in with Sutherland and sealed her fate, no matter what that might be once the Suits caught up to them. If the Suits caught up to them. Maybe now that they’d discovered the body was missing, they’d realise what had happened and give it up as a bad job.

Carrie gave a nod of understanding and got back into the taxi. Immediately a heated discussion started up between her and the taxi driver, and Lacey left them to it, hurrying round the corner to where she’d left her moped, praying that this was not the one night that her luck had run out and she’d been clamped. Mercifully, the tired little Yamaha was waiting for her exactly where she’d left it earlier in the evening, as free as a bird.

A couple of minutes later she was following the taxi down the winding lanes that led away from Stoke Mandeville and into the middle of the dark countryside. She had no idea where she was going, all the roads looked the same at this time of night, and a thought struck her that they might be headed for Chequers. She quickly squashed it; there was no way she’d be allowed in there and Carrie wouldn’t have invited her.

They did not end up outside Chequers. They ended up outside a well-appointed detached house set back from the road on a leafy avenue in a quaint village. It was so typically English and respectable that it made the perfect hideout for a supposedly-dead Prime Minister and his partners in crime, and Lacey had to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation as she pulled into the sweeping driveway and parked up next to the taxi.

“Right. Coffee, I think,” Carrie said as she helped Sutherland out of the back of the taxi. “Would you like to come in for some, Ursula?” she asked the taxi driver. “You can leave your meter running if you like, but after all tonight’s excitement, I think you deserve something.”

Ursula was very visibly in two minds before she switched the taxi engine off and got out.

“Whatever,” she muttered. “Tonight’s already so goddamn weird. Might as well have coffee with the Prime Minister who just got kidnapped from a hospital.”

Mrs de Ville let them into the house and set about making coffee as everyone else settled in the living room – as stylish as Carrie and her mother looked, Lacey had to admit that the décor was absolutely atrocious. Carrie was fussing over Sutherland, who was not at all appreciative.

“I’m not sure I like you like this,” he muttered. “Worrying like a mother hen isn’t a good look on you. Where’s the snarky wisecracker telling me to get a grip every ten minutes.?

“Oh, she’s still here. It’s not every day that your boss dies and rises from the grave. I was distraught, Robert, I’ll have you know. Ask Mother. She’ll have to get the front wall repaired. I can’t believe how dismissive of my affections you are. I’ll withhold them next time you find yourself waking up in a morgue. You’ll be on your own then.”

Sutherland smiled. “That’s the Carrie I know.”

Mrs de Ville came in bearing a tray laden with cups, cafetière, sugar bowl and milk jug, along with a plate of chocolate biscuits, and Lacey reached out to intercept the cup that was heading towards Sutherland.

“No! I told you, you’re on water until we know what killed you. Besides, you already told me you thought it was your coffee that had been poisoned, surely that should put you off the stuff.”

Carrie raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think anything could put Robert off his coffee.”

Sutherland just glowered at Lacey. “Can I at least have a cigarette?” he asked, looking over at Mrs de Ville slotting one into the end of her holder. “After everything I’ve been through tonight, I think I deserve that small comfort at least.”

As a semi medical professional, Lacey knew that the correct answer was no, but the poor man looked so incredibly done with absolutely everything that she relented.

“Fine.”

He looked to Carrie, who had just accepted the pack from her mother and who rolled her eyes before handing it to him.

“Do you ladies mind if we light up?” Mrs de Ville asked Lacey and Ursula. “I wholeheartedly agree with the Prime Minister concerning the stressful events of the night and I’m not even the one who got assassinated.”

Ursula shrugged. “It’s your house, I’m just here for the ride. Well, that’s not strictly true, I’m here because I am the ride.”

“The one good thing about coming home is that I can use a cigarette holder and not look pretentious,” Carrie said.

“No, you still look pretentious,” Sutherland muttered. “There’s just two of you looking pretentious together.”

“I’m sorry, did you say someone had been assassinated?” Ursula said. Everyone in the room pointed to Sutherland and Ursula’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “I’ve been in a car all night, I don’t think I’m up to speed here, and if you’re going to invite me in and give me coffee then I think I need to know the whole story in case some government scientists try to do experiments on me.” She looked at Lacey with suspicion. “You’re not a government scientist, are you?”

“Hell no.” Lacey threw her hands up in defence. “I just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time when the assassinee woke up, because the assassin didn’t do a very good job.”

“Right.” Ursula stared into the depths of her coffee cup and the room fell silent for a while.

“We’ve got to get to the bottom of this before someone realises that you’re missing,” Carrie said suddenly, stubbing out her cigarette and jumping up before grimacing and rubbing her head. “Ugh, Mother, why did you decide that elderflower wine was a good idea?”

“Elderflower wine is always a good idea. I think the problem came when we decided to bring gin into the mix.”

Lacey wished that she wasn’t on her moped. She could really have used some gin.

“Anyway, Sir Albert’s up to his neck in it, I swear. He’s locked me out of everything. Why’s he even down here in the first place? If you’ve got me you shouldn’t need him. He should be running the show up in London.”

Sutherland shrugged. “I didn’t invite him. I didn’t even know he was down here. Bad news must have travelled fast when you found me.”

Carrie shook her head. “No, he was already here, there’s no way he could have got here from London that fast.”

“Well, we already know that he’s a fucking piece of work, so it’s not too much of a stretch of the imagination to think he’d stretch to murder. I mean, he’s always hated me ever since I made it clear I wasn’t going to be his lapdog and he couldn’t just shove his hand up my arse and run the country through me like he did to my predecessor.”

Lacey couldn’t help but give a snort of laughter at that summation.

“It’s settled then. Sir Albert was responsible!” Mrs de Ville clapped her hands together. “I told you I was made to be a sleuth.”

“Mother, you did precisely nothing. And besides, as much as we all hate Sir Albert, we need some kind of proof.” Carrie’s eyes lit up. “Ursula! How do you feel about earning another fare?”

“Is this one going to involve illegal activity?”

“Well, that depends on your definition of illegal.”

Lacey’s phone buzzed again; she hoped it wasn’t her dad persisting with questions about the stolen Prime Minister.

Luckily, it was Dorothy with the test results.

D: Who the hell did you take this blood from? Are they still alive? Have you been sneaking around with your dad’s corpses?

L: Classified, yes, and technically no.

D: Technically… You know what, I don’t want to know. Anyway, here we go.

“Ok, it looks like you were poisoned with something I can’t pronounce that was extracted from the rhododendron plant, and you’ll be pleased to know that you can now eat and drink whatever you’d like as long as it does not contain rhododendrons.”

“Thank God.” Sutherland attacked the plate of biscuits with relish.

The conversation with Dorothy brought Lacey’s mind back full circle to the hospital.

“This Sir Albert guy you keep talking about,” she said. “Tall, grey suit, not much hair and what’s there is white, grey eyes, looks like he could kill you at fifty paces with dour expression alone?”

Sutherland nodded. “Yes, that certainly sounds like him. Head of the Civil Service.”

“Yeah, he was at the hospital. He was the one who kept delaying your autopsy and the one who, according to Dad, went ballistic when he handed off your effects to forensics without his say-so.”

“Yes, that definitely sounds like him.”

Carrie and Sutherland looked at each other.

“Bastard,” Carrie said. “Right, that settles it. We’re going to Chequers for evidence.”

Sutherland grabbed the last biscuit. “Can you get me some clothes whilst you’re there?”

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: “Take Me Home to Your Arms”

(For this week’s Self Promo Sunday, here’s a little piece I wrote back during the hiatus between 5a and 5b. Certainly, like many of us, I was wondering what might be happening to Killian in the Underworld and how Emma and the rest were going to get him back. This little Underworld spec fic was one of my attempts to answer those questions, and it kept growing longer as I wrote too. It’s obviously canon-divergent now, but I hope you will read it, enjoy, and let me know what you think. I apologize in advance for the Killian trauma. It's not that I want to hurt him, but this was the image of the Underworld and its suffering which first took root in my head, even if it didn’t go that way, and I truly wanted to see Emma come to his rescue, just as he has decided to go after her and fight for her so many times, whatever the risk to himself and his own safety.)

(Of course I don't own them. The title and opening lyrics are from the song "Take Me Home" by US.)

"Take Me Home to Your Arms"

By: @snowbellewells

"I'm only happy when I'm with you, home for me is where you are…

I won't be happy 'til I'm with you, home for me is where you are,

These four walls mean nothing without you, home for me is where you are,

They tell me that I'll make it, it'll only be a while, but a while lasts forever without you;

Send out the alarms, I'm all alone,

Wrap me in your arms and take me home…"

Her footsteps fell quickly on the pavement, frantic in the dark. Emma Swan couldn't sleep, couldn't rest, couldn't stop. She could not wait any longer, and she wasn't sure why she had hesitated as long as she did, how she hadn't realized she could get to her pirate and find him sooner; the desperation now so intense it nearly possessed her.

Surprisingly, Regina of all people was the one only two steps behind her, anxious to find "Captain Guyliner". For all of the ways the queen and the pirate argued, needled, and harassed each other to the point of distraction, clearly – despite her derision of Hook and talk of his faults – the regal had missed her favorite "nemesis" and sparring partner more than she would ever admit aloud. That Regina took Emma's part when the others questioned the possibility of her plan, that Regina spoke up of her own accord and agreed it could work, meant the world to Emma. It had set them all in motion and brought them to the edge of the lake. It was only a matter of time before she made her way to Killian's side again.

Though Gold had gotten them to the Underworld easily enough, he had also predictably vanished on some venture of his own almost immediately after their arrival. Snow and Charming had gone to search by the water and in the forest, and Robin had seemed the most capable and likely person to send with them. Emma wanted to think they would all be fine, that splitting up would only allow them to cover that much more ground and find Killian sooner, but she couldn't help worrying for them as well as her sailor, when she couldn't see or know what they might run into. Forcing herself to re-focus,her mind whispered, 'Killian, where are you? Come back to me…'

Without her even being aware until they blurred her vision of the streets, silent tears were coursing down her face. The streets before them were so similar to the Storybrooke routes grown familiar, only darker and shrouded in eerie smoke. She would not allow it to slow her, and she pressed on blindly, unsure where to look as her eyes swept from side to side, certain that Killian must be close by. Once she saw him, Emma ached to fall on her knees at his side and beg his forgiveness, express her endless remorse for all the ways she had gotten it wrong in trying to save him, and he had paid the price. In horrific detail, she kept seeing the light fade from his blue, blue eyes, hearing his ragged plea to grant his wishes this time, his anguished cry and the wet, sucking sound as the blade slid home in his body. Her torment repeated picturing what he might be going through in the domain of Hades. Was he still in pain? Was he being punished, taunted, tortured beyond the injuries she herself had inflicted? Even once she reached him, would she ever be able to make things right?

Emma might well have kept running aimlessly forever – not willing to give up or rest – but the fog thickened further, obscuring the twisted versions of Gold's pawn shop, Marco's woodworking studio, Maurice French's delivery van at the curb, and Granny's diner, to the point that she could barely make out any of the landmarks or see to take a step in front of her. Hesitating, breath coming out in frantic pants and eyes darting wildly, she nearly panicked, staring in one direction and then another helplessly.

It was then, when despair began to creep in and take her over, that a warm, comforting hand slipped into hers, squeezing firmly. "Mom!" Henry's ever-deepening voice called her back, cutting through her whirling thoughts and clearing her mind. "Calm down. You have to use your magic. It's powered by love. Focus on Killian, on how much you need to find him, and we'll get there…I know it."

Blinking away the tears which had barely let up their entire time in this twisted mockery of their hometown, Emma managed to give her brave, amazing son a tremulous smile. Nodding in affirmation, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and tried to focus on Henry's encouragement. She finally believed that Killian was her True Love, she planned to attempt splitting her heart to share with him; her magic should lead them to her pirate. She needed to calm down and allow it to work. It only took her other True Love buoying her up to remind her. This had to work…and it would!

Henry didn't let go of her hand, but stood right next to her offering his strength and belief, ready to venture forward at her side. Emma closed her eyes, raised her other hand slightly, and sent out tendrils of her magic, seeking, searching for Killian.

"You can do it, Mom," Henry urged, rooting her on. "I want him back too. He can't be far!"

Maybe it was Henry's faith, or maybe Regina had found a way to get her magic, which had been shorting out since they'd entered the realm of the dead, working again; whatever it was, the way ahead grew more visible as they pushed forward quietly. An even more complete and odder hush than they had been keeping fell over their small trio as through the smoke and fog the clock tower and library abruptly appeared before them. A chill of foreboding ran up Emma's spine, and she clutched Henry's hand in hers more tightly. She couldn't explain how she knew it, but this was where they needed to be. Kilian was nearby. Her own magic felt as though it were reaching out and trying to find him, as she'd hoped, or that the connection she knew was between them was asserting itself at last. It didn't matter that this sinister version of the clock tower looked like the last place she wanted to enter, if Killian Jones was in there, then that was exactly where she would go.

Nodding toward the building which towered over them, Emma only said with a grim determination, "He's in there."

Henry looked over at her, no longer having to tilt his chin up, almost as tall as his mom, and merely met her eyes with a nod before replying, "Then let's go get him," his face as set and determined as hers.

Regina's expression was grim as well, and she flexed her hand, making sure there was a fireball ready if they needed it. "In a way, it makes a twisted sort of sense," she conceded, moving to follow them without hesitation. "Maleficent's dungeon is beneath the library, ready for Hades to use."

Pushing open the door, the three cautiously stepped through the darkened entryway of the building. Where Belle was usually standing at the circulation desk to greet those who entered her library in Storybrooke with a bright, excited smile and ink-smudged fingers, here nothing greeted them but unnatural, hovering stillness, the musty, dry smell of books left unread and long forgotten, and the dank grey interior that urged them to turn back before they were lost within its depths. If Emma hadn't been certain this was the place before, she was sure now – this was where they would find Killian. The very structure itself seemed to be trying to unnerve them, as if afraid they would succeed.

"Here, Miss Swan," Regina spoke up crisply, still focused and business-like, breaking into Emma's cluttered thoughts.

Glancing up, Emma found the other woman standing at an exact replica of the elevator down to the basement which had once held the dragon-wraith of her former friend. Obviously the mayor didn't wish to waste any more time here than was strictly necessary – whether she would admit to being unsettled or not – and Emma couldn't agree more. She crossed the room with Henry to stand at his other mother's side. They looked into the elevator for a moment, then swallowed hard and pressed on.

The old lift creaked and groaned as it brought them down into the depths below the false clock tower, and it only grew darker and danker the further they went. By the time they reached the bottom, Emma couldn't see her hand in front of her face it was so deeply black and the fog so thick. If she felt it would be any safer, she would have urged Henry to stay – but she doubted it would be, and she knew he wouldn't wait behind anyway.

"Stay close, Miss Swan," Regina warned again tartly as they stepped forward on the rocky, uneven ground. Her voice was cautious even through its crisp impatience, and Emma had learned by now to read the other woman better rather than assuming that Regina didn't care or was coldly unaffected; the former queen was worried, and ached to feel she had some semblance of control, which made her take it wherever she could.

Rather than arguing, Emma merely nodded, heading forward quickly and relieved that Regina and Henry willingly kept pace, one on each side of her, bolstering her without words. As they continued, Emma felt tingling energy, prickling sparks of heat running along her veins, making trails she felt she should be able to look down and see glowing beneath her skin in the dark. Her breath went short, coming out in ragged puffs. "Killian…" she breathed out desperately, recklessly allowing the hope free rein inside her, recognizing that the only other times she had felt such heat and excitement in her blood were when he was near. They must be getting closer to him, and it was all Emma could do not to break into a run.

A chilly gust of air ghosted over her arm, and she shivered involuntarily, turning to the side for the source of the draft and noticing a fissure that opened into a nearly hidden alcove off the main part of their underground cavern. With that same rush of intuition and tingling thrill, Emma turned aside and squeezed through the gap in the solid rock wall. Henry and Regina pressed in close behind her when she hesitated, trying to squint through the darkness. Something had called to her, but she didn't see anything except a dark, empty room of stone walls and floors at first, until Regina finally burst out in exasperation, "For pity sakes, must I do everything?!" With a flourish, she conjured orbs of fire in each hand, illuminating the area before them enough to discern shadowy shapes, and then flung the lights toward torches they could now glimpse over their heads in sconces placed all around the strange dim niche off the larger cave.

Emma had just begun to snap back at Regina, when her voice stopped in her throat on a sharp gasp at the startling sight before her. At the far end of the space, near the back wall, flickering light glinted off the steel gray metal of a thick chain trailing from a crank to the side of the ceiling, then down to manacles which held pale wrists locked together and extended over the head of a person slumped on their knees. Emma's heart stuttered in fear and vicarious pain, immediately recognizing the motionless, silent, almost lifeless form before them. Only a few seconds' glimpse at the battering of bruises and scars on the pale expanse of his bared back were all she could stand. Without taking time to worry whether or not it would work, she waved her hand desperately through the air, dissolving the chain to nothingness. With what had been stretching him and holding his body unnaturally upright gone, Killian fell prone on the hard rock floor with a soft, insensate groan escaping his mouth.

Dashing wildly to his side, Emma gathered Killian's limp form in her arms, holding him close as best she could, smoothing her trembling hands through his coarse, shaggy black hair and over his chilled, clammy skin, aching to ease his pain. She wasn't expecting to feel Henry pressed up against her side worriedly and reaching out to touch her pirate's arm with gentle concern, nor for him to whisper "Killian? Can you hear us?" She could sense Regina's presence close at their backs as well, standing guard. But when she grumbled, "What happened to you, Guyliner? Mouth off to the Lord of the Dead himself?" Emma was surprised to hear the quaver of emotion behind the Mayor's retort as well, and she knew that Regina was nearly as rattled by the state their pirate was in as she was herself. The fact that he had clearly been hidden away didn't help her state of mind. How long had he been held there like that? It was as though he’d been hidden where anyone who might venture into those depths would pass by him unaware and leave him to his misery.

She gathered Killian even closer to her, and was just bending her forehead to rest against his when he jerked awake unexpectedly, snapping back to consciousness with a confused panic, and though clearly weakened and in pain, he flung himself away from her with terrified force, scrabbling backward blindly.

His voice was hoarse when it rang out and echoed back against the close walls and low ceiling, cracking with fear and mistrust, raw from what Emma feared might have been days crying out in hopeless despair and agony as he languished in torment, thinking that he would never be found. Killian's harsh, broken words lashed her heart like a whip, making her as painfully desperate as he when he howled, "Back, Demon! Stop tormenting me! Take any form you wish…but…not hers! Please…no more!"

Emma tried to shush him, begged him to truly see her as she brushed a hand down his stubbled jaw, her heart feeling new pangs of guilt and regret at the sight of the ages-old scar that had always dashingly graced his cheek bleeding again as though it had been freshly carved anew into his skin. Were all of the weals, cuts, and bruises adorning his scarred chest and back old, once-healed wounds returned to livid intensity by the insidious nature of this place and the unfinished business it deemed Killian Jones to have?

Before she could utter anything else, he cried out again, his voice mere shards of its usual deep, smooth timbre. "No! Not Emma! You are not her! Leave me! Leave me!"

When he flinched from her touch yet again, it felt as though the Dark One dagger itself had been stabbed into her breast. Emma wanted to curl up beside him and weep – hopelessness, fear, concern, and love welling up uncontrollably within at the thought that she had found him, but he might be too far gone to bring back. She steeled herself to speak to him once more in soft, pleading tones as she swept her hand across his brow, "Killian, please…look at me. It is Emma. I promise, it's me. I'm here…"

Fear darted across his face for several more taut, charged moments, looking so strange on one who had always met challenges and danger head-on, an arched brow and a dark retort for any man, beast, or monster unwise enough to think he would back down. Then, after several tense, breathlessly waiting seconds, it was as though a cloud passed over his countenance and vanished again, the shade blinding him seemed to fall from his eyes and recognition dawned as he stared at her, drinking in her face, desperate to believe. "Swan?" he whispered, voice soft and awed though rough with ill use, finally daring to hope. A trembling hand reached out toward her face, and she quickly bent to lean her cheek against his palm, as needy for his touch as he was to make sure she was real. "Emma…Love…is it really you? And H-Henry? …Lad, you're here as well?"

"Of course," Henry assured, grinning rakishly in a way Emma knew he must have picked up from Killian. Though his eyes were glassy, Henry answered this man he'd come to look up to with assurance, "Think I'd risk being deprived of a dashing rescue, Captain?"

Her love grinned back at her son crookedly, but said no more, still somewhat overcome by Henry's devotion.

Regina cleared her throat from where she stood just behind them, keeping a wary eye on the entrance. It brought a much-needed measure of levity to the trio on the floor when she grumbled, "No need to acknowledge my presence, Pirate. I simply followed them down here for my health. Brimstone and sulfur do wonders for the skin, you know."

Killian inclined his head slightly in a semblance of the mocking bow he often gave her when they squabbled. "Why, of course, your Majesty," he replied with a knowing wink, "but it is lovely to see you all the same."

The queen huffed, but gave him the tiniest quirk of her red lips in a begrudging smile.

Emma did not miss the way her love winced at even the smallest of offhand movements, but she couldn't look him over properly or try to heal any of his wounds now. They needed to get him out of his prison, first and foremost. She thought about trying to transport them all from the dungeon to the lake shore instantly with her magic, but discarded the idea almost as quickly as it came to her, knowing her powers had been behaving too unpredictably in the depths of the Underworld to be sure of where they might end up. The same concern kept her from asking Regina to move them, or – she assumed – from the queen's offering. She began to attempt standing again, ready to pull Killian up with her. "Come on, let's – "

Just as Killian spoke once more, his mind working through the situation quickly as he became more aware, and already worried for their safety, "Wh-what are all of you doing here? You can't be caught here. I d-don't want you to be trapped as well."

"Too bad," Emma shook her head, finally regaining her feet and, with Henry's help, easing him to stand as well between them. Killian was wobbly and leaning on her more than she would have liked, but then, after being held in one position for so long, she knew his limbs must be working their way back to life, beyond the injuries which must also be draining his strength. "We're not leaving without you. You've already been the hero…" here she had to swallow hard, her eyes tearing up as she remembered him dying in her arms. "Now, let me be the Savior and bring you home where you really belong."

Those devastating blue eyes bore into hers with such intensity, burning with the ardor of his next words. "Emma…Love…I knew the sacrifice I was making. This is where I belong now…what I deserve…and if the rest of you are safe…. Please, there must be a terrible price for this, and … and I won't have you paying it."

Despite his weakened state and the fervent emotion trembling within the words, his resolve was clear. Emma knew she could not fail to heed him again – not this time – but she also needed him to see that she would not be happy, would not be safe, when he suffered here alone for both their mistakes, his noble sacrifice cheapened by Gold's treachery. It wasn't right; it wasn't enough for her. She didn't have a home without him. Yet, she had to allow him this choice; she couldn't take that right away a second time. Drawing in a deep breath, she assured him, "We have a way to bring you back, one that will work. The rest of us will be fine." She paused, met his eyes hopefully, took a deep breath, and asked, "Killian, don't worry about me or anyone else; just answer me honestly: Do you want to come back with us?"

He wet his lips, obviously struggling with emotion and desire versus his sense of duty and lingering guilt. Holding her gaze, his next words came out so raw and vulnerable that they scraped across her heart, tearing loose pieces that she had already given to him. "Aye, Swan, I would wish that more than anything. You must know that. But…I do not wish anyone else to be punished or imprisoned here in my stead…if there is even a chance that could happen…"

"No, Killian," she interrupted, shaking her head gently as she brushed an unruly shock of black hair off his forehead lovingly. "You don't understand. We won't leave anyone behind. This will work." She bit her lower lip, trying to peer right into his soul, the way he had so often done with her. "Trust me?" she asked then, everything they had risked and all her future happiness riding on his answer.

"Aye, Love, I do," he swore, bringing the hand he clutched tightly in his up to clumsily brush his lips over her knuckles, "and I always will."

"Good," she said simply, a small smile gracing her mouth, and then his face as well, as they both remembered how that very response from her had sustained and given him hope through a full year of obstacles and doubts until they had been reunited once before.

Turning to Regina, Emma knew she couldn't hesitate, knew Killian would start protesting again if he figured out what she planned to do – no matter how sure she was that it would work. Shooting Henry a quick, reassuring smile, she squared her shoulders and gave the other woman a curt nod, "Let's do this," she affirmed.

Regina didn't waste a second, gripping Emma's upper arm to keep her steady and plunging a hand into her chest. Emma couldn't stop a gasp at the jarring invasion and strange sense of disconnect she felt when the formerly evil queen withdrew her hand, Emma's slightly battered, partly scabbed in gray, but mostly glowing, red heart within her grasp.

"No!" Killian cried out aghast, only knowing that any heart he had seen taken from a chest had been squeezed in nightmarish torment. "What are you doing!?" he lurched forward, fruitlessly aiming to stop her, but Henry clung to his arm determinedly from where he stood on the pirate's other side helping to keep him upright.

"Killian," Henry pleaded, trying to offer comfort even though his voice quavered too. "It's okay. She's not going to crush it. Emma wanted her to do this…Look!" Henry knew there was still a risk; splitting a heart had worked for his gramps and grandma, and he knew his mom and Killian loved each other deeply, but they didn't have any guarantee.

Emma slumped forward, unaware, and though she wasn't heavy, with his own injuries and weakness, it nearly brought Killian down too. Awkwardly, he took what strength he had left to untangle their fingers and wrap his arm around her, drawing Emma to his side though it pained the open gashes on his torso, and letting her head come to rest on his shoulder.

When he turned back to Regina, her gaze was intent on the heart in her hand, as concerned as he had ever seen the proud royal. Determinedly, she worked at the organ until, to all of their intense relief, it split down the middle and she reached forward to press half of it into each of their chests.

"Ready, Captain?" she asked, voice taut and nervous, though he knew she would never say so.

He gave her a nod, meeting her eyes fiercely before letting his gaze return to Emma's soft, lax, but still lovely, face. In the next instant, he drew a fuller, more rejuvenating breath than he had taken since falling on the shores of the lake in Storybrooke. There was still the odd sensation of a hand in his chest, but a moment more and that was gone too as Regina pulled back, leaving a half of his love's heart within his body.

Emma surfaced to consciousness with a similar heaving breath, blinking as her light once more suffused her cheeks, and her eyes regained their lively sparkle. "Are we okay?" she asked blearily, and then more fervently, "Did it work?!"

"It would seem so," Regina said drily, arching a perfectly sculpted brow as if to say, 'You're alive and speaking to me, aren't you?', but she spared a cautious, genuine smile for the savior and Emma could sense the relief behind the harsh veneer. "Now," Regina continued, "let's not wait around to see what else can go wrong. It's time we were home." With a wave of her hand, clearly having deemed the risk worth it, and a swirl of purple smoke, they were all standing with a jolt on the shore of Hades' realm, right next to the boat which had brought them from Storybrooke.

Looking around in surprise as he reoriented himself, Killian already felt some of his lost strength and vigor returning to him, and he marveled at the power and love for him that must have been held within Emma's heart to pull this off so quickly and so well. Henry placed a hand on his hook's brace, drawing his attention with a grin while pointing out fast-approaching figures in the near distance.

Squinting, Killian could see Dave, Mary Margaret, and Robin coming toward them at a run, and was touched and humbled once more to think that all of these people would venture to the very depths of Hell for the likes of him. Once the rest of their rescue party had reached them at the water's edge – minus Gold, whom no one seemed inclined to worry about – Robin greeted him with an exuberant cry of welcome, while Dave clapped him on the shoulder firmly, and Mary Margaret – to Killian's complete and utter astonishment – flung her arms around him in a joyful, maternal hug.

"It's wonderful to see you too, Milady," Killian managed, almost embarrassed at such a greeting from a woman who at best had always seemed unsure about him as a suitor for her daughter.

The dark-haired royal pulled back with a watery smile, but not before pausing to whisper in his ear, "We needed to get you back, Killian. I don't think I could have stood to watch Emma in that state any longer. She was … broken …without you."

The pirate dipped his head, hiding a swell of emotion at her words, and even when he raised his face once more, his eyes were glassy with unshed tears he sniffed back conspicuously.

"Well," Robin called out, breaking into the thoughts of all their gathered group, bow over his shoulder and fingers once again laced with Regina's, "shall we go?"

"Not so fast, Archer," a silky voice rang out, stopping all of them in their tracks, just as they had been ready to step into the boat pointed home. "I do believe you're planning to steal something – or should I say someone? – who belongs to me."

The unassuming gentleman in a sleek, tailored suit who strutted toward them over the dead, brown grass before the lake, didn't look like much of a threat, but none of them were taken in by his calm, almost jovial manner, nor his pleased, oily smile. "Don't listen to him," Regina ordered tersely, urging Henry, Robin. Snow, and David into the boat ahead of her as planned. "He can't stop us from leaving. We aren't dead, and therefore we aren't part of his domain."

Hades, as Emma realized the man must be, moved ever closer and shook his head like a disappointed parent would at a child who refused to obey. "Ah," he answered smoothly, "but I fear one of you is indeed under my dominion. Breathed his last on these very shores, in fact."

Emma stepped just slightly in front of Killian, wavering slightly as she still recovered from aftereffects of losing part of a vital organ. Yet, she looked as fierce and defiant as she ever had; red jacket standing out against her stark, dull surroundings and a glow emanating from her as she stared down the ruler of the Underworld himself. "You can't have him," she growled through gritted teeth.

Even as Killian feared for her safety, knowing all too well what this seeming "gentleman" and his demons could do, he couldn't deny that his Swan was glorious – a sight to behold.

Emma motioned behind her for Regina to get in the boat as well and take Killian with her. The regal balked, a quick, "Emma, are you sure about…" escaping, but she was cut off with a jerky nod and set jaw, and she did as the savior asked, pulling Killian forcibly after her.

"Admirable determination, my dear," Hades taunted, "but you might as well admit defeat. I am well acquainted with this pirate, all that brave stoicism mixed with his massive self-loathing for his past wrongs makes a nice break for me from eons of monotonous sniveling, pleading beggars for mercy. Fresh entertainment playing with someone who can endure so much pain, it's quite addictive, you see. Not to mention… I've been alerted to your little scheme to steal my new plaything. It won't work. Even if I were inclined to release one of my subjects, it isn't possible. He died, he is one of mine now, and there is not a thing you can do about it."

A second shadowy figure emerged from the surrounding mist and darkness, and as the person came to stand just at Hades' elbow, Emma recognized Gold, an insidious smile on his smug, self-satisfied face. "Miss me, Dearies?" he cackled ominously. Then he gleaming gaze narrowed as it fell on Emma. "I did warn you not to test me, Miss Swan," he stated with chilling finality, a cunning glint casting frightening light in his eyes. "Thanks to my early warning, our temporary host has promised me that he will make sure our near-escapee finds his stay even more unpleasant from now on, and has given me his word to keep you as well, far away from my Belle, who will have no idea what I've done, and right here with him to magnify the punishment for you both. A simple memory wipe on the rest of you meddlesome fools who insist on playing heroes, and I shall finally have my happy ending."

Emma heard the scuffling of Killian trying to fight his way out of Regina's and Robin's grasps to get back to her. "You'll do no such thing, Crocodile!" he was railing, as she could hear Snow gasp in shock and horror, and Henry and her father's yells of anger and dismay. All of that was drowned out though by the roaring in her ears and the intense desire she had to throttle the cowardly pawnbroker with her bare hands. Of course he would go and try to get in good with the Devil himself to double cross them! As if making Killian's sacrifice to destroy the darkness void for his own gain hadn't been terrible enough! The rage that overcame her with knowing that these two monstrous fiends could be so blasé about the torment they wanted to put Killian through, at seeing for herself all they had already done to the man she loved, was vibrating through her being and she sensed her magic about to explode uncontrollably, blindly. Still, she narrowed her eyes, determined not to give anything away to the insidious crocodile. She understood now why Killian's nickname for his foe had always been so apt – reptilian, grasping, clawing, and willing to do anything to save his own leathery hide and secure his own self-interests, despite who else might be hurt along the way. She quickly turned her focus back to Hades though. No matter how badly she wanted to strike Gold down, this fallen deity was the one with the real power in the Underworld.

"You know," Hades taunted, a mocking pout of fake sympathy on his face, "it really is quite tragic, Savior. You seem to be able to save everyone but the ones you care for most. Love can do much, but even where there is love…dead is still dead."

Emma was backed right up to the edge of the water, her heels actually touching the side of their little boat as it rocked on the dark, uneasy tide. Hades stood practically nose to nose with her, but she wouldn't give in. Instead, she nodded toward Gold. "We'll see about that," she hissed, forcing bravado she only partially felt, "but you might want to question whether your new partner has told you everything."

With that, she stepped backwards into the boat, and Charon began to row away, no other option, his mindless task ingrained in his being until the end of time.

Hades raised a hand, and some red bolt of radiating power shot toward them, but it hit an invisible barrier none of them could see, ricocheted off the wooden boat's side, and went barreling back, knocking the Devil and the Dark One flat on their backs on the shore. Emma felt a pang in her chest like a plucked guitar string vibrating, and everything in her vision went hazy. She staggered, seeing less and less as she heard them all talking to her, around her, anxiously. She had just enough sight and awareness left to reassure herself that they were still moving toward home, and then it all faded away as she fell back into Killian's – and her family's – arms.

~~~~CS~~~~~CS~~~~CS~~~~CS~~~

The following afternoon…

Emma Swan blinks her eyes against the gentle sunshine filtering in warm, yellow stripes through the plain white curtains she hung in the Captain's quarters of Killian's ship. Yawning and stretching languidly, she can't help the grin which spreads slowly and happily across her face upon realizing just where she is and in whose arms she has been resting. They made it home again – all of them – safe and sound, and she is snuggled up with her pirate in his bunk. Sitting up just a bit to gaze down at him affectionately, honestly enjoying the view, and able to see now that they are in the land of the living he already has more color and his scars have once again begun to fade, Emma trails her hand along his chest, playfully running her fingers through the coarse hair covering his muscled torso, unable to stop staring at the man she literally went to Hell and back to find. The half a heart they now share swells with love until it seems to overflow, and Emma wriggles back into Killian's warm embrace, while he continues to sleep – she hopes peacefully. Even deep in slumber, Killian gathers her closer to his side tenderly with the arm draped over her hip and mumbles something she can't quite make out against the warm skin of her neck at the collar of her sweater.

His brow furrows, and she aches to soothe him, to assure him that they are together again and all will be well. She knows that things won't stay peaceful in their little town for long, nor can she keep him from the nightmares and remembrances of the ordeal he has been through. Still, she places a kiss to his brow and murmurs, "Shh…rest, Killian," as she brushes back the dark fringe of his hair.

The last day and night are an exhausted, emotional blur before Emma's eyes as she lies back down and tries to return to rest with her pirate. She remembers the traumatic details of finding Killian in that stone dungeon and his ancient scars and emotional pains brought to fresh life upon his skin, how sapped and hopeless he had been – to the point that he had seemed unable to acknowledge they had come after him. She remembers Regina splitting her heart, and all of them standing of the shores of the lake as Hades tried to stop them from returning to the world of the living with her sailor. Beyond that though… the boat ride back, how she had ended up here with Killian, cozily wrapped in his embrace... it is all a misty jumble in her mind. She can bring back snatches of her parents', Henry's, and even Regina's and Robin's voices, discussing what to do once they reached town, how they had all progressed while they were split up in the Underworld, and if she were truly okay, but none of it comes into clear focus for her. She has the vague, lingering suspicion that Killian must have carried her to his ship, rather than the house she'd taken over as the Dark One, or her parents' loft, over any other ideas or suggestions, and that the others must have decided that he knew best and left the two of them alone to heal together.

With a sigh, she forces her eyes to the gash made by Excalibur still blatantly visible on his neck, while Killian remains unaware. Though it is no longer ragged and draining his lifeblood before her very eyes, Emma knows that this wound will never completely fade. In some way, this particular scar will always be upon his skin, reminding her of when it all went wrong, how horribly she failed him. Her fingers tremble as she traces the abraded skin, and she blinks back her tears quickly. Not, however, before a couple of them escape and pool on the warm skin in the hollow of his collarbone.

Rousing, Killian's eyes blink open to find her awake and studying him sadly, her eyes welling with tears and her hands clutching his shoulders as though afraid he will be taken from her again. "What is it, Love?" he murmurs, smoothing his hand through her hair and snugging his hookless bare wrist against the thick wool sweater at her back, pulling her impossibly closer still. "What's happened?"

She shakes her head, a breath wet with choked back sobs huffing out of her chest. "Nothing, Killian, I just…" she traces her fingers lightly over the shell of his ear, grinning at how the top curve comes almost to a bit of a point.  In spite of her jumbled feelings and the fact that she is still struggling to get her words out, she cannot help but marvel at each tiny wonder that make up her True Love. "You'll always have those two new scars…and it's….it's my fault…"

"Oh, Emma…" Killian breathes in soft, stunned understanding, his eyes infinitely kind and unfailingly full of love. "You’ve more than made it right. When I blamed you, I was nothing but the worst version of myself. Do not carry those words, nor that guilt, any longer, Swan." He sighs, sensing that she is still upset and punishing herself, and briefly rests his chin atop the soft golden hair at the crown of her head. Gathering a bit more nerve, he adds gruffly, "That you were so desperate to keep me with you…" he pauses to wet his lips, not wanting his voice to waiver or to make her doubt, "While I detested losing control of myself… I also never thought to be so loved."

Emma's tears do begin to escape her at that, though she can't utter any sort of response. Leaning up to rest her forehead against his, wanting only to have him see in her eyes that he is loved now, more than either of them would have once felt possible, more than either of them could have ever known.

"You entered into the very depths of Hell to fetch me back to your side, Emma. You walked amidst my demons and my nightmares of loved ones I have lost and the horrible things I have done, and you pulled me out into the light once again. You are quite literally my heart now, and I never wish to be parted from you."

"If I have my way, you never will be," Emma vows fervently against his lips in response, just before fusing their mouths in a tender kiss that begins to ease the pain that wounds and separation had wrought. Both are quiet then, at peace wrapped in each other's arms. Swearing to never be torn apart again; they are happy, and they are home.

Tagging a few who may enjoy (I apologize if you don’t want to see this, just ignore it!): @therooksshiningknight @laschatzi @spartanguard @effulgentcolors @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @hookedonapirate @resident-of-storybrooke @ilovemesomekillianjones @winterbaby89 @shireness-says @killian-whump @sherlockianwhovian @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @gingerchangeling 

[scribbles-by-kate]

On Waking

Companion piece/sequel to “In Dreams”, though it’s not strictly necessary to read that to be able to follow this. In cursed Storybrooke, Rumple finds Belle, but there’s an obstacle to waking her, or is there? Gold family one shot. Spoilers for “The Final Battle”

This one’s for Emilie, to say thank you for Belle and RumBelle. I’ll miss you.

My Fan fiction My Once Upon a Time episode reviews, essays, and meta

Read it on Fanfiction.net Read it on Ao3

You can read “In Dreams” here

On Waking

Rumplestiltskin frowned in displeasure when he saw where his mother had hidden Belle away. The place was an absolute dump, more suited to some criminal lowlife than his refined, educated wife. Still, he’d found her, and now he could reunite her with Gideon.

He walked up the steps, the thought of Belle living in this hellhole making him angrier and angrier. Blast his mother for doing this to her! Once he had ensured Belle and Gideon’s safety from the curse, he would deal with the Black Fairy once and for all.

He knocked on the door and waited. No one came. He knocked again, louder.

‘I’m coming!’ an irritated voice called from inside. He wasn’t sure if it was Belle. He thought so, but maybe not.

‘What?’

The door had been opened with a jerk, and there, looking a bit dishevelled, dressed in a grey cardigan, grey leggings, and a blue shirt, was his wife…scowling at him. Her ‘what?’ had been angry and demanding.

Her eyebrows raised then and her expression changed, first to surprise and then to guarded curiosity.

‘Mr Gold,’ she greeted, her accent a little different from what he was used to, a bit flatter, harder, less musical. ‘You’re not here for the rent, are you, ‘cause, uh, you’re a little early if you are. First of the month’s still two weeks away.’

‘No,’ he said: ‘no, I’m not here about the rent. I’m here on another matter, Be— Ms French.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Well, you’d better come in, then.’

‘Thank you.’

He followed her in and closed the door. Inside, the place was just as dingy as outside: lurid wallpaper from the early seventies, disgusting purple shag carpet that had seen better days, poky rooms, and an air of decrepitude and tackiness that offended him and probably oppressed his sweet Belle.

‘You want a drink, Mr Gold?’ she asked, pulling his attention away from the decor. ‘I bet you’re a Scotch drinker, right?’

He looked at her. A drink in the middle of the day… And that narrow-eyed look as she sucked on her tongue… And the flattening of her accent… Gods… She was Lacey! His evil mother had turned her back into Lacey! He hadn’t thought of this. Gideon was still Gideon, although with curse memories: he’d expected Belle to still be Belle, though with curse memories of her own. He hadn’t expected to have to deal with Lacey! Ugh, no wonder his mother had smiled the way she had when she told him where he could find Belle. How the hell was he supposed to wake her now?

She looked at him scornfully. ‘It’s a simple question, Mr Gold,’ she said: ‘you want a drink or not?’

‘Not,’ he said, turning his attention back to her: ‘it’s a little early for me.’

She shrugged lazily. ‘Never too early for me.’

He cringed. Gods! She seemed somehow worse than when she was Lacey before, like she hated everything, like she cared for nothing.

Dejected, he followed her into the living room. Wallpaper peeled from the walls, and there was a ratty old couch against the wall. There was no television set, he noticed. In a corner, there was a rocking chair with a blue blanket draped over the arm, and a teddy bear sitting on the seat. The rocking chair, blanket, and bear were new, the only new things in the whole place. Something in his heart clenched. Oh, gods, no…

Lacey stepped between him and the rocking chair, something in her eyes that turned from soft to hard as she turned her attention to him. She didn’t want him looking at it, he realised. Oh, gods, what terrible memories had his mother given his wife?

He turned away from her, blinking, and then he saw the books piled on the floor. He started. There were loads of them. There was one narrow bookcase that wasn’t enough to hold all the books she had. The rest were stacked neatly on the floor, a rug over the filthy carpet to protect the books from it. So, there was something of Belle in Lacey after all: the books and one other thing…

‘You, uh, look like you could use more shelving,’ he commented.

‘Yeah, well, according to the rental agreement you had me sign, I’m not allowed to make any changes,’ she said sharply.

‘Of course,’ he said bitterly. Of course his mother would fix it so that Belle would be oppressed, miserable, and, if his hunch was right, she’d fixed it so that the one light in her life had been cruelly taken from her.

‘Look, what’s this about, Mr Gold?’ she asked impatiently. ‘I’ve paid my rent, stuck to the agreement, haven’t caused any trouble, so why are you here?’

He watched as she reached for a glass on a rickety coffee table. Scotch: he could smell it. He could see the effects of it on her too, now. He’d missed it at first, but he could see it now: eyes glassy, cheeks slightly flushed, a sort of uncaring listlessness or torpor about her… She was numbing herself. She wasn’t drunk, at least not right now, but she had been, and she would be again. Gods, he had to save her from this hell!

‘This place is not very homey, is it?’ he asked.

She laughed bitterly. ‘Well, we can’t all afford to live in big Victorian mansions,’ she returned. She took another gulp of her drink.

‘Is that wise?’ he asked, gesturing to the glass.

‘What’s it to you?’ she demanded. ‘Look, if you’ve come here to judge me, you can save your breath,’ she snapped.

‘I just know that there are better ways to deal with your pain,’ he said.

‘How dare you?’ she demanded, glaring at him, her eyes bright, not with alcohol now but with fury: ‘you don’t know anything about my pain!’ She was shaking, her voice trembling.

‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘I do, and I know what it’s like to reach for what you think is the cure, only to find it’s more poison.’

‘Get out,’ she commanded.

He moved towards her, not willing to let this go on another moment. ‘Listen to me, Belle—’

‘Who’s Belle?’ she asked, frowning at him. ‘Look, I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Gold, but I want you to leave, right now, or, so help me, I’ll scream bloody murder!’

He took the glass from her hand and put it on the coffee table. Then he held her by the arms. She started to hit him.

‘Let go of me!’ she screeched.

‘No, I’m not letting you go,’ he said, struggling with her: ‘I’m not letting you believe this lie for one more second, Belle. Gods, I’m going to kill my mother for this.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ she asked, staring up at him, while still trying to get free: ‘you’re mad!’

‘Yes, I am,’ he agreed. ‘I was bloody insane to think I could protect you from this blasted curse. I’m sorry, Belle, I’m so sorry.’

She was looking at him, eyes wide, shaking. ‘You are insane,’ she breathed, trying to pull away from him.

‘Look,’ he said, turning her, holding her against him, her back to his front, so that they were looking at the rocking chair. ‘Look, Belle.’

‘No,’ she moaned, ‘stop it!’

‘Tell me what happened,’ he requested: ‘tell me why you drink, what pain you’re trying to numb.’

‘No,’ she whimpered: ‘no, no!’

‘Please, tell me: I can help you.’

‘Nobody can help me,’ she cried: ‘I lost my baby and nobody can bring him back!’

A sob wrenched through her that damn near shattered his heart too. She’d collapsed against him with the weight of her grief.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she wailed, crying bitterly.

‘Because you didn’t lose him, Belle,’ he told her. ‘He came back to us, sweetheart: Gideon came back to us.’

She stilled and stared at the rocking chair, teddy bear, and blanket. Memories slammed into place.

‘Gideon!’ She turned her head then. ‘Rumple!’

‘Belle! Oh, thank gods! I didn’t think I’d be able to wake you.’

She threw her arm around his neck. ‘Rumple!’ she cried, shaking. ‘Oh, gods, Rumple, it was horrible!’

‘I know,’ he soothed, ‘and I’m so, so sorry you had to go through that, Belle, but it’s over now.’

‘Where’s Gideon? Is he alright?’

‘He’s alright,’ he soothed: ‘he’s with me, as I expected. I had a difficult time trying to find you, though, sweetheart, and then you were Lacey…’

She trembled. ‘I thought I’d lost him,’ she sobbed: ‘I thought I’d lost my baby, Rumple! I thought he’d died!’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said: ‘gods, I’m so sorry, my darling Belle.’

‘Hold me, Rumple,’ she pleaded. ‘I can’t…I can’t forget. Tell me it wasn’t real, Rumple, please!’

He stroked her cheek. ‘It wasn’t real,’ he promised: ‘sweetheart, it wasn’t real. Gideon is alive and safe. I’m going to take you to him. Everything’s going to be alright now: I promise.’

She looked at him, taking deep breaths. His presence calmed her. He’d found her. He’d said he would and he had. She was awake. They were in his mother’s cursed Storybrooke and he’d found her, just like he promised.

‘How-how long have we been in the curse?’ she asked.

‘Only a day, sweetheart,’ he told her. ‘Henry is awake, as I suspected he would be. He said Emma’s name to me and I woke. I’ve been trying to find you. My mother finally told me where you were, but I didn’t know she’d turned you into Lacey: I should have guessed she would, and that she’d give you such terrible memories. I’m so sorry.’

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not your fault. You could only guess so much, Rumple. At least you knew enough to give me a trigger word to wake me.’

‘I was afraid it wouldn’t work,’ he admitted. ‘When I realised you were Lacey, I thought I’d never be able to wake you, but then I saw the chair, and the blanket, and the bear, and I realised what she’d done. I will kill her for doing that to you, Belle.’

She stroked his cheek as his eyes welled up. He’d lost a child, so he knew the pain of it: he would never want that visited on anyone, even in a false memory.

‘She made a mistake by giving me that memory,’ she said thoughtfully, her mind working. ‘She was trying to be cruel, but, in her cruelty, she forgot about love: she forgot how much I love Gideon, how connected I am to him. In her twisted way, she made waking me easier for you: I’m sure she didn’t mean to do that.’

’No, she didn’t,’ he agreed. ‘And I believe she thought I’d prefer you as Lacey anyway.’

‘She doesn’t know you at all, does she?’ she asked, staring at him.

He shook his head. ‘She thinks I revel in darkness like she does, and that’s been to my advantage, our advantage, in all of this. She never dreamed I would be working against her because she thinks I want what she wants: darkness forever.’

‘But you’re drawn to light,’ she said, ‘because you were meant to be the Saviour, and you still are. You’re my Saviour, anyway, my hero.’

He stared at her. ‘Sweetheart, you’re mine,’ he breathed, ‘my Saviour, my hero, my light in the darkness. I love you so much.’

Her lips trembled into a smile. ‘I love you too,’ she whispered.

Her eyes roamed his face, resting on his lips, and his eyes were drawn to her parted lips.

She reached up, catching his eye. He smiled and leaned in, his hand cupping her cheek.

‘I love you,’ he breathed, as his lips touched hers, and Belle closed her eyes, giving herself up to him, to her love for him, hoping for them, trusting in him.

The ripple of magic made them gasp and pull apart, but they held onto each other.

‘Belle…’

She beamed at him. ‘Rumple! Kiss me again!’

He laughed and complied, longer and sweeter this time.

She stroked his cheek. ‘True Love’s Kiss! Did we break your mother’s curse?’

‘I think that’s gonna take more than a kiss, sweetheart,’ he said.

‘But…’ She gasped. ‘Rumple, we-we broke a curse…’

He nodded, reached into his jacket and pulled out the dagger: it was blank.

Belle clapped her hands over her mouth, staring at him.

He smiled. ‘I don’t need it,’ he said: ‘I need you and Gideon.’

‘I love you,’ she breathed, and threw herself into his arms, kissing him again.

The magic was different this time. It swirled around them and seemed to fill Rumplestiltskin.

He staggered backwards. ‘What…?’

‘Rumple!’ Belle cried, awed.

‘What’s happening?’ he breathed, looking at his hands as they glowed with light.

‘Your magic!’ Belle cried.

‘But I gave it up!’ he said: ‘I chose you!’

She shook her head, smiling at him. ‘But don’t you see? I never had a problem with the magic, just the curse that darkened your soul. Now you’re free of that, but you still have the magic that was always meant to be yours: Saviour magic!’

‘But she cut it out of me!’

‘And our kiss turned the Darkness into light, made you the man you were meant to be, because you were brave enough to choose love. Rumple!’

She kissed him again and he clung to her, kissing her back as magic sang in his veins. He could have power and love: he just had to be brave enough to choose love all along.

‘I love you,’ he whispered, kissing her neck: ‘I love you.’

Belle laughed, wrapping her arms around him. ‘I love you!’ she cried, holding him to her. ‘Oh, Rumple, I’m so proud of you!’

He shook his head, pulling back enough to look at her. ‘This was all you, Belle,’ he said: ‘you loved me enough to accept my power too, even though I hurt you with it.’

‘Only because you weren’t honest with me, because you didn’t let me in. Now you are! And I love all of you, even your demons and your dark places. I fell in love with a powerful man, but I always knew there was a good man in you, who could use that power for good, and you just proved me right.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘I love you so, so much!’

‘I love you too,’ he said, hugging her. ‘Now, sweetheart, I think it’s time we reunite with our son.’

She clutched his coat, looking up at him. ‘Yes,’ she agreed: ‘I need to see our boy.’

He nodded, waved his hand, and they disappeared, reappearing back in the shop.

Gideon was sitting on a stool, reading. He looked up when they arrived.

Belle stared at her son, but he only looked curiously at her, and then at his father, holding her in his arms.

‘Father,’ Gideon said, ‘who’s this?’

‘Gideon, this is your mother,’ Rumplestiltskin said.

Gideon frowned as memories clicked in his mind. He gasped.

‘Mother!’ he cried.

‘Gideon!’ she breathed, delighted as her son recognised her. They rushed to each other.

‘Oh, Mother,’ he said, hugging her.

‘My Gideon,’ Belle murmured, holding him to her.

‘The curse told me you were dead,’ he said, crying.

‘It told me the same about you,’ Belle told him, also crying, ‘but we’re safe. Your father did as he promised and everything’s going to be alright.’

‘Father,’ Gideon said, hugging him as he came to them. ‘Thank you, Father.’

‘You are more than welcome, my beautiful boy,’ Rumplestiltskin said, putting his hand on Gideon’s cheek.

‘We’re safe,’ Belle said, ‘just like you promised, Rumple.’ And she looked up at him with shining eyes.

He held her to him. ‘We’re safe, but we’re not out of the woods yet. This town is still cursed, and the Final Battle is still to be fought. We have much to do.’

‘We’re ready, Father,’ Gideon said. ‘Where do we start?’

‘By finding Emma and the Charmings,’ he said, ‘and I think I know where to begin.’

‘Henry,’ Belle said: ‘you said he’s awake. I bet he knows where Emma is.’

‘I think so too.’

‘Then we’re going to stop the Black Fairy for good?’ Gideon asked.

‘Yes, son, we are,’ Rumplestiltskin said.

‘Together,’ Belle said determinedly.

And the three of them smiled at each other, filled with determination and hope, and with those, as well as their love for each other, they couldn’t lose.

The end

[evilsnowswan]

BREAK | Based on [X] and [X] | [Playlist]

Summary: [Rumbelle Surfers!AU]

In the township of Torquay, Victoria, Australia, gateway to the Great Ocean Road - or rather on the beautiful shore of Bells Beach, a renowned surf spot – Belle French is a surfer girl who no longer surfs. Until, one evening, she does and the events following that decision leave her with more questions than answers and a reluctant new acquaintance, who might or might not be willing to help her unravel the knots.

Rating: G - for now || Chapter: 3/? || Chapters: [Chapter 1][Chapter 2]>>[Chapter 3] || AO3 Link: [Read on AO3]

A/N: Wow, it’s been forever and a half. I just can’t write about beaches and surfers when the ground is covered in snow and I’m freezing half to death. Well, spring is back and so is this story.

Chapter 3

Friday night. High tide. Swamped with customers, the Crazy Sea Horse buzzed and hummed with conversation and laughter.

Waves of new people, impatient and ravenous, kept rolling in from the street in sets of 3, 5, 10 at a time - tourists and locals alike - expecting to be seated and fed immediately, even when it was obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and a working brain that the place was overcrowded already and threatening to burst at the seams at any moment.

Everyone, their grandmother, and the dog had apparently decided that tonight was the night to be out and about. It was good for business, of course, to be expected even - on a warm spring night like this. But the crowds - how they swarmed the streets, the beach, the pubs, like hungry, flashy bees, wasps, hornets - they made her angry and her head sting.

Plating up her next order, Belle zigzagged ketchup and hollandaise on poached eggs and fries with more vigor than would have been strictly necessary, then placed the hot plate under the heating lamp and dinged the bell.

The sound cut through her like a cold steel knife.

Her head hot and humming low, she didn’t wait for the plate to vanish, but went back to chopping up onions and herbs straight away, her eyes fixed on the next batch of eggs on the stove. There was no time for a loo break - or a nervous breakdown.

Their dock printer had run out of paper over half an hour ago, but she couldn’t have made it to the office and back to her kitchen in time - unless she cloned herself first. Ignoring the intermittent high-pitched beeping and her full bladder, Belle pushed through the chaos and backlog of queued up orders, holding her breath and crossing her legs.

The never ending string of demands bellowed through her little window rang in her ears and made her hands tingle. Juggling her pans and pots, bowls and knives, a cloud of steam and spices filled her face and crept deep into her lungs.

Turning her head and ignoring the sharp pain in her neck, Belle stopped to cough into her arm, then straightened her back and tightened her grip on the slippery handles.

“Madness!” Will dumped the dirty dishes on the floor, yanked open the dishwasher, and pushed them inside.

Bussing was the pits. But even bussing on nights from hell didn’t stop this guy from whistling Nova’s latest hits as he went about his cheerful business.

“Behind,” he added - after a beat and as an afterthought - as though she hadn’t already felt him bustling about behind her, and wasn’t feeling his eyes linger on her now either, his easy smile prickling hot and rough on the back of her neck.

Sand and golden honey.

Belle stiffened and turned, her best plastic smile in place.

His face fell a little before he caught it mid-drop and hastily rearranged his expression. “Shit, Peaches. You okay?”

Plum, not peach.

She held his gaze.

“Busy, sweaty, greasy.” Smiling was tedious. Why did people do it? Belle wiped her hands on her apron. “The usual.”

The way he was watching her - carefully, cautiously, searching, but not asking - not out loud anyway, made her suddenly awfully aware. Aware of her body, and what it might tell him, what it might tell the world about her. And in that moment, she hated him for it.

“Need a hand? — Or five?” He stepped closer and peered over her shoulder. “That smells divine.”

She could see the question forming on his face before he asked it.

“How about we share a plate out back later?”

Belle wanted to tell him no. Tell him there was no time. Tell him she’d used her break already.

“Alright,” was what she said instead, hands brushing her hair away from her sticky forehead under her cap, her thoughts safely bubble-wrapped and tucked away for later. ‘Yes’ was so much easier than no. ‘Yes’ meant no further questions asked and no more lies told. Lies she had to keep track of.

“Or, I could make you some now-” she began, hopeful, but he cut her off with a grin and a soft shake of the head.

Cold sweat trickled down her spine.

“Nah, I’ll wait for you. Got more rounds to make.” Stepping backwards, he tapped his cap and pointed at the roaring dishwasher. “People are pigs.”

“Yeah. And you’re their dish pig.”

Salty grease burned on her cracked lips as she ran her tongue over them. It only made the burn worse.

He laughed, picked up an empty crate. “In a few, chef piglet.”

The door swung shut behind him, and Belle exhaled through her nose. “Right.”

Orders kept coming, kept her on her feet all night. She had to go with the flow, think less and move quicker, but her mind was elsewhere and she wasn’t fast enough, which earned her another nasty burn across her palm.

The smell of burned flesh.

Belle barely flinched and carefully lowered the heat. A few blisters were no excuse for a ruined meal and a dissatisfied customer.

Not that it mattered, she thought, poking at a blister with the index finger of her other hand. What was another scar anyway? She put her palm under cold running water and covered it with a more-or-less clean dish towel wrap after. From the neck down, there was hardly any part of her that wasn’t scarred. One more wouldn’t make a difference.

She had once read a story where your life got tattooed onto your skin, all your small victories and big mistakes out there for everyone to see forever, and the thought hadn’t scared her then, seemed strangely romantic even - in that edgy kind of way that made her heart beat faster. She had gotten her first kiss that summer. Days were bright and endless.

The night went on, her shift ended. Will hadn’t come back to make good on his promise.  Sometimes - when they were working the same shift, and he was behind the bar - he fixed her a coffee. Chocolate mocha. Without asking. And she took it wordlessly - for it would have been rude not to - paying in fake smiles and polite nods.

She didn’t have any friends, and neither did she want them, but a cup of coffee every now and then was innocent enough. It didn’t mean anything. A hot drink in a paper cup was just that.

Belle untied her apron, balled it up, and threw it on the laundry pile in the back. 

In the beginning, she had always made sure all her orders were complete, dishes and laundry done, and her kitchen up to code. She would have grabbed clipboard and sharpie, and headed into the cool room, checking every pasta container, homemade sauce, and pre-made dessert, and replacing everything that wouldn’t have passed a surprise health inspection. She had been happy staying past closing time, by herself, when the Sea Horse was quiet and the lights low, following instructions from the manual, adding her own little twists to the trusted recipes and enjoying the still and calm in her head.

She hadn’t made rounds or looked at the manual in a while. So far they hadn’t had any complaints.

Belle took off her cap, pulled off the blue bandana she had been wearing underneath to keep the sweat away from her face, and freed her hair from the elastic hair tie where she’d scraped it back into a ponytail earlier - to run her fingers through it and comb out some of the grease.

“Hey, Peaches!”

Belle flinched so hard the jolt ran up her arms and caused a painful pileup between her shoulder blades.

“Sorry.” Will eyed her through the window, one eyebrow raised. “Didn’t mean to startle ya. Uh—” He blinked. Belle saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “A bunch of us are going to Nana L’s to grab a bite. Want to come? You could ride shotgun with me or hob in with Rob - if you don’t mind the detour. He’s picking up Mar first.”

Belle’s heart raced. Had it jumped out of her chest and made a run for it, it would have beaten them there. She clasped her hands together in front of her body, pressing down on the dish towel and concentrating hard on taking slow steadying breaths - in through the nose, wait seven seconds, then out of the mouth again - while making it look like she was simply taking a moment to think about it.

“Some brekkie would be great!” Her voice was thick as pancake batter, the enthusiasm in it oh so sweet, but sticky like gum and gluing her jaws shut. “Oh. No. Wait. It’s Saturday.” Belle cast her eyes down apologetically, biting her lip, and then releasing it with a soft popping sound. “Arianna needs the car on Saturdays. Next time?”

“Sure.” He looked disappointed for a second, but rallied in the next, and gave her a radiant smile.

In another life, she would have liked everything about that smile: The way it seemed to start in his eyes rather than touch them last, turning bleak brown into warming chestnut. The way it revealed his very white teeth, stark contrast to thick eyebrows and tanned skin, and made him look like summer spent someplace exotic (although he was a Brit). How his dimples deepened, and the tips of his slightly protruding ears blushed - even when his cheeks did not.

“Sorry.” Belle said, and part of her actually was.

She wasn’t that girl anymore, though, and her clenching stomach and closing throat wouldn’t have allowed any other answer but ‘no’ to get past her lips.

“No worries,” Will said. “See you Monday then?”

“Yeah.”

“If you change your mind-” He winked at her, held up a hand in farewell, and vanished from sight.

Belle heard him wish Leroy and Ashley good morning on his way out. His footfalls faded away. She was alone again, shivering in her black cotton shirt despite the stale humidity in the room. Alone with her heartbeat in her ears, and ants crawling up her legs. Alone, but for the distant sounds of chairs scraping on linoleum, the hurried swish-swashing of mops pushed back and forth across it - and clanking against table legs ever so often, and the little radio blaring out the same ten songs over and over again as people across town started their day, brushing their teeth, drinking their coffees, and taking their kids to school.

Spring was almost over, days were getting warmer and warmer. Soon schools would be out, and the beach would be packed with children, families, and tourists. Not that she intended ever going back there again. Not after last night. Not without her board.

Her mother’s board.

Belle punched her own forearm hard. How could she have lost it?! It had been such an idiotic, reckless thing to do. She knew she was lucky to be alive, but it didn’t feel that way.

Christmas was fast approaching, and the thought alone made her yearn for the dark void at the bottom of the sea.

It was warm at Christmas time. She used to wear shorts and t-shirts almost all year long.

Belle tugged on the sleeves of her shirt, pulling them over her hands, and blinked away the blurry spots until the wall tiles were separate squares again and she could count them, starting at the top left corner and making her way down to the bottom right - where tiles met counter and appliances. Various utensils and kitchen helpers forced her to guess more than once, which made her a little uneasy.

She had been slammed by her board and was one big bruise. Not a pretty sight. Not to mention the old scars and fresh cuts. They wept and itched underneath her clothing, stuck to the fabric, and drove her insane. Nobody would have guessed it, though. Belle made sure of that. Heavy duty makeup covered up all traces on her face, and her baggy pants and loose-fitting shirt did the rest.

When she woke up, it had hurt so bad that she had almost stayed home. Calling in sick wasn’t an option, however, and more trouble than it was worth, so she had dragged herself out of bed regardless, taken a handful of pills and gulped them down with two large glasses of ice cold water, then tracked down the car keys.

It didn’t matter. None of it. 

She grabbed the front of her shirt and smelled it. Cold fish and chips wrappings. Musk.

She never wore board shorts and tank tops anymore.

Her clothes rail was large hoodies, long-sleeved shirts - to be worn under her work polos, and pants: two black ones - for work, and one faded jeans. She also owned a pair of sneakers, black canvas shoes, and a couple thongs - at various stages of falling apart. All her underwear was practical and cheap, black or nude colors, and stuffed into the bedside cabinet drawer.

She owned no books that could have claimed their rightful place there. The books were back — at the house. They weren’t hers anymore.

The only thing she had was that board. And now it was gone. Broken beyond repair. Dead and lost to her forever.

Belle ran a hand through her hair. She stared at the tiles.

A knock on the door broke through her thoughts, and had her jump out of her skin for the second time in what felt like both a few seconds and half a century.

Belle’s heart thumped, her belly churning as she worried about who was outside her door and what they could possibly want her for at this hour.

“Mira?” Ashley knocked again, but didn’t enter. Probably because the last time she had and caught her off guard, Belle had dropped a large jar of green peas, and they had spent the next thirty minutes on their hands and knees to collect them off the floor and sweep up the broken glass.

“Maristela wants to know if you could, um, swap shifts with me next week? Friday?”

Belle fought the urge to sneer her reply. Maybe not everyone else did, but Maristela knew she only worked nights. It had been part of their deal. Belle would cover each and every shift Maristela needed her to - as long as they weren’t during the day, and she didn’t have to leave her kitchen and interact with their guests.

Maristela never asked for reasons and Belle was grateful.

Her co-workers, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. Some more nosy than others, by now everyone on the team had more or less accepted Belle’s preference for odd hours, simply assuming inherent oddness and a bad case of crippling shyness to be behind it. It suited her just fine. Shyness was as good an explanation as any, and Belle led them to believe it was her introverted nature that had her dodge whatever was on their social calendars, and give the break room a wide berth.

The break room was where she had to go next - if she wanted her car keys. To get there she would have to open that door and deal with Ashley.

Belle sighed and rubbed at her eye, then reached for the knob.

“Hi, Ashley,” she said. “She did? I must have missed her earlier - I’m sure she would have said something. Next Friday, you say?”

Ashley nodded, and Belle let her face fall.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t make Friday next week. I got this exam first thing Monday, and I really need the weekend to cram.” Belle lifted a shoulder and let it fall, looking as sorry as possible… for the inconvenience and all that. Girls like Ashley didn’t scare her, but they could make your life difficult if they felt wronged and wanted to.

Play it dumb, but be nice about it. Grovel a little, say your ‘I’m so sorry’s’ and ‘oh my god, really’s’, and placate.

Ashley pulled a face. “Oh no, Mira. I was counting on you!” She heaved a dramatic sigh.

“You could ask Will,” Belle suggested. “He’ll swap with you, I’m sure.”

“You think?”

“Totally.”

Ashley pondered her suggestion in pouty silence for a moment, but then decided she liked the idea, offering a sly, suggestive smile that made Belle’s stomach turn. 

“He’d do it for you, I’m sure.”

Belle left her face blank and clueless. She wasn’t taking that bait. No way.

“He’s always around that kitchen of yours, hovering by the window and all.” Ashley’s eyes narrowed, and she lowered her voice to a girly whisper. The kind Belle hated. “I think he likes you!”

She shook her head. “He’s… nice. That’s all.”

Was that pity in Ashley’s eyes?

“If you say so, Mira.” She smiled a knowing smile - even when she didn’t know the first thing about anything. Girls like Ashley never did. They only thought they did with that unwavering, insufferable confidence. “What was it you’re studying again?”

Belle almost choked on her own spit and had to clear her throat twice - which gave her time to think.

“Cooking, right?” Ashley prompted.

The word you’re looking for is Gastronomy, Belle thought. Or catering trade, maybe. “Close,” she said. “First year Nutrition and health at VU.”

“Same difference really.” Ashley rolled her eyes, but then smiled at her. “Your chicken parm and burgers are so good, though!” She exclaimed, wide eyed. In all her time at the Sea Horse, Belle had never seen her eat more than a salad, snack on some fruit, or finish a whole bread roll by herself, exclaiming how full she felt instead, and how good everything was. Didn’t the others want to try it? Have the rest of her fries?

“Thanks!” Belle smiled back sweetly. “You should try the avocado ‘n’ beef next time. We only put it on the menu last week, but I think it’s a keeper.”

“You bet!” Ashley beamed at her. “That sounds delish.” She fake-rubbed her non-existent belly. “Too bad the kitchen is closed already.”

“The kitchen closes at ten. All orders must be placed before that time,” Belle recited in a stern voice that made Ashley giggle and raise her hands in front of her in surrender.

“I know, I know!” She laughed.

Belle tried not to flinch when she touched her arm.

“Hey. Don’t worry about the shift. I’ll make it work.”

“Yeah, I’m real sorry.”

“It’s fine. Really.” She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, flexing her fingers, and Belle suddenly remembered her own heavy tiredness. The drugs were wearing off, her body ached all over, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and not come back out for another decade or so.

She stifled a yawn behind her hand.

“We should both go and get some sleep,” Ashley said. “Coffee won’t fix whatever we got.”

She looked at her for a reaction to the punch line, but Belle missed her cue. The frustrating high-pitched ringing in her right ear was back.

Water damage, wave collateral. Just like the rest of her.

Ashley cocked her head and gave her the once-over, scrutinizing her face in a way that made the heat rush to Belle’s cheeks.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ashley said slowly, in a low, friendly voice. She almost sounded concerned. Almost. “But you look like crap.”

“Gee, thanks!” Belle forced a laugh. “It’s been a long night, you know.”

Ashley nodded. Her pocket buzzed.

“Your ride?” Belle asked. “You know what - why don’t I get the rest of your supplies … I’m headed to the back anyway. I could close up for you, if you want?”

“Really?! That would be great! Thanks! — You’re a lifesaver!”

Ashley hugged her, and Belle wanted to scream.

Then she pulled out her phone to text back whoever was waiting for her outside.

She wanted to turn around and leave to get her stuff, but Ashley held her back by the arm.

Belle bit her cheek to keep quiet.

“Oh, Mira! I almost forgot! —” Ashley rummaged in her other pocket, and produced a crinkled piece of paper, which she handed to Belle. “Customer left this for you. I only now remembered.”

She swooped in for air kisses, doing the fake cheek thing Belle wouldn’t be caught dead trying with anyone. It happened so fast, it didn’t leave her time to panic, so she resorted to just not moving at all until it was over, her steady smile lifted like a shield.

Ashley’s phone buzzed again.

“Gotta go! Bye!”

Belle stood and stared - at nothing in particular - until the spell broke, and she felt she could move again. She smoothed out the paper ball in her fist, and brought the note up to her eyes to read it. The words were smudged, or maybe that was her tired eyes playing tricks on her.

She frowned and fixed the first word to throw focus.

The paper read:

Dear… Ms. Mirabelle French… , We would like to inform you that your latest order/repair is now ready for collection. Please contact: Marco - Driftwood Inc. -

[itsnelkabelka]

Speech: Our action will degrade the Syrian regime's chemical weapons use

Thank you Mr President.

Mr President, these are uncertain times and today we deal with exceptional circumstance. Acting with our American and French allies in the early hours of this morning, the United Kingdom conducted coordinated, targeted and precise strikes to degrade Assad’s chemical weapons capability and deter their future use.

The British Royal Air Force launched Storm Shadow missiles at a military facility some 15 miles west of Homs where the regime is assessed to keep chemical weapons in breach of Syria’s obligations under the Chemical Weapons Convention. Full assessment has not yet been completed but we believe the strikes to be successful.

Furthermore, none of the British, US or French aircraft or missiles involved in this operation were successfully engaged by Syrian air defences and there is also no indication that Russian air defence systems were employed.

Our action was a limited, targeted and effective strike. There were clear boundaries that expressly sought to avoid escalation and we did everything possible, including rigorous planning, before any action was undertaken to ensure that we mitigated and minimised the impact on civilians. Together our action will significantly degrade the Syrian regime’s ability to research, develop and deploy chemical weapons and deter their future use.

The UK Prime Minister has said we are clear about who is responsible for the atrocity of the use of chemical weapons. A significant body of information including intelligence indicates the Syrian regime is responsible for the attack we saw last Saturday. Some of the evidence that leads us to this conclusion is as follows:

There are open source accounts alleging that a barrel bomb was used to deliver the chemicals;

Multiple open source reports claim a regime helicopter was observed above the city of Douma on the evening of 7th April. The opposition does not operate helicopters nor does it use barrel bombs;

And reliable intelligence indicates that Syrian military officials coordinated what appears to be the use of chlorine in Douma on 7th April. Mr President, no other group could have carried out this attack. Indeed Da’esh, for example, does not even have a presence in Douma.

The Syrian regime has been killing its own people for seven years. Its use of chemical weapons, which has exacerbated the human suffering, is a serious crime of international concern as a breach of the customary international law prohibition on the use of chemical weapons and this amounts to a war crime and a crime against humanity. Any state is permitted under international law, on an exceptional basis, to take measures in order to alleviate overwhelming humanitarian suffering. The legal basis for the use of force for the United Kingdom is humanitarian intervention which requires three conditions to be met.

Number one, that there is convincing evidence, generally accepted by the international community as a whole, of extreme humanitarian distress on a large scale requiring immediate and urgent relief. I think the debates in this Council and the briefings we have had from OCHA and others have proved that.

Secondly, it must be objectively clear that there is no practicable alternative to the use of force if lives are to be saved. I think the vetoes have shown us that.

And thirdly, the proposed use of force must be necessary and proportionate to the aim of relief of humanitarian suffering. It must be strictly limited in time and in scope to this aim. And I think we have heard both in my intervention in Ambassador Haley’s how that has also been met.

The history of the Syrian conflict is a litany of threats to peace and violations of international law. The Security Council has met 113 times since the Syrian war started. It was therefore not for want of international diplomatic effort that we find ourselves in this position today.

After pattern of chemical weapons use since the outbreak of the conflict, Assad defied the international community in 2013 by launching a sarin gas attack on Eastern Ghouta which left more than 800 people dead. Despite the adoption of Resolution 2118, despite four years of patient engagement, Syria continues to use chemical weapons against its people and has failed to answer a long list of serious questions. The only conclusion we can reach is that Syria had not declared or destroyed all of its chemical weapons despite its obligations under the Chemical Weapons Convention.

This is not assertion on our part but a matter of record and I draw the Russian Ambassador’s attention to his points about Barazan and Jimrya. The OPCW still has unanswered questions and discrepancies. He knows this. We all know this. The Council was briefed by the OPCW Director General.

Resolution 2118 decides in the event of non-compliance to impose measures under Chapter 7 of the Charter. Yet on 28th February last year when the UK, together with France, proposed a Resolution taking measures under Chapter 7, short of the use of force, Russia vetoed. The very least this Council should have been able to do Mr President, was to follow up on the findings of the JIM report by extending its mandate. Yet four times Russia has vetoed different proposals from different Council Members to do just that.

The Syrian regime and it supporters are responsible for the gravest violations of international humanitarian law in modern history. They have used indiscriminate weapons, notably barrel bombs and cluster munitions, against civilians and they have deliberately targeted medical facilities and schools as well as humanitarian personnel and civilian objects. They have used sieges and starvation as methods of warfare accompanied by attacks on opposition-held civilian areas.

The regime has persistently obstructed humanitarian aid and medical evacuations. Tens of thousands of people have been illegally detained, tortured and executed by the regime. This is one of the most serious challenges to the international non-proliferation regime we have ever faced. A State party has violated the Chemical Weapons Convention. It has defied the Security Council and it has broken international law.

Repeated attempts over several years to hold them to account have been met with Russian obstruction and resistance. We have repeatedly, in this Council, attempted to overcome this obstruction without success. Mr President, we are faced with the litany of violations, no sense of guilt, no sense of regret, no sense of responsibility, a shameful record, wrapped in a mix of denial, deceit and disinformation.

Mr President, I would invite those like the Russian Ambassador who speak about the Charter to consider the following: It is hard to believe that it is in line with the principles and purposes of the Charter to use or condone the use of chemical weapons and in the United Kingdom’s view, it cannot be illegal to use force to prevent the killing of such numbers of innocent people. I will take no lessons, Mr. President, in international law from Russia.

Despite all this Mr. President we would like to look forward. The United Kingdom, together with France and the US, will continue to pursue a diplomatic resolution to the Syrian crisis. My French colleague will say more about our work in a few moments. We believe it must comprise four elements.

One, Syria’s chemical weapons program must be ended and the chemical weapons stockpiles destroyed once and for all.

Two, there must be an immediate cessation of hostilities and compliance with all Security Council Resolutions and these include those which mandate humanitarian access.

Three, the regime must return to the Geneva talks and agree to engage on the substantial agenda put forward by the UN Special Envoy Stefan de Mistura,

Four, finally, there must be accountability for the use of chemical weapons and other war crimes in Syria.

Mr. President, the Secretary-General rightly highlighted the political process. We propose that as the Security Council will all be together next weekend in the retreat with the Secretary-General, very kindly hosted by Sweden, that we should use that opportunity to reflect on next steps and the way back to the political process.

And with our allies, we stand ready to work with all members on the Security Council towards this end.

Thank you.

from Announcements on GOV.UK https://ift.tt/2EMi8pp via IFTTT